Elsa's "group" was an odd assortment of both girls and boys, all of whom were considered "gothic". They were into the drugs and the cigarettes, and that heavy metal music that made my skull pound.
Elsa was different from them, to say the least. Unlike all of them, who dyed their hair until it was black and completely dead, her's was light-colored, and quite obviously alive. I felt her hair once, to see if it was as soft as it looked. It was. Of course, I got a fist in the face for it, but it was so worth it.
She also just seemed more in-tune with her "self-ness" than most others. For instance, she was considered "punk", but she still smiled sometimes, and she was even in show choir. Nobody questioned her life-choices, because everything she did had a sense of right-ness for her about it.
Like picking on me. It just seemed so right. She had done it for so long, that everyone just sort of expected it. It wasn't necessarily something people liked, but it was just expected. So nobody did anything to stop it (not that I wanted them to).
"You're staring at me again."
Her voice was like glass, or ice. It was sharp. It was cutting. It always made me jump.
I met her eyes briefly before shrugging and looking down.
"It's annoying. Stop it, so I won't have to make you," she threatened. Then she turned and walked down the hallway, the people seeming to part down the center to provide her a path.