Broken Strings

Chapter 1

When you're sitting in a lecture, it's kind of hard to keep your eyes open. I find myself with my head propped on my hand and my loose hair hiding my face so the professor doesn't notice my closed eyes. I've officially decided General Music History 2 is my allotted class to sneak in a nap. It's also the best time to get a peek at the cute, musical, hipster boys. I sleepily glance around the room; luckily, I'm in the back of the lecture hall. I see a group of "golden" boys, the boys that I got too much of in high school. They're the guys I see at parties and that my friends try and set me up with, no thanks. Despite my preppy appearance, I don't like guys to share the same fashion sense. I prefer the guys who don't care about what others are wearing or what brands tell others "I'm better than you" because they're not audacious dicks. I turn my gaze away from them and to the other side of the room. The class is particularly empty but I can't help but have my stare go directly to the group of guys who probably spend more money on their hair than they spend on college. I see them in almost every class; I can tell they coordinated their schedules with one another. They have such a variety of hairstyles among them. I've never seen so many quiffs and colors and lengths in one group of people before. I refocused on them and noticed they were looking straight at me. Well, shit. I pretended to stay asleep and their gazes eventually drifted back to the professor. I flip my hair out of my face and into a high ponytail and decide to try and take notes. For the last half hour of the boring class, I scribble notes into my everything binder. This one binder encompasses my entire college career; every note and form I'll need to make it through those slow and difficult 4 years.

Class finishes up and I'm almost out the door before I hear my name yelled across the echo-prone room. "Florence" a low male voice raises goosebumps on my arm. I stop, debating on whether or not to turn around. I feel myself sigh obnoxiously and spin on my heels to see a group of guys snickering as their friend pretends like he didn't call my name. I'll call him Skunk; I don't know his name but that's what his hair looks like. Skunk continues to whistle and stare up at the ceiling.

"Ha. Ha," I offer as a response before heading out the door. I'm almost out of the room when my name is called again. This time, I choose to ignore it and continue on with my life.