You might be puzzled. Do I look like the pretty girls in Hollywood movies? Is my high school life in America really that exciting? Am I the most popular girl in school? Could I be that snobbish cheerleader with a disdainful look? Oh, wishful thinking. If forced to describe myself, pay attention: Beside every portrait of beauty, there's always a girl with curly red hair, a goofy smile, and a face brimming with naivety. A mere wallflower. That's precisely me—an ordinary high school girl to the core. Whenever guests visit, their curiosity often lands on a group photo resting by my bedside. To my right in the picture is my cousin, Elisa, the archetype of conventional beauty. Her summer visits to our home were a routine, though now she's ventured off to college in California. The epitome of cool, she outshone everyone at Seayers High, every boy's dream and every girl's idol, the quintessential "Regina George" of Seayers Town. Gracing gossip magazine covers was her norm, and a future on
What comes to mind first when you think of high school life? The gorgeous cheerleaders, the arrogant jocks, the class-skipping idols, the Shakespeare aficionados, the vegans? Or is it the incessant buzzing of the alarm clock, the uncomfortable desks and chairs, the dreadful cafeteria lunches, the looming finals and exams, the lost mechanical pencils, the unrequited crushes and heartbreaks, the constantly energetic group projects?"Hey, watch where you're going!" a girl, whose outfit screamed Regina George from Mean Girls, snapped at me, her voice dripping with disdain. "This is limited edition.""You can't expect everyone to have eyes, right?" her minions added, their voices laced with mockery.Bitch. The word echoed in my mind, though my lips remained sealed. If you were to ask me about high school, I'd offer you two pieces of advice:Rule Number One: Never attempt to reason with sorority members. Rule Number Two: If you're not among the popular crowd, brace yourself—high school wi
As I navigated the crowded hallways, bracing myself against the current of students, a familiar voice cut through the din. "Look who I ran into? The cheerleader queen Brooklyn and her little girlfriend."Penelope Swinton stood there, draped in an aura of disdain, her entourage flanking her like a pair of ominous shadows. "That explains the stench of cheap perfume from miles away," she sneered, her gaze piercing through me as if I were nothing more than an inconvenience in her day.Penelope, with her slight resemblance to Jessica Alba—albeit the Latin American version—carried herself with the arrogance only a legacy such as hers could bestow. She hailed from one of the town's oldest families, her ancestors once the unchallenged rulers of this small domain. She embodied the quintessential spoiled rich girl, finding delight in belittling others for her amusement.It was not out of character for someone of her demeanor to be labeled a 'mean girl,' especially Penelope, whose very essence s
In the shadowed corner beside the dingy sink wall, a couple of figures crouched, shrouded in a haze of white powder. Their frantic movements became more pronounced as Brooklyn and I approached, their hands shoving clear Ziploc bags filled with the same white substance into their backpacks with desperate haste. "Move!" Brooklyn's command sliced through the thick air, echoing off the tiled walls. "Crazy bitches," one of the addicts muttered under their breath as they scrambled to their feet, blocking our path. The stench of marijuana was overpowering, sending my head into a dizzying spin. As one of them, her face adorned with silver studs and a glowing silver tongue stud in the center, stuck her tongue out mockingly at us, she bumped against my shoulder, leaving a trail of the intoxicating powder on my clothes. Involuntarily, I coughed as some of the powder made its way into my nostrils. Frantically, I shook off the remnants clinging to my fabric, a bitter taste of humiliation filli
I was halfway down the hallway when I heard it, the unmistakable voice of Skyler declaring, "Brooklyn baby, I finally found you." There he was, lifting Brooklyn's chin with a sense of entitlement. "For the party tonight, I want you to dress sexy." It took him a moment to notice me. "Scarlett? I didn't realize you were there." His hand dropped, and he proceeded to straighten his bangs, a vain attempt at nonchalance. Rolling my eyes, I mumbled an excuse about my literature class and tried to leave. "Wait a minute," he called out, effectively halting my escape. With a swift movement, Skyler's hand slapped down on his locker, his arm blocking my path. "What do you want?" I asked, my irritation mounting as I tugged on the shoulder strap of my book bag, eager to bypass this self-centered obstacle. Letting his arm fall, Skyler instead stepped in front of me, reducing the distance between us. I halted, meeting his gaze with a defiance I hoped masked my discomfort. "I know you don't li
The classroom buzzed with the usual cacophony, punctuated by the occasional airborne book. Whizz—a book flies past! "Oh, my goodness!" I exclaimed, narrowly avoiding a collision that could have sent me straight to the infirmary. The book would have surely left a mark on my face. "Sorry, Scarlett." Blake's apology came from over his shoulder, his hands resting nonchalantly on his friends' shoulders. Their laughter knotted together in shared amusement. Ignoring their antics, I headed to my seat. A glance from Annie met mine before she turned away to whisper to Alex behind her. I paid them no mind. As I passed by, Alex's precarious stack of books toppled over the aisle of desks. "Hey! What's your problem?" My surprise was evident as I faced Alex, only to catch Annie biting her pen, offering a smug smile. Bending down, I reached for the scattered books. But before I could gather them up, someone else's hands intervened, snatching away the book I had just secured. "It's lucky for yo
I walked into the room at Taylor's beckoning, him holding the door open for me to enter first. "Please, take a seat, Miss Moore," he said, still with a stern expression. He left the door and closed it with a crisp sound that echoed in the empty classroom. "Did I do something wrong?" I hadn't taken a seat yet, instead asking him uncertainly. Taylor didn't answer my question directly, his expression seeming to tease a bit of mystery. "Compared to others, you're not too bad." "What?" I was hoping for praise. Every time Miss Ewen had a private chat with me, it was to commend how well I wrote my reflections. "I can improve, Mr. Wildson." Literature was the one class where I felt confident. I didn't want to be let down by Taylor. "Patience, Miss Moore." He observed my eager, somewhat agitated demeanor and gestured for me to calm down. Leaning against the desk by the lectern, Taylor pulled a thin book from a neatly stacked pile of files. "Read this book in your free time, then write a
Frankly, I've never understood why they changed the name of "The Feast" to the "Nutrition Center." Over seventy percent of the food here is high-fat, high-calorie "American fast food." Given we're in one of the most remote towns in America, finding diverse and multicultural chefs is even harder than getting truant students to attend class. Vegetarians even staged a public protest at school, leading to two chaotic weeks of everyone bringing their own lunches! Can't blame them, though—other options are either atrociously bad or might as well be diet pills. Gazing at the crowded hamburger stand, I'm glad I kicked my junk food habit. For those not concerned about their weight, a cheeseburger with chicken strips is a heavenly delight. The aftermath, however, is a struggle with belts and shirts strained by fat. I made my way to the yogurt stand, scooping up a few spoonfuls into an empty bowl, then garnishing it with blueberries, raspberries, and mangoes. As expected, the checkout was swam