The Discovery of Ebony Blaine

Ebony

My name is Ebony Blaine. I've been having some issues for a while now. Nothing illegal, mind you. But kind of serious to me. I can't handle myself. I don't like myself. Sure, that seems like a stereotypical, angsty teenaged-girl-like thing to say. But it's true. If there's one thing I value, it's honesty.

I've been in school for a while now. Almost eleven years. I should be used to getting up early every morning. However, I still don't seem to wake up on time. I am usually late to class. I get in trouble often. I don't have spectacular grades. People, especially my teachers, think of me as a punk kid who doesn't care about anything or anyone. That is false. I care about a lot of things, like animals and books and music. Just not myself.

I don't hate myself because of the way I look, or anything. That would be superficial. I don't think I'm beautiful, but I'm not ugly either. I'm in between, average. I have dark hair that hangs in my eyes. I don't bother to cut it. I have much-too-pale skin and green eyes that don't fit my face. You could say that I'm short.

I wake up on the morning of January 20, not ready to face the day. I get out of bed and feel that taste in my mouth. Gross. I need to brush my teeth. I throw on a pair of my usual skinny jeans and a t-shirt that I like to think represents my soul. I quickly put on my makeup and run out the door, not bothering with breakfast. I hop into my old Chevy Aveo and put it into gear. When I arrive at the school, I gaze with disgust at the school. I do not want to go in there. Maybe I should skip? No, too risky.

As soon as I walk in the door, I see a brawl break out in the front foyer between two boys. Typical. I skirt around them, and make my way to my locker to load my stuff into it. I get my textbook, notebook, and pencil and head towards my first hour class. Math. Yuck. I walk in and sit in my usual spot by the window, which is a great spot for daydreaming, by the way. Out the window is a giant tree, the greenest I've ever seen, filled with flowers the color of rosy cheeks and white as the clouds above.

I tune the professor out until I hear him say the words, "Please welcome a new student to our class. Her name is Willow Iverson and she comes from Seattle." I look up and see the most beautiful girl ever. Her blond hair is pulled up into a high bun. Her slender face was white like porcelain, creamy colored almost. She had a nose like a ski slope and clean, cerulean blue eyes. I hated her instantly. She looked too pretty to be nice. And even if she was, she'd learn quick enough to stay away from me. God knows everyone else does.