Stranded on an Island With a Hot Jerk...Wonderful.

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Ok everybody, this is my first Wattpad story that I'll probably go through with if I get over 20 views. It seems your story can't get attention unless its title has to do with vampires or hot here it goes. I know it doesn't start out very intresting, but TRUST ME, it will get better!

Oh, and I'd REALLY appreciate it if you would gently I can improve myself.

And secondly, I recommend using this website:

to translate the French parts. There may be a few throughout the story, and the translations may not be perfect, but pretty close. Just change the drop-down box to "French-English" translation. I won't hold you up any longer, so enjoy my story. I'll probably upload again in a few days.


"Miel," Kayla whispered, brushing a strand of my auburn hair out of my face, "You look merveilleux!" I giggled at Kayla's use of the French she had learned during this semester, and peered at my reflection in the school cafeteria's bathroom mirror.

My auburn hair was swooped up into a bun, not a flyaway or loose strand in sight, minus the two pencil-thin pieces framing my face that had been tightly curled so that they resembled little pieces of DNA.

I was wearing a light pink silk long-sleeved shirt with a V-neck and a gray short skirt with pink plaid lines. On my feet, knee high black leather boots accented my long, thin legs, and silver bangles clinked together when I moved my arms the slightest centimeter.

"Oh, Kayla," I whispered excitedly, knowing that I barely ever looked this pretty on any normal day. "C'est le meilleur emploi que vous faisiez jamais!" Briefly translated, I just told Kayla that she'd never done a better job on making me look this good before.

Kayla stuck her lower lip out, pouting. "That's not fair," she muttered. "I'm not that far into the lessons." Kayla has been taking French as her foreign language class for the last semester, but I grew up in France and speak English as a second language, so French comes naturally to me. "Alright," Kayla said, perking up. "Lip gloss check." I stuck out my lips in an exaggerated smooching pose, and Kayla smeared a clear gloss over their surface.

"Go get 'em, Frenchy," she whispered, and she pushed me out of the door into the cafeteria. I swung my pink Coach purse over my shoulder and smiled a smile of glistening white teeth as cameras flashed. It was the group of the six yearbook committee members, who jumped at a chance to take pictures of anything.

As I made my way to the seats that were beneath the cafeteria stage, Darla Heighton pushed her way to the seat next to me. As usual, awestruck males parted for her like the Red Sea parted for Moses, and females moved for her with the fear of the consequences if they didn't. I rolled my eyes as she set herself down next to me, checking her mascara in a compact mirror.

Darla is the head cheerleader at Oakfield High School, and is your stereotypical queen-of-the-school. I don't know why there never seems to be a down-to-earth head cheerleader, but it's nothing I can change. Usually Darla ignores me unless she's poking fun, and the only reason she sits by me is because of the assigned seating chart that every teacher seems to use.

I guess I should explain my social standing here at Oakfield High. I, Yvonne Deariuonx, am the girl everyone likes. I'm not being exactly modest, but I know I'm the girl everyone relies on and feels comfortable around. I hang with the guys outside and can chat with the girls inside. I'm outspoken and confident, so I make lots of friends. The only people I'm sour towards are the girls who act like Darla, and the jocks that think they're all-better-than-thou, to use an expression I grew up with.