If you ever manage to excavate yourself you're your mountain of protective blankets, that is. Your first day at class starts today, but there is no way you're getting off that bed until that abomination of nature scurries its way down into the nearest crack in the wall.
It scurried, all right. Right above your alarm clock. Right before launching its tiny raisin-sized body at you. You tumble off your bed with a shriek, but not before noticing the time.
FECES!
Instantly forgetting the roach's assassination attempt, you hurdle into the shower, the icy water (and surprised yelp) jarring you awake at once. Stumbling out, you yank on your underpants, school uniform (pause for a moment here: pink jacket too small to button over chest, blue skirt a tad too frayed at the ends. That's what you get shopping a day before school), and shove your feet into new black dress shoes. Your toes scream in violent protest as you zoom into your living room; blisters, here you come.
You practically tumble into the street in your haste, dragging a comb through your hair as you hitch your backpack over one shoulder. When you finish untangling the tumbleweed that is your hair, you tuck the comb into your pocket; you bite down on your lip pensively as you continue down the sidewalk. These new streets of Domino City are a bit daunting. Being the new kid sucks, let me tell ya. Sucks more than a camel at a well after a year in the desert. Or after taking a lick at a particularly acidic lemon.
Couldn't your father wait another year before transferring to another branch of his company? Nooo. Couldn't he notice the devastating puppy-eyed looks he received every time he mentioned moving? Nooo. Couldn't he notice the bawling of ten teens on his doorstep when he pulled away from his old house? Nooo. Could you complain when he told you that you are getting your own apartment, even though you are only seventeen (effectively kicking you out prematurely)? Nooo. Did you really mind that last idea, after spending a few parental-free days? Heck no.
ZOOM!
"AHH!" You jump back to the curb, a limo grazing so close that the ensuing wind lifted your skirt clear up to your elbows. What the--
"HEY! YOU FREAK! You nearly killed me!" Shoving your skirt back down, and momentarily losing sanity, you take after the limo, screaming obscenities (your grandmother must be doing the twist in her grave as your take illicit use of the word for donkey, among other things).
The black limo merely speeds up, leaving behind a cloud of exhaust around your beat, maddened, sweaty self. You must remember to tell your gym teacher that you've already had your exercise for the day, thank you very much.
Dragging your weary self the last couple of blocks before you arrive at Domino High, you exhale deeply. New day, new school, new life. Ready or not (you're partial to the not), here you come.
There were a few minutes before the fist bell rang, and you notice that you're the only one without hordes of friends surrounding you, or giggling and trying to fit in with the group of obviously popular people. You shift the straps of your backpack, feeling a bit uncomfortable, but grab at your small flow of confidence. Suck it up, you can do this, you give myself a pep talk. They do not have a reason to beat you up yet, so keep it that way.
You have to get to your locker, so you carefully zigzag through the clumps of people that lounged in the grass or leaned against the walls. You pause in you task as before you, a gargantuan mass of people block the way to the tall glass doors. You take in a deep breath, and plunge into an ocean of blue and pink.
Immediately, elbows found their ways into your sides, cries of protest pounded into your ears, but you surge ahead, pushing your way through the multitudes, nearly gagging at the not-so-sweet smell of youth who have apparently never heard of deodorant. Finally breaking free from the crowd, you let out a relieved breath. You live! You li--
The concrete comes to greet your knees as someone collides into you from behind. Ouch. Wait, rephrase that. OUCH!
"Hey, watch it!" Immediately, you spring to your feet, ignoring the crippling shocks of pain emanating from your kneecaps. As you turn around, you imagine what you're going to say or do. Making him or her brush their teeth against the concrete would be nice. You couldn't though, you couldn't be that mean, even if you wanted to. You could forgive a few moments agony--
Especially if he was about a foot taller than you, his pinkie radiated more class than the entire school, and if those blue eyes threatened swift demise. Holy cream cheese, he's gorgeI'M SO DEAD.
