New Girl: The Gymnast And The Street Racer

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"You can call me artist (artist)

You can call me idol (idol)

Anim eotteon dareun mwora haedo

I don't care

I'm proud of it

Nan jayurobne

No more irony

Naneun hangsang- "

Now let's be honest, no one to wake up to the screeching of that boy band that could as well have been crickets trying to hit out some Zayn Malik high notes with dry throats. Seriously I had nothing against Jimin, the guy had a face to die for but songs that sounded like whining teenage banshees were not gonna do it for me.

So I guess no one can really blame me for putting their album track as my alarm tone, never failed to do the job. Granted I always woke up harbouring murderous thoughts that would give me my own special episode on Criminal Minds.

"Jordan it's half-past seven you're running late!"

I winced at the illegally high voice of my mother. Running late? Just at what time did lessons start at Brookville High? Back home I didn't have to be up until eight, but I guess none of that mattered anymore.

With an irritated sigh and a grumpy face that would have made Grumpy Bear hand over her care bear title; I pushed off my blankets not really caring where they landed on the wooden floor together with the thousands of decorative pillows whose presence on my bed my mother felt was
more important than my comfort.

I kicked the balls of fluff along the way as I headed for my bathroom. I think it has already been established by now that I'm definitely not a morning person. What we might not have covered however is who I am.

Well I'm Jordan Trager, yes daughter of the famous movie star Michael Trager but also biggest dick to ever live. And no, before your minds wonder kids, I don't mean that dick, talking about my father's genitals would just be disgusting and a tad bit disturbing.

What I mean he is the biggest jerk of Jerkville. This will probably be proven by the fact that I'm slumming it here in this town no one's ever heard of whilst he's parading in our Beverly Hills monstrosity of a house with his current slut, I mean friend.

He basically told me to pack my staff and follow wherever my mother had disappeared to. Now I'm not usually the most rational person ever but who can blame me for hating a woman who left me when I was ten to fend for myself without a backward glance?

My father gave me a choice though, sort- offish. He said I could either go to military school or go and get my shit together and that's a direct quote. So here I am, in an apartment that violated my rights as a child to a healthy living environment and going to be the new girl for the hundredth time in my life.

I threw on baggy sweats that I sometimes used for dancing, a red bra that could stop traffic (according to the ad) and a hood which I didn't zip up because I wanted to get my money's worth out of that ridiculously expensive bra.

The outfit was probably not the best idea for a first day but it's not like I had anything else. Most of my tops were wrinkled and by the look of things and lack of a maid in the apartment, I was going to be doing a lot of laundry on my own. But there was no way I was going anywhere near an iron that morning.

I quickly slipped on my black converse and large silver hoops in my earlobes since Sophie was already beginning to yell from downstairs. Sophie is actually the woman who gave birth to me but I see no reason to call her mother when she'd nevee been one to me. This was the first time I was seeing her in fifteen years.