A/N: Thank The Killers for inspiration!
(It's calling me, babe)
I was on my computer. You know. The old hunk of junk that my mom tries to pull off as a high-tech Apple? Yeah. The thing that's spewing dust as it loads the school's social networking site; my computer (as in not a laptop), I'm using it.
Yes. You read correctly. The school, my school, Konoha School for the Elite (COUGH RICH COUGH) has it's own MySpace, Facebook, Twitter, AIM, or whatever else you would like to use. It's just so much easier to have all your friends on one website than going from one to another because Stacy has a problem with FB since it has lame layouts and it's way too easy to stalk people, Annie thinks that MySpace was built specifically for those stalkers, and you yourself don't want a Twitter because it is retarded to say, "I just tweeted".
Like seriously. What the hell is a tweet? Does that make me a tweeter or a Tweety? I'm not trying to be Tweety Bird anytime soon, thank you; yellow looks atrocious on me.
L O A D I N G . . . .
I already have tons of friends.
That is the exact reason my inbox is flashing the huge ass number zero right now.
Feel free to gel. It's okay. Jealous is a flattering shade on haters.
L O A D I N G . . . .
My mother. I guess I should feel badly for making her seem as if she's some cheapskate hobo who travels to train stations on the weekend in hopes of hitching a ride to Peru. However, I really don't feel bad; honestly, I don't.
However, you have to see things from my point of view.
Okay, imagine yourself as a seventeen-year-old girl. I am sorry if this is hard for you boys, but, try, try and sprout boobs and shrink your balls for me, okay? Right, so, you're a seventeen-year-old female, who is particularly flat. Your bra size is a measly A cup, just out of training bra sizes. Bikinis are loose in the top area. They are tight in bottom area. Yes, you guessed it; you also have an ill-proportioned sized ass. A bootylicious ass that should not be on your skinny body. You therefore do have curves, since with a big booty there are always bigger hips, and most commonly rounder thighs. I do fall in commonality in this area! I do have thighs! Don't I sound excited?
Forget for a second that I am not directly talking to you. We are pre-tend-ing.
So, your face. Your skin is a beautiful milky shade, and, thanks to the acne fairy, currently no zits plague it. Your nose is one step away from piggish, which is a fabulous thing; because that means that you do have a button nose. Everybody loves button noses. That button nose goes wonderfully with your huge, doe-like, innocent eyes that shimmer a brilliant shade of green with specks of brown and gold in the sunlight. You'd be pretty, shapely, smart, and a real keeper if it weren't for one little thing.
YOUR HAIR—MY HAIR—IS PINK!
Yes. That ugly hybrid that happens when you make red and white mate.
And it's au natural.
L O A D I N G . . . .
To get to the point that I was trying to reach before I got distracted by my utter awkwardness and akin to fairy-ness, you have to understand why I don't fancy my mother much.
As I said, I'm seventeen, and, as you should've gathered by now, I'm not the most socially connected. To, you know, people. I connect to things like…don't shoot me…nature, and music, and, well, those hot guys on TV that always manage to survive fatal gunshots to the skull just long enough to make out with their girlfriend/s and tell her/them that they really did love her all along.
Ah. I like connecting to them the most.
Anyhow, I'm weird. I guess. I blame a year of homeschooling.
My mom was not weird. She spends her mother-daughter time telling me stories of how she, when she was my age, was always partying, running away, hopping from boy to boy, and, ultimately, running the school. She was the captain of the cheerleading team. She owned everything. Her father, and my grandfather, freaking sponsored her whole entire school. She was considered the Princess of Suna before we moved.
PEOPLE LIKE HER ARE MY NIGHTMARE. I mean, seriously. If my mother were blonde, blue-eyed, big boobified and all other things cliché bitch, I would move to Alaska.
I spend my time trying to become the opposite of what Mom is trying to make me. She's trying to convince me to shop at Abercrombie and Fitch, Aeropostale, American Eagle, and—and when I was actually in child sizes, Justice and Limited Too? Yeah. I don't know how many brand new tops I burned. Call that dramatic. Because it was.
We argue a lot because of that. Well, not the burning bit. I did that when she was at work. We argue about my lack of…relationships, apparently. She says that high school is meant to be a time to gain friends and make enemies, find your backbone and demand your rights. Get a boyfriend or seventeen. Almost lose your virginity. Make out in the janitorial closet. Dye your hair pink.
It was at that moment that I decided that the woman in front of me at the kitchen table, trying to give me a pep talk before the first day of school, was not the giver of my life. She was slurping it away with a bendy straw like the coffee in her customized mug.
L O A D I N G . . . .
I was riding to school in my kickass bike. It was a Harley-Davidson; 1978. All black, silver detailing. My helmet said that I was 'On Fire'. Of course, it had to match, all black with the words written in orange, yellow, and red. If it were purple with sparkles, it would defy the purpose.
Do you know what else 'defies the purpose'?
I'm not in a Harley-Davidson. Or even a motor scooter. Segways are lame.
But, I am in a two-wheeler. The horn connected to the right handlebar was free.
L O A D I N G . . . .
I pulled into the bike rack in front of the school, and just as I bend down to lock up my piece of scrap metal—because, though it may be recycled junkyard metal, it is my transportation back home—I feel the presence of a person watching me.
Normally, that wouldn't be weird. I'm at a high school. There are people everywhere. Most people just choose not to look at me for that long, especially while I'm bending over in the school's required-to-wear miniskirts, struggling with getting the key out of the retarded lock.
I figured that if I would ignore the peering eyes, they would go away. Maybe they were just admiring my beautiful bike. It's so sexy, in its prime years of rusting and all.
But, after what had to be minutes of me attacking my key out of the keyhole, the eyes were still peering, and my intuition was screaming PERVERT ALERT, PERVERT ALERT!
Hesitantly, I straighten, my back cracking a few times as I rose, and I ever-so-casually pretended to observe a tree that was to my left, when I was really stealing glances behind me, searching the parking lot. This, of course, was empty.
I supposed I was being overly hopeful—if you've never even had a decent boyfriend by time senior year, perverts are, like, the equivalent, don't you know?—and I just lugged the strap of my messenger bag higher onto my shoulder, walking with a little less vigor up the school steps than I usually do.
I usually move at the pace of a turtle with arthritis.
When I finally reached the top step, a person was actually there. And that person was a boy. His hand was wrapped around the golden, curved, handle, strong, pale, and not exactly calloused but 'roughed up'. My eyes traveled up his arm, seeing the crisp white folds of the button-down uniform sleeve rolled up to his elbow, two buttons on the cuff unbuttoned and opened up. His suit coat, black and a sharp contrast to his porcelain skin tone was scrunched up as well, and, stupid me, I couldn't help but follow the intricate seams in the coat up to the shoulder, wide, athletic and muscular, totally broad, and then I reached his face.
AND THEN I REACH HIS FACE AND THE GARY STU METER GOES HAYWIRE!
Nobody should be allowed to be that…that…perfect.
A smirk rises upon his thin, yet totally kissable—look at me, I sound like your average teenager now…ha-ha—lips, and Heaven's Gates open and unleash his voice.
"Good morning," he tips his head a little, silky black hair shining with the change in direction, as he opens the door for me.
Now, this is the part where I'm supposed to say something fladorable. Flirty/Adorable. You know, something that would really put you on the marker of the brain of someone unlawfully delicious.
Instead, I giggle. And giggle. And then I'm clutching my stomach, wheezing out, "You're-you're-you are holding the door for me?"
Just in case you're wondering, I did point at him then at me for extra emphasis.
His perfect eyebrow tilts up in confusion.
"I thought that was obvious when I opened the door."
Since this stupid streak is going on, psh, why don't I do something unheard-of. Uh-huh. That's right. I stopped laughing and scoffed. "Do you think I'm incapable of opening a door for myself?"
Femininity freaking owns.
He looked taken aback. Surprised. Shocked. Dare I say astonished at my boldness?
"Well, mister, I would like to let you know that," I stomped over to the other huge door on the right side of me and gripped the handle proudly, preparing to pull, "I can open a stupid door all by my—"
You know, they should really put PUSH and PULL on these doors. Somewhere. It might keep people from falling down flights of stairs and on to their asses!
L O A D C O M P L E T E
a/n: Cool? OH! And just in case you didn't grasp it, the narrator is our favorite Haruno Sakura! Next chapter, we'll dive more into the plot. This was, after all, just the first chapter.