It's Just You And Me
I walked into the spacious brown-brick building that I called a school. Actually, that I had called high school. North Side Academy. Where only the best of the best are accepted, and the worst of the worst are well, how do I put this, tossed out. One single F on a report card and you're so done for. Unless you're one of those teacher's pet type of students, then maybe you'd get another chance. But that chance was very-and I mean very-slim.
The tile floor reeked of wax that had been placed not even a week earlier at the most. To either side there were trophy cases filled to the rim with polished trophies. Not just any trophies either-state trophies, championship trophies. In almost every sport but one, and that sport happened to be the one I played. Marching Band. Yes, some of you may say 'oh how dare you! Marching band? A sport? Please! And my grandmother is a terrible cook!'-okay maybe I exaggerated a little-but who cares? It's what most people say about it here at North Side. Sadly, the sport is only played during the summer. Yes, this means I get no summer vacation at all, but at least I stay in shape!
"Isabel? Is that you?" There's only one voice who could ever speak that way, and it belonged to my best friend Miranda. I turned to see her tan skin radiating in the sunbeams, her bouncy curls going up and down, having trouble keeping up with her energetic aura. Her light eyes matching the light blue sky as she wrapped her arms around my neck and pulled me in for a quick embrace. Now, Miranda was mixed. Her mum is British, but her dad is African American. She had an awesome sense of fashion and a not-so-bad skill for hair styling. She was rocking a pair of white jeans, a light salmon coloured tanktop, topped off with a thin long sleeved denim shirt, small salmon flower earrings, a fake salmon pearl bracelet on her right wrist and a watch on her left. Instead of a bookbag, she carried a white purse. I don't see how she did it, or how she could pull of great outfits.
I smiled to her as we let each other go. "Yes! It's me!" There was a tall thin boy standing next to her who had luscious, curly, brown hair that had been styled back, black Chuck Taylor's, skinny jeans, greyish black Ramones t-shirt, and a grey beanie hanging out of his back pocket, and the outline of a phone came from his front left pocket. He caught my curious gaze and threw a cheeky smile over to me. The sunglasses he was wearing fit his face well. They were black hipster glasses. Probably an expensive brand. "How're you," I asked as I shifted my gaze back to Miranda.
She looked me up and down, studying me and obviously pointing out my body. "Me? I'm good, but you? Damn, girl! You've lost some serious weight! Not saying you were fat, but, damn! You look good!" A laugh managed to escape from my parted lips as I came to the conclusion that she was totally checking me out. "I've said this before, but I'd totally date you."
I shook my head, briefly examining my own body before looking back up and meeting her eyes. "Well, thanks, Mandy! This summer was tough on us. The director pushed us past our limits each day. We even hired our drill writer to come in and tell us how he wanted the show since he is a top dollar drill writer." She gave me a look that only I'd know how to read. "Okay, okay! Passed my limits. But I'm glad because I lost weight because of it. I'm proud to show off my tummy!" I gently placed a hand on my stomach and smiled.
"That's great, Hun!" I nodded. "That dark blue plaid makes your bleach blonde hair just pop! And those jeans. Oh, them jeans. I'd die to have them!" Miranda walked in circles around me. Twice. "They make your ass look great too." Ah, there's that humour I so greatly missed. Ha, not.
"Well, saying that I saw her walk in and walk away then turn back to us, I'm judging that you're right. Her ass is like a pure 10 out of 10." He put all his fingers to his lips and made a kissing noise while dragging his hands away from those pink lips of his. "Fantastico!" Instantly, my cheeks got red, so to hide it I ran a hand through my loose blonde hair. There were two hair-ties on my wrist, and I gracefully braided my mid-back length hair from the side so it could rest on my shoulder and C sized chest. Once the braid was done, I pancaked it. Pancaked was a term that Miranda used, and shortly I found myself repeating. It's where we take the braidand lightly tug on it to give it more of a worn look.