A sneer spreads across his features, as his eyebrows descend in a frown. You expect him to swing his metal briefcase and squash you like bug. Damn cockroach.
He merely sweeps his eyes over you (remembering the ill-fitting uniform, you redden), and smirks. "You watch it."
He brushes you aside, leaving you open mouthed behind him. That JERK.
The bell rings shrilly, snapping you out of your drooling- ahem, furious plans of annihilation, and you dutifully follow the flow of students into school.
Apparently, Domino High is not to scale as on your student map; a few frantic sprints down this hall, a spiraling dash down those stairs, and a crash at the classroom door. Made it!
You open the door as the last bell rings. The teacher motions you towards him, and you obey, aware that nearly every student's eyes are upon you. Considering most are wearing glasses, double that number of pupils' pupils. Sneaking another glance at your schedule, you notice the bold "MATH" next to the room number. That explained the abundance of (excuse the stereotypes) geeks, and the sudden kamikaze of your heart. Numbers and you get along like a facial with cacti. It just doesn't work.
"New student, eh? Well, I'll excuse your tardy, Miss ~~~~." The teacher smiles sincerely, and you return it gratefully. Your eyes sweep across the room, searching for a friendly face.
You manage not to groan aloud as you see The Jerk sitting in the back, looking bored out of his mind, twirling a pencil in his hand. His long legs barely fit underneath his desk, and with a jolt, you realize that the only empty seat in the class was next to him. And you knew whom that unfortunate person going to sit there was going to be.
Affirming your worst fears, the teacher points to the empty seat. "Just sit down next to Mr. Kaiba, please." You restrain from falling to your knees and begging the teacher to reconsider, when The Jerk smirks at you, obviously issuing a challenge. You toss your head back to assure indifference (while your knees shook under your frayed skirt) you walk to the last row, aiming to look cool and calm. You did not look his way, not letting him have another chance to flash a sneer.
Unfortunately, that was a bad idea. You did not see his foot sticking from under his desk, and you stumble, bumping into your desk. Your shin throbs with pain as it meets the cold metal. The chair makes an awful screeching sound, but the worst noise comes from the giggles and titters around you. So much for that.
You gather yourself up, fixing the desk into perfect alignment with its partner before it, make an effort to hide the blush that crept up your cheeks, and faked a smile. At least my skirt didn't fly up. AGAIN, You console yourself. You shoot The Jerk a murderous look, but his gaze is directed to the window, his small minute of amusement obviously satisfying him for the moment.
Too busy trying to annihilate The Jerk with your mind, you fail to hear what the teacher is saying. However, after a few minutes, you become conscious that a piece of paper is on your desk, and the room is deathly quiet.
Frowning slightly, you look down at the paper. Your heart pounds as you read, "Pop quiz! Please complete and good luck!"
This can't be right; it's my first day!You panic, searching the room for the teacher. He starts to walk towards the door, and you raise your hand quickly. He either does not see you or pretends not to, as he calls back over his shoulder, "I'll be right back All of you must complete the quiz."
Noticing the emphasis on 'all', you drop your hand back down, and sighing, pick up your pencil and start to work.
Your hair sticks up from all the times you have run your hands through it, and you fingernails are reduced to the quick by the time you are on the third problem. There are only fifteen questions, but it feels more like fifteen hundred.
You suck in a deep breath and stare at the math problem. You wish that the numbers would make sense if you concentrate enough, but all your unfocused eyes see are little black squiggles arranged in patterns. This is hopeless!you think. You bite your thumbnail and hope for a miracle, maybe a heart attack to save you from this torture. Stop being so dramatic and just get it over with.
Continued in results!
Next to you, The Jerk gets up from his desk. You glance at him discreetly, and see he has the quiz paper in his hand. He can't be done yet!
