Hidden (Short Story Series #2)

INTRODUCTION

Some people believe you know a lot about a person just by hearing their name. I know I believe it. As the school journalist, I hear a lot of stories about a lot of different people: mean bullies, class nerds, school divas, hot guys. All of them have a name to go with their personality. The top school bully is named Brock: you’re on guard just by hearing his name. The hugest nerd is named Berny. You can probably hear a nasally voice and picture thick glasses. The snobbiest, most popular diva of the school is Tiffany. Yeah. Get on her good side, you’re one of the coolest kids around. But get on her bad side… you’re as good as dead. And then there’s the “hottest guy” category. Everyone has different opinions and their own taste, but one guy every girl can agree on in my school is Aaron. I personally have never found him to be that attractive, but I don’t blame others for being captured by his light blue eyes, his light brown hair, and his model-tan skin. Despite what you think, he’s not all that popular. Actually, he’s not the arrogant, jock-y popular type at all. He does well in school, he doesn’t feel the need to constantly wear main-brand clothes, and he is actually friendly to everyone – even the nerds and outcasts. That’s probably why he doesn’t constantly have girls hanging all over him. This mixture is what my best friend Rebekkah is so head-over-heels for. She will never stop talking about him: What he was wearing, what he had for lunch that day, how he might have been looking at her.

And then there’s me. The school journalist. Berets are the common factor in my daily wardrobe; I’m in charge of putting together the most important column in the school’s newspaper; and most of all, I know about everything and everyone in the school. I get all the juicy stories and facts and have the job of putting them all into the main column – without hurting too many feelings. It’s a hard job, but it’s what I do and live for. I take it head on, day by day, milling around the school with my notepad and mechanical pencil, an extra eraser in the pocket of my dark-wash jeans.

What would you guess my name is? Caroline? Sarah? I wish it was something like that. I’ve always dreamt of what it would be if I only had one chance to change it. Maybe something more literary like Juliet. Or something softer like Lahela. But no. I’m such with a name no one knows how to spell: Cayda

Does that sound sophisticated or romantic to you? Of course not! I hate it. I also hate the reason why my mom wanted to name me that: because she liked cicadas. An insect. Who wants to be named after an insect?

Whatever. What’s important is that my column is the most read in the school. And even through all the high school drama, I’m not finding much to write. Half the school year is still left and I only have the same kind of stories to write, over and over. People are going to start losing interest. I need something new, something people will talk about.

And that’s what I’m searching for.