I want to tell you that my life at Walterton High School was glamorous. I could feed you the line that I was the most beautiful, smart, popular girl there. But then I'd be lying. And as much as I believe my parents to be kind of nerdy, they did teach me that lying was never worth the hassle.
Don't get me wrong—I was probably better than average looking, if I do say so myself (thanks, Clearasil). I would agree that I'm pretty smart, too. But in no way in this godforsaken town would I be considered popular. Mostly, it was just timing. It was September, and I was getting into the groove of my sophomore year. And let me tell you, that's not where you want to be. Freshmen may be little sheep unknowingly heading to slaughter, but at least there's a wide-eyed wonder about it, and once properly disillusioned by a select few in the senior class, they have the insight that a new crop of freshmen will come in after them, taking their place in line for wedgies, swirlies, pantsings, and whatever cunning feats of social humiliation and isolation the girls could come up with.
Juniors, they have the anticipation of Senior Year. They may even be so cool that the seniors claim them as one of their own to participate in high school antics, social functions, and the like. The seniors, well, they've got it all. In every high school in America, these are the kids that Rule the School. They have worked hard (or hardly worked, as the case may be) to get to the place where they can see the finish line.
But me? I was stuck in Sophomore Limbo. That's the year where nothing is as it seems. Most of us couldn't drive yet, which meant we were subject to be the oldest kids on the bus. The biggest thing that any of us had to look forward to was taking the last state standardized test before we had to dive into the wild world of SATs. And let me tell you, none of us were really looking forward to that.
I was faring better than the average sophomore in my class. My bookish nature combined with my organizational skills made my classes pretty easy. I hadn't yet found myself inside an extracurricular activity, but as far as college applications were concerned, two years of that was plenty, so I wasn't sweating it. And I had Cori. If you don't have yourself a Cori, I highly recommend finding one.
Corianna Charles was my best friend. She was really something else, and I loved her for it. The problem was, as good of friends as we were (and we're the best, by the way), she was a go-getter on steroids. Figuratively, of course, not literally on steroids—she's a tennis player on the school's team, so that's a big no-no. She also plays violin. And she's in the choir. Did I mention she also volunteers at the local animal shelter twice a month? Here's the kicker—she still gets straight A's. I, on the other hand, manage a perfect range of A+ to B- on every report card I bring home. What can I say? P.E. just isn't my thing.
But it was the morning of September fourteenth that changed it all for me. Sophomore year was going to get far more exciting than I had ever imagined. And if you could believe it, this all started in Mr. Arlow's sociology class.