Changing Lanes

            The next morning, I woke up tired and grotesque. I slapped my hand onto the snooze button, and whipped my covers to the side. I swung my legs over the high platform bed and attempted at hopping off onto the shag carpeted floor. Groaning, I grabbed a pink ruffled tank out of my closet and paired it with white skinny jeans.

            After tugging a bristle brush through my knotty curls and brushing my teeth, applying makeup, and grabbing a piece of toast off the kitchen counter, I was drove to school. My strappy sandals were a little too tight and were currently making red grooves into my ankles.

            But I didn’t care.

            This was my fresh new start, and for once in my life, I didn’t care. I mean, of course I was excited to begin again and to make my grand entrance, but I have to put on a mask of pride and smugness and strut down those gross, smelly halls with my head held high, just like I didn’t have a care in the world.

            The school was approaching and yellow buses were flooding the parking lot. Teachers clambered out of their hybrid cars and mini vans and towed their gigantic bags into the building. Placing one careful foot in front of the other, I took big and even steps up the stairs and into the old brick building.

            It was the best feeling in the world. Heads were turning. The invisible people were not even visible to me, an ex-invisible. The shy kids who never talked were huddled into clusters as I passed by.

            “Who is that?”

            “Is she new?”

            “I’ve never seen her before in my life.”

            Every single person who was anybody was watching me strut with my newly-discovered and fabulous ass down the hallway. The crowds were parting, and just as I began to rise, rise up to the peak of the enjoyment, homeroom was in front of me.

            “And who might you be?” smirked Angela Weber, the biggest snobby-somebody in the whole school.

            “I happen to be Krissi. Krissi Moore,” I sneered back. “I’m new.” Angela tossed her caramel locks behind her shoulder and gave me a once-over. I saw her eyes carefully calculating how well my shirt matched my pants, which matched my matte shimmer white gladiator sandals, which was all brought together by the pink flower clip holding my bangs out of my face.

            Angela pivoted on her heel towards the big black science lab table with her pink binders and fluffy pens cluttered together. Then, she flipped open the binder and took out a pink post-it and a purple glitter pen. She scribbled something on the paper and handed it to me.

            “Table 20, it’s in the back of the cafeteria on the slightly raised balcony. Can’t miss it. Give this pass to the guard blocking the entrance and he’ll let you by. Look forward to eating with me.” She  offered a small smile and a shrug and quietly took her seat. I looked down at the square sheet of paper.

            Pass for Krissi Moore to eat at table 20 during lunch

Angela Weber

        I  smiled down at the paper. On my first day here, in the first five minutes, Angela Weber had invited me to sit with her at lunch. And to think, I used to be a shy klutz. Used.

            The day droned on, and I counted the hours until lunch. Eyes continued to stare, hot boys kept offering to help me with my books, and pretty pampered princesses sneered and “hmphed” with every move I made. Is this how the populars lived?