Chapter 6
Bossy Directors and Cocky Assholes
The next morning I wake up at two in the afternoon. Hey! The blame is all on Tamara, and a little on Chanelle, who dragged me off to that party. I came back, after dropping Amber and Holly off to their rooms, at roughly four o’clock.
After a long shower, I poke my head out the window, feeling the need for fresh air and some nice scenery. So I expect some fields or something equally refreshing and countryfied but what I get instead is the student car park. Surprisingly, however, students are entering their cars, driving off. Confused, I pull on the first things I find in my closet; some three-quarter jeans and a paint splattered shirt. I slip on gladiator flip flops, leave my hair in a messy wet state and head out to see what’s going on.
Near the exit, I find a girl heading out, so I call out to her and ask her, “Hey, how come everyone’s going out?”
She replies with a hostile look and says, “It’s the weekend. You go out on weekends…duh!” she looks at me like I’m the stupidest person out there. Jeez, I just asked a simple question. But then she does a double take and realizes, “Oh. You’re the weird yellow new girl. The SSG.” After giving me another cold look she flips her long hair and walks away.
Oh my, how dared I speak to her majesty? Tsk.
I push that rude encounter to the back of my mind and remember that Darlington allows all students above the age of sixteen to leave the premises on weekends, as long as they adhere to the curfews. On Saturdays, it’s from 1pm to 8pm and on Sundays it’s from 1pm to 7pm. Awesome. I grin.
Skipping back to my room in excitement, I totally forget I don’t have a car to drive me to town. You see, back in England it wasn't legal for me to drive and when I did, I crashed the car, due to the confusing rules there. Regardless of what their police says, I do own a driver’s license and it is none of my fault that they’re all left-handed.
Woohoo! The perks of being in America. Just as I’m about to whip out my phone and get a car sent here, a knock interrupts my dance of joy.
Still ecstatic, I fling the door open.
“Hi!” I exclaim, beaming at a frightened looking George.
“Hi, Arianna—“ before he can continue, I remember something.
“Ooh, I saw you playin in the band! You were great! Actually so was Victoria, that is her name right?” I gush, still high about the fact that I can leave the premises.
“You mean Veronica?”
“Yeah, yeah, her! She sounded amazing. Makes me wish I could sing too.." and so I spend the next few seconds looking up at the yellowy ceiling imagining myself on stage singing like Whitney Huston. There’d be applauding. People throwing roses. Ah, how nice it feels to be appreciated.
“Are you still drunk?" his words make me crash back to the world from day-dreamland. Some people are like an open book. I don't even need to be Edward Cullen to read their minds. Like, right now, George is assuming I have a mental disorder and that I need medical attention immediately.
"Haha, you're a funny guy! Anyways, to what do I owe this pleasure?" I finally ask, remembering that George and I don’t have the kind of friendship to hang around each others rooms. To be honest, we don’t have much of a friendship at all.
"Oh, yeah, back to the point, d'you remember the play we have to do for drama?" he asks, a little irritated.
"Yeah, what about it?"
YOU ARE READING
Never assume
Teen FictionI assume. You assume. Everyone assumes. Because, when a girl arrives at your boarding school in a hideous beat up Ford, she must be poor. If she's not clothed from head to toe in designer, her parents must be having financial problems. If she can ac...