The Jerk places his paper on the teacher's desk and saunters back to his seat. You quickly advert your eyes back to your quiz. You cringe inwardly as you hear him snicker. He probably got a look at how far you are and making fun at your only weakness.
The Jerk plops down into his chair, his brown hair tousled and his jacket opened slightly to show the thin white shirt underneath that did a poor job to hide his obviously chiseled physique. Showoff!
You mentally shake your head and think, Focus, ~~~~, focus! You pick up your pencil and scribble random poo that hopefully looks like numbers when the teacher grades it.
With a light crack that sounds like a gunshot to you, the pencil's point breaks. You gape at your pencil, and curse the yellow piece of wood to a life of living at the bottom of your backpack.
You glance around the class, searching for a pencil sharpener. Your temper rises as you see there isn't one. What kind of math teacher doesn't have a pencil sharpener? you grouse.
You gently tap the girl in front of you on the shoulder with what is left of your writing utensil. "Hey, do you have an extra pencil?" you whisper to the brunette.
Throwing a quick, furious glance over her shoulder, she snarls, "Leave me alone or I'll tell you're trying to cheat!"
You snap back into your seat, surprised and bewildered by her reaction. You bite your lower lip but don't think of asking The Jerk next to you for a pencil; your pride demands that you find a solution by yourself. He is absorbed in a book he has taken out, and you don't want him to bite your head off like the girl in front of you.
You fiddle with your pencil, taking the broken piece of lead that remains between your fingertips. Concentrating all your energy on keeping your hand steady, you lean forward until your nose is about an inch away from your quiz paper. Yes! You rejoice gleefully as the tiny piece of lead draws a wobbly two. Grinning triumphantly, you continue working out the answer for the impossible problem.
Your fingers start to lose their grip on the small piece of lead, and beads of perspiration appear on your face. Oh, no, please no! you silently beseech the goddess of carbon. You turn red with anger and embarrassment as The Jerk sniggers at your pathetic attempts to finish your quiz.
Absolutely refusing to work with you, your fingers loosen their grip, and the piece of lead spins on your desk for a second before falling into the jungle of the floor. For what seems an eternity, you stare down at the floor, unable to distinguish the tiny rice shaped material from the numerous pieces of dirt on the grimy tile floor.
You bite your lower lip to keep from pulling the remaining strands of hair in your scalp. To begin with, you have moved away from your friends your senior year. Your first class in your new school is math, an unjust subject by itself. A guy you dub The Jerk almost trampled you in the morning, who is currently laughing at your predicament. Now you're going to be the only one not to pass math thanks to your stupidity and idiocy of bringing only one measly pencil for school. I'm doomed to fail math you think gloomily, dropping your head into your arms.
Suddenly, a number two pencil bops you in the head. It starts to roll off your desk, but you catch it before it flies off the wooden edge. You look around you curiously, wondering who pitied you enough to spare a pencil.
Your eyes land on The Jerk. The Jerk smirks, letting you know it's his pencil. You give him a sarcastic smile, but use the pencil to finish. All the while, you think, maybe he's not such a big jerk
The shrill bell rings for the next class, finally releasing you from the torture room. You jump up from your seat grinning, knowing that you have survived first period. You practically skip to the front of the room with your quiz, slap it down on the teacher's desk, and with a slight bounce in your step you head for the door.
An "ahem" stops you. You turn around, and see The Jerk. "Hey, ~~~~," The Jerk purposely leaves out the custom (and polite!) "Miss" in front of your last name, "I think you have something of mine." He doesn't bother to brush aside his long brown hair that has fallen across his face, but you can feel his piercing azure eyes catching you in his gaze between the strands of chestnut hair.
"What--" you begin, but then stop, putting your hand in your pocket. You take out his pencil and toss it at him. The Jerk's taken a little off guard, but catches it with ease.
He suddenly smirks, and as he brushes you aside and heads for the door, he says, "By the way, nice panties."
Hmm. He's not so--wait, WHAT?
