Chapter 1

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****************** A/N this is dedicated to racing heart , because i've read billion dollar girl, like, a billion times :P

UPDATE- 25/03/2011- what's hot #981! 

UPDATE- 26/03/2011- what's hot #444! 

UPDATE- 27/03/2011- It's not what's hot anymore, ah well...

 UPDATE- 2/04/2011- what's hot #559, yay! thanks to everyone who has voted! 

UPDATE- 2/04/2011- what's hot #494, 

UPDATE-03/04/2011- what's hot #484

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Phew! I hope to actually finish this story this time, I have a problem of not finishing stories because I get a good idea, and then i dwindle off a bit or just want to get straight to the good bit! I'm so tempted just to skip to the main story in this book/story already! I could not be a proffesional writer...***************************

I hated Art. Everything had to be so creative and new. No, I prefered everything to be in its place, only right or wrong, yes or no. This rule applied to dating as well. If I kinda liked a boy then I immediatley knew that it was not going to work out, just like I 'knew it wasn't going to work out with Summer Richards. That was why, for the third time in as many weeks, I was telling him no.

"Oh, come on, please?" He pleaded, his soft hazel eyes searching for something, anything, in my own.

"No." I swiftly replied.

"Do you ever say anything more than that?"

"Of course I do, that's what I'm doing right now, isn't it? I'm not iliterate." I turned to go, but my path was blocked by Summers scruffy form. "Move."

"No. That's not what I mean, though, about saying nothing more than no. I meant saying whatever pops into your head, not even thinking about what you're saying... just, letting it rip?"

I gave him a look and pushed past him, heading straight for English. Luckily he didn't seem to follow me, and I was thankful for that, because somewhere, deep down, I knew he was right. I couldn't even admit it to myself, let alone this arrogant prick who would never let me hear the end of it. An ignorant prick who also has never heard of a 'brush' or 'soap'. I sighed to myself and rounded the corner to reach B16, my English room.

The classroom was mostly empty, seeing that the bell for class had not yet rung. I always showed up early for class, even, dare I say it, for art. It was one of those rules that I always followed, just like the Yes, No rule, I was always early for everything, no if's, no, buts. I took my place in the second row, carefully placing my neat books into neat piles. At the beginning of the academic year I had chosen my seating in every class very carefully.

Of, course in Maths I was right at the front, where I was always first to be handed an assignment sheet, always first to find the answer. In Art it was a circle of chairs, which I detested because it never felt as if I was in a lesson at all. History and Geography were both with a curious teacher called Ms. Skelley, who had a tendency to spit quite far whilst talking, meaning that a seat further back was preferable.

R.S was an odd subject, as it was a mix between right and wrong answers, and complete dependency on your own opinion. This meant that R.S had no way of fitting into my rule book; it was neither a great lesson, nor a rubbish lesson. After thinking about this topic for a long time with myself, I finally conducted that R.S was an anomaly.

The bell finally called for lesson time, and I sat down on my chair, crossing my legs and once again straightening my things. My best friend of 4 years came and placed herself beside me, swiftly brushing down the table and chair with her sweet and delicate hand. Emma Katherine Leonards was a neat girl, with a sleek, mousey brown bob that reached just below her pixie-like ears. Her eyes were baby-blue, and her eyebrows neatly plucked, proportioned to her face exactly by the beauticians payed for by Emma's Botox loving mother.

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