First off, before you read about how Kiley manages to screw up her life today (I know. I'm totally evil.), I wanted to say thanks for reading this far. : 3

Chapter 11- "I'm Taking Life Lessons from an Alcoholic Skunk. How do you Think Things are Going?"

So I'm just marching up the patio steps to Miss Martha Stewart's front door on an ever so lovely Monday morning, minding my own business, when something soft and solid hits me square in the back of the head. I spin around and catch the flying object before it falls.

Paper towels. Hilarious.

Quil cuts the engine on his crappy truck; Jared climbs out of shotgun, and Paul leaps out of the bed, an evil grin on his face. School starts in forty minutes, and they strut up the front porch in dirt-stained kakis like it's nobody's business. Are they seriously allowed to go to school dressed half-naked like that?

Paul, who obviously threw the paper towels, takes one of his giant hands and ruffles up my hair.

"That's for when you destroy Sam's water heater," he teases and I feel my face heat up at the remark.

"Or the brake line on your motorcycle," I add in an overly-innocent tone. Yay for randomly convenient witty comebacks. I smile sweetly at him as his expression turns into a smirk.

Jared and Quil burst into a small fit of laughter, and embarrassed, Paul scowls at me in response. He removes his hand and stomps into the kitchen. Jared and Quil follow after him, but before Quil goes in, he takes a turn to stop and screw up my hair.

"You are a piece of work. You know that," he tells me, almost like a compliment.

"What is that supposed to mean?" I ask with curiosity and slight irritation. I attempt to detangle the mess on my head, and give up after about five seconds.

"Well, compared to the rest of us, you're really little and…well…kind of adorable." I open my mouth to defend what dignity there is about my so-called "adorable" self, but Quil leans over to meet my eyes. There, I see he's not trying to be a stupid jerk. He only sounds like one. His voice drops to a whisper.

"Honestly, they don't think you stand a chance out there. Killing bloodsuckers and everything. They say you're not gonna have what it takes. But if it makes ya feel better, Embry and I think they're wrong. I think you've got spunk."

I'm offended and even a little bit hurt that the other guys don't have faith in me. Alright, in all truthfulness, I'm not exactly looking forward to the idea of hunting bloodsuckers. I mean, seriously. What little girl goes up to their mom at age four and says, "Mommy, when I grow up, I wanna rip the heads off of scary red-eyed vampires with a bunch of flea-infested boys!"? Stick that right next to the fairy princess gimmick and see the reaction you get.

But, that doesn't mean I can't do what has to be done here. Just because I'm not seven feet tall and built like a rhino. But with their opinions of me in mind, it's nice to know at least Quil and Embry believe in me.

"You really think that?" I whisper back, almost touched by his support.

"Well, that, and I've sort of got fifty bucks counting on it."

Scratch that. He actually is a stupid jerk.

I eat two bowls of oatmeal and about enough bacon to feed a third world country. Sam gives me the week off to adjust to life here, and I'll start my first patrol route next Monday morning. I don't know if I'm supposed to be excited about waking up at two in the morning, but my lack of enthusiasm apparently isn't new. Shocker.

But it isn't all strictly business. I get the motherly words of wisdom about starting my first day of school. This isn't the typical advice I'm used to getting, though. Apparently, Mom's been doing it all wrong. Instead of an "Always do your best. Ask lots of questions. Make friends. Stay away from the kids that smell like drugs and bring pointy tools to school. Don't get pregnant or drunk in the bathroom." I get a "Your grades aren't important. Keep your mouth shut. Screw friends. Stay away from the normal kids as much as you can. Don't get mad and kill anyone."

Unless the rest of you weren't aware, killing people is wrong now. Like I couldn't have put that one together?

Quil offers me a ride in his truck, but I pass, since the school is literally three blocks away. For a town filled with poor kids that can probably run for hours without getting tired, you'd think they'd stop feeding that truck so much gas.
I guess the guys are too busy inhaling Emily's bacon to remember school, because, when I get there, all I see are normal-sized, shirt-wearing teenagers staring at me like I'm from another planet. I look down at my not-ripped-when-I-bought-them-but-I-skateboard-so-I'm-going-to-pretend-I'm-being-a-badass-fashionista jeans and the MCR T-shirt Twizler stole for me on my fifteenth birthday. Just for the record, when your friends sets off the security alarms at Hot Topic, throws a T-shirt at your face, and drags your confused-ass out of the parking lot yelling "Run like hell!" it may possibly, on the off chance, not be paid for.

