Chapter 1

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Mason's POV

"You ok, Mas?" The orange-faced girl asked me, her shiny lips pouting in a feeble attempt to look plump and desirable, while her pale hand tried to casually roll up her skirt to look shorter.

She probably thought I found it appealing, when in reality all that crossed my mind at that moment was: Bleurghhh!!

"I'm fine, babe." I grinned forcefully, tugging at the ends of my hair that needed a trip to the barbers urgently in my opinion, whereas the girls found it "adorable".

At least my smile isn't as fake as her tan, I thought grimly.

Why is she talking to me??

Do I know her??

Have we met somewhere??

I think not!

"Anyway, I gotta go. La Vida Loca calls." Me, being the eager-to-leave boy blurted, referring to the band I played in.

Although between you and I, rehearsals aren't until tomorrow.

"Oh, alright Mason. If you must." She sighed dramatically, sending a wink in my direction, (must not gag.. Must not gag..) Before flouncing off.

If you'd told me being popular meant I had to put up with these barbies gone wrong.. I would've said; "no thank you."

But now there was no turning back, unless I enjoyed being bullied.. Which obviously wasn't the case for most people, me included.

So how did I become popular, you ask? (I'm not quiet sure whether you did ask or not, but do let me resume my writing,) the answer is simple:

I stopped straightening my hair and let it fall in it's messy style, swapped my glasses for contacts, dressed cooly, began playing the electric guitar and joined a band with other cool people.

With a few adjustments, I turned from the boring emo of the class to the schools most talked-about dude.

Eh.. I really hope only you, Miss Longford, are reading this. I shudder at the thought of Jacky or Jess or anybody else at school getting their hands on this........

....So, why am I writing in this diary? What part of my cliche life is worth the honour of being written about? Well, let me tell you-"MASON!!"

A groan escaped Mason's lips as his mum called out, interrupting his weak attempts at writing a diary as part of his English homework by the familiar call to dinner.

Mason brought his arm up to tug at his hair in frustration, a habit of his, but cringed upon seeing the fresh scars upon his wrist.

It was inevitable that he would sometimes forget to wear something that hid it.

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