How Not to be Popular

Guess Who Came Back This Year?

Hope whoever reads this enjoys!!! :P

I wake up to pounding drums, a metallic, auto tuned voice, and a insistent buzz that rattles my whole head.

Groggily, I open my eyes, and curse the sudden onslaught of bright sunlight that assaults them.

I really need to get curtains, I think, as I roll over and blearily reach under my pillow to my phone, where it's still ringing and playing the stupid Hey Mama song.

I swipe the screen and then press it to my ear. "What are you doing, you crazy person?" I croak sleepily.

"Oh my god Ana, don't tell me you just woke up!" a shrill voice shrieks on the other end.

I yawn. "And so what if I did?"

"Girl, do you know what time it is?! You're late!" the insistent voice screams.

"What time...?" I squint at my bedside clock, trying to make out the glowing digital numbers.

It's 7:03.

It takes me a second to register this.

"Oh god, I'm late!" I gasp.

My best friend's voice is panicked. "Girl, hurry up and get dressed! Hurry!"

"Thanks Jaz," I mutter and I end the call.

And then I start the most frantic morning of my life.

There's no time for a shower, so I just scrub some water on my face, wincing at the stinging cold. I slather toothpaste onto my toothbrush, and scrub my teeth as fast as I possibly can. I slip on my thick, steel rimmed glasses, hurriedly comb my hair, and toss on the first clothes in my grasp. As I'm about to leap downstairs, my eyes land on the array of lipsticks, eyeshadow brushes, mascara tubes, and little eyeliner pencils Jaz insists on keeping in my bathroom. I frown distastefully at them; Jaz is an awesome friend, but she won't give up on her belief that one day, I will actually make an effort to look good.

As I sprint downstairs, I pause in front of the mirror in the hall to check how I look.

I don't know much about fashion and all things pretty, but I do know I look beyond bad right now. Not only is my hair a rats nest, but it looks like my clothes were picked out by a blind monkey or something. A brown cardigan, matched with a rough textured pair of pants, and gray tennis shoes peeking out underneath complete my I-don't-wanna-get-up look.

Oh well.

So what if I have to look like a dying zombie on the first day of my sophmore year?

Please. Looking bad never bothers me.

I tumble into the kitchen, and immediately start lumbering around, looking for my backpack.

When Mom and Dad first got married, Mom insisted on a big house, so Dad, who had just inherited his father's business and had more than enough money, went out of his way to find biggest the house there was, which just happened to have the biggest kitchen there was--this one.

Tall, gleaming round windows tower on each side of the room, letting golden sunlight stream through. And when the light glances off the pale, marble tiles, it makes the whole room blinding. The stove, the oven, and the microwaves are all pushed against a wall, and the other three walks are devoted to paintings, and other sorts of junk Mom buys at vintage boutiques. The whole kitchen is immaculate, but today, for some reason, the whole place is empty, devoid of my parents and Matilda, our maid, who's usually hovering around them 24/7.