Anyways, don't think I forgot about my interview with the Washington Academic Scholarship Program, because I know you're thinking it. My Evanburrow uniform is in my backpack, and I'm going to learn the next tactic to become a full-fledged superhero: quick costume changes. Somewhat ordinary girl by day, sophisticated private-school-attending intellectual by my interview. Oh, and a four legged growling monster on occasion. Let's not forget that one.

Ignoring all the whispers and staring, I head straight to the main office, we're a perky young woman with stylish glasses sets up from her seat and shakes hands with me. Since my middle school principal in Westridge carried a jar of MACE on his belt, this lady's happy expression makes me wonder if she's possessed. When she hugs me, I do a sign of the cross behind her back and, since she doesn't burn, I'm even more terrified.

Ms. Bridget eventually looks down at my destroyed jeans, and I explain that have a skirt in my backpack. The bell for class rings, and, without a student in site, I slip into the girl's room and change into my uniform. We go down to her colorfully directly but incredibly tiny office, where we meet Mrs. Rhodes, a pale, plump woman with a ring on every finger. I smile at her politely as she shakes my hand, and that's when I realize she's covered in a stinky perfume that makes my eyes water.

"My dear, are you crying?" she asks as we sit down across from Ms. Bridget's desk.

"Uh….Sorry….I'm just really honored of being accepted into this great opportunity." And your perfume smells like a skunk that wanted to party, drank a bowl filled with tequila, and threw up on himself. That's coming from personal experience, by the way. Marco had a pet skunk named Tito before it became an alcoholic and died of intoxication.

She seems to like the cover-up response and begins explaining the program requirements. I'll be taking math with the seniors, science with the juniors, and English and history with the sophomores. In other words, I'm going from the poor nerdy girl to just the nerdy girl who used to live in California. I'll also need to fill out community service, take summer school classes, and a bunch of other things that you honestly don't care about. I get my class schedule, which shouldn't be hard to find considering there's only ten classrooms, a cafeteria, and a gym.

"Now why don't you meet your new classmates," Ms. Bridget chirps when I'm pretty sure my nose will never recover. Once again: Damn super smelling powers. When she nearly yanks my arm out of my socket, I realize that since small towns are so depressing; people probably get addicted to happy pills and just go nuts.

Miss Bridget pokes her head in the door of my homeroom class, English 11, with a "Mr. Gilbert, I hate to interrupt but I have a new addition to your class."

I can't believe she's actually pulling the whole lets-put-lots-of-attention-on-the-new-girl-and-make-her-as-uncomfortable-as-possible act. She does literally everything but sacrifice me to the freaking volcano of awkwardness.

For those of you who have been in this situation, I'm sure I can get some empathy here. My stomach drops to the floor, the room starts to sway a little, my face is flushed, and my heart's pounding louder than my school uniform-

No!

Before I come to terms with the fact that I'm dressed like a Catholic schoolgirl, I'm standing in front of the entire sophomore student body. Bile builds up in my throat, and the image of Tito stumbling around in an alleyway pops into my head. Contemplating the rest of my life as an alcoholic seems to be the only solution to making this situation bearable.

You probably think I'm overreacting, but there are two things you don't know yet. The sound of Mr. Gilbert choking on his coffee distracts the class and me for a good five seconds, and then I realize out why. He's looking at me with an unmistakable recognition and the shock of it is clear on his face. I jump to the conclusion that he knew my mother, but the more I stare at him, the more obvious it becomes. I've seen that look about a hundred times before. His face is getting red, he's a little twitchy, there's a bead of sweat on his forehead, but the biggest give away is this. When the shock of seeing me is over, his eye contact deliberately shifts to everywhere but me, like he's guilty about something he did…

When I figure it out, I actually grab the trashcan next to his desk, and hurl up my oatmeal. I don't know when, where, or why, but I'll bet my shiny new scholarship that at some point, my English teacher and my mom have hooked up.

The second thing is, when I finish wiping the puke off my mouth in front of Mr. Gilbert, Ms. Bridget, and twenty-two disgusted students, somebody wolf whistles at my "sexy" little schoolgirl skirt. I don't know it yet, but rumor has it that I'm the new school slut.