Take My Advice

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Chapter One

I was not amused. Not even in the slightest. Someone had taken a picture of me and Photoshopped my face onto a Dr. Phil poster. They'd even given me his bald head with the little tufts of hair over each ear. And they'd made a ton of copies and plastered the walls up and down the hallways with them. Underneath the picture was the caption: "The Dr. Jill Show."The freshmen boys were laughing about it, but I wasn't.  

After suffering through chemistry (and believe me, I mean suffering), I pushed my way through the door leading to the school's newspaper office and plopped my backpack in the corner. Colby, the editor-in-chief and the guy I happened to have a huge crush on, even though he didn't know I was alive beyond my place on his staff, glanced up from his desk. "Got that article for me yet?" 

"Of course. Punctual as always." I handed him the printed version and explained, as I always did, that I'd e-mailed over the exact same article in question the night before. He absently took the printout and went back to what he was doing. No "thank you," and certainly no "You're the most reliable staff member I have. Thank you so much for your continued dependability. Can I show you my gratitude by marrying you in a totally lavish ceremony with gardenias and doves?" 

I suppose I should have been grateful that he noticed me at all. He had a one-track mind: Graduate top of the class, get a scholarship, become a world-famous journalist and novelist, win a Pulitzer. Oh, and change the world through the medium of the written word. Anything that didn't fall in line with that goal track wasn't worth his time. Like me. Sigh. 

"I'll see you after math."  

No response. 

"That Mr. Kramer sure is tough, isn't he?" 

Not even a grunt. 

"I had a big hands-on test in chemistry today. I started a fire and burned off my eyelashes." Okay, that was a lie, but it would get his attention, right? 

Nothing.  

See what I mean? 

I grabbed my backpack and threaded my way through the crazy labyrinth that was my high school. Students leaned up against their lockers, creating clogs that hampered the flow of traffic for other students who actually cared if they were on time for their next class. It was like the gunk that builds up on the side of pipes and slows down the flow of water. Or like arterial plaque that inhibits the proper circulation of blood. If people would just keep moving in the hallways, we'd all have a better chance of being where we were supposed to be, now, wouldn't we? 

I slid into my seat just before the bell rang. That was a relief-it would not do to have Mr. Kramer unhappy with me. Let' s just say that math was not my best subject. I'm sure you can tell from my astute comment above (the one about arterial plaque. You saw that, right?) that I do pretty decently in stuff related to anatomy. And English? Piece of cake. (I use words like "astute." Properly. And I know how to punctuate. And spell.) 

But while all of that is great and I'm sure is the main reason I'm on the newspaper staff, it does not help me when it comes to winning over the irascible Mr. Kramer. (I'm not going to keep pointing out all the long words I use. I just want to establish a pattern here and make sure you're aware of my coolness when it comes to things like that.) He thinks that I'm just some flaky blond teenager who takes up chair space in his class and steals oxygen from his more deserving students. 

"Glad you could join us, Miss Gray," he said from the front of the classroom. "I was beginning to wonder if you'd make it." 

It was just another variation on the same old greeting he'd used every morning since school began. I hadn't been late once-not even once-all year, and yet he had this idea firmly embedded in his wee little brain that my attendance was somehow this nebulous thing to be commented on whenever he felt like it.  

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