C H A P T E R • S E V E N
Lydia starts her first day of junior high with a new bag and an ego as high as her IQ.
She meets Heather at the end of the road to catch the school bus, declining a kind lift from her mother. She's 12 now, she doesn't need her mother to coddle her. Plus, her mothers rages of dark clouds and bad moods had only gotten worse over the years.
"Are you excited?" Heather greets. She looks as she always has done: rucksack slung over bother shoulders, breezing blonde hair tied back two long pale plaits.
"Of course," Lydia replies, confidently. This was her time to shine.
The bus was crowded and hot, the September Californian sun beating down on the metal box like a cooker. Lydia was getting overheated in her summery dress, long red hair caked her to her neck and back.
When they arrived at the school for the very first time, Lydia suddenly felt a pang of anxiety sitting like a brick in her stomach. The bus pulls into the car park, mostly empty apart from teachers cars and visitors.
Heather is at her side the moment after they step off the bus, both of them knocked speechless at the sight of the school.
After the welcome assembly, Lydia is given her timetable that tells her her first lesson is English with Miss Garcia. Thankfully, her first lesson was with Heather, so the pair walked side by side to their first session in Beacon Hills Junior High.
The class is larger than she's used to, all the desks seperated and individual. Lydia takes a seat in the front row, Heather at her right. She's grinning as she sits, her books placed down on the desk. Her Mosbey Dictionary sits within the pile, like a key of comfort.
Be like Florence Nightingale, she tells herself as the class fills up around her.
The teacher comes in, a middle aged women with frail blonde hair held off her face with a purple butterfly pin. She's curvy, wearing a flouncy flower dress and pink ballerina shoes. She has large glasses sitting on the bridge of her wide nose, making her look intelligent and comforting at the same time.
"Hello, everyone," she greets, smiling widely. Big, stark white teeth flash, illuminated by her glossy pink lipstick. "My name is Miss Garcia, and I will be your English teacher this year."
Lydia sits up, back still-stock straight and both feet planted flat on the floor. Miss Garcia has them beginning to some 'breaking the ice' activities which involve them getting to know their classmates.
"We're going to be spending the whole year together," she explains. "So, this lesson is dedicated to helping you all introduce yourselves and make friends."
Lydia turned to the girl sitting on her other side, hunched over her desk and long brown hair blocking her face from view.
Lydia purses her lips, turning fully so her entire body faces the slouched form. "Hi," she says, loud and broad and confident. The girl looks up, brown eyes almost startled. "My name is Lydia Martin. What's yours?"
It takes a moment for the girl to reply, but when she does, her voice is small and frail, "Tracy," she says, clearing her throat as she straightens her posture. "Tracy Stewart."
Lydia smiles. "Well, hello, Tracy. I see you like to read," she says, nodding to the books Tracy had been hugging when she was slouched over her desk. "I like reading too. History books, mostly. I like facts."
Tracy blinks, and then she smiles. "I like reading fantasy," she replies. "Like...vampires and werewolves and stuff."
"That sounds cool," Lydia comments. "What's your favourite book?"
"Either Twilight or Private Peaceful," Tracy replies.
"Private Peaceful...the war book?" Lydia questions, and Tracy nods. "Do you like history then?"
"Mostly in fiction," Tracy replies. "I'm not very good at remembering facts."
Lydia beams. "I love factual reading. My favourite historian is Florence Nightingale!"
"I gathered," Tracy replies. She motions to Lydia's stack of books on her desk. "I can see your Mosbey Dictionary."
Lydia smiles, and she doesn't know how long her and Tracy talk about books, but it's a long damn time. The end of the lesson appears before she realises and the class is packing up.
At lunch, Lydia and Heather stick together to brace the cafeteria. They're not stupid, and they know they need to find a bigger group to find a place to sit at the tables. The question was, which group?
Lydia found her pray the moment she entered the lunch hall. In the centre of the canteen was a large table, overflowing with older pupils. They must have been a year or two older, possibly in their last year. They were laughing, looking cool and popular in their small glowing bubble of superiority.
"Them," Lydia says, nodding towards the table.
Heather stiffens at her side. "Uh, Lydia...I don't think they are-"
"Let's go," Lydia cuts her off and is walking before Heather can stop her. She marches through the canteen, books hugged to her chest and chin high. Her long hair flew behind her in a long wave from the momentum of her strides.
As she approaches the table, none of them seem to notice her presence. She stands, suddenly feeling awkward but pushing down the compelling feeling. This was her only gate way into the schools hierarchy.
"Uh, hi!" She blurts, but the table doesn't silence. They continue to talk and laugh as if she wasn't there, as if she hadn't spoken. She frowns, trying again, "excuse me!"
The two words come out far louder than she intended, and it has the effect she wasn't necessarily wanting. The table plunges into a startled silence, every head turning towards her with glares and gazes of scrutiny.
Lydia audibly swallows.
"What do you want?" One girl asks. She's sitting in the core of the group, clearly the leader. She has long blonde hair, almost white. Her skin is smooth and pale, makeup subtle but effective. She has large blue eyes, glare as icy as the colour. She sits up in her chair like an interrogator.
"My name is Lydia," Lydia replies, trying to hide the nerves shaking her tone.
The girl scoffs. