Ring ring ring ring!
I groan, slamming my hand on the annoying alarm clock. I, Clementine Gwyneth Ravens-Brook Pennyworth am the most normal girl you have ever met. My blonde wavy hair falls in a silky curtain to my waist and my green eyes twinkle like the stars in the midnight sky. “I am a fugly piece of work,” I say sadly.
I throw my hair up into a messy bun and wear a pair of denim shorts and a band shirt because I don’t care about how I look. My out of this world orbs help me pull all the guys. Also the fact that my name is a citrus fruit helps.
“Clementineria Gwynethelle Ravens-Brookina Pennyworthitily!” my mom calls. Ugh, my full name is so rank. “Why don’t you grab an apple even though you have lots of time to eat your breakfast?”
“Good idea, thanks mom!” I say brightly, bounding down the stairs like the bushy tailed squirrel I am. “So are you ready to drop me off at my brand new school where I can make brand new friends and brand new enemies and eat brand new food?”
Mom sighs. “No. I just broke my leg like two minutes ago.”
“Oh no!” I cry dramatically. “Whatever will I do now?”
The kitchen window opens and my hot neighbour (who is conveniently my age) sticks his head through. “I can give you a lift, orange.”
“That’s perfect!” mom says, turning to me. “Isn’t it such a great idea for you to get a lift from some random guy you don’t even know?”
I give her a hug. “Yeah, who cares about stranger danger!”
I follow the guy to the front of the house. "I hate you," he says, glaring at me.
Sighing sadly, I say with so much emotion, "Oh no! What did I do to upset you, neighbour?"
"Shut up. You're a brat," he mutters.
"Okay," I say. "What's your name?"
"Ryder Williams," he says, smirking sexily. "And I'm conceited, a bad boy and a sexy piece of ass which you're going to ultimately fall for because what girl doesn't like an arrogant, selfish guy?"
"True, true!" I nod. My eyes widen in fear when I see Ryder's motorcycle and I start shaking like jelly on a plate, feeling extremely faint at the sight of that devilish contraption because my mom obviously spiked my non-existent breakfast with a tub of spinelessness this morning. Oh how I hate the woman who brought me up with such love and care. She hates me so. It is very clear by my huge bedroom and iPhone that my mom secretly detests my beautiful guts.
"Don't tell me you're scared of motorcycles," he says, rolling his eyes and popping a cig. I choke on the smell.
"Oh my gosh, don't smoke!" I whine. "And I'm scared of motorcycles."
Ryder snorts. "Wow. Just get on, orange, we don't have all day."
"Why do you call me that? My name is Clementine," I say ferociously.
"Same thing. Orange is my nickname for you."
My heart swells at his term of clear endearment and I know that he wants to get married to me and have Ryder babies. I mean, he's not even being subtle.
"Why do you hate motorcycles so much?"
Should I tell him?
"My dad died in a motorcycle crash two years ago!" I wail in complete torture. Ryder sighs, giving me a hug.
"Don't cry, orange. It'll be okay. Now hurry up, I still hate you."
After bonding over my horrendously horrifying past, I get on his motorcycle and ultimately love it because clearly it doesn't take much for me to get over my biggest fear. I'm just special like that.
