Chapter Two

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*Charlie's P.O.V*

Emma hated me. I hated Emma. It was common knowledge in our grade. And it had always been that way, since second grade.


As far as anyone knew.

I didn't really hate her. She was just so wicked towards me- and ONLY me! Why, I will never know. And, just wiping the witty smirk off her face, that wins every other argument...c'mon. You gotta feel some pride in that.

But hate her?

Far from it man.

A lot of boys in our grade like her, but don't tell her, because she is just so unapproachable. Not in looks. She's goddamn beautiful.

I mean in personality. She's friendly towards most, funny. But she's got a fire I haven't seen in any other girl, a originality. She speaks what she wants and does as she pleases. I doubt she'd look twice at any boy.

But, listen to me, getting all lovey. That girl hates me. Might as well do the same to her.

I make it to my first class, Language Arts, the second the bell rings. I breathe a sigh of relief.

The door closes and everyone takes a seat. Immediately, the teacher begins to speak.

"I'm Mrs. Ellison, and I'm here to-"

She's interrupted my the click and swish of a door. Speak of the devil, there she stands, Emma Handschke, face red, brown hair lazily braided at her side, and laden down with a million text books. Geez. I've never noticed how small she is.

"You're late." Mrs. Ellison says curtly, addressing her with a tip of her head.

"My locker was stuck. It all the way I the west wing Mrs-"

"I don't care-"

"Please Miss," Emma says, unembarrassed, though a few are giggling. "It's our first day after all, I assure you it won't happen again."

"Fine! Take a seat! And quickly!" Mrs. Ellison snaps.

Damn. Leave it to Emma to smart talk her way out of a tardy. She barely even said anything.

"Now, don't get used to the seats your in, because I've been teachig for twenty five years, and I know better than to let high school students pick their own seats!"

I hear several people groan. A few even roll their eyes.

Mrs. Ellison casts one sharp eye over the class, and we all silence. She seems like a teacher not to cross.

"Alivia Schiyte." She says crisply, pointing one, painted, gnarled nail at a desk in the front.

"Harold Hallam."

She's doing it randomly I suppose.

"Grace Yang."

Shit. Boy girl. Seriously.

"Charlie Betz."

I roll my eyes and collect my stuff- a mound of books for my first three classes, and a chrome book- and drop it all in the seat.

"Emma Handschke."

My head snaps up. For a minute, she looks like she is going to protest, but then stomps over to the seat, and sits in a huff. She scoots as far away as possible.

"Real mature." I mutter out of the corner of my mouth.

She just rolls her eyes.

"Keep doing that, and they'll get stuck up there." I say slyly, leaning closer, still whispering.

She sticks out her tongue.

I think Language Arts is my new favorite class


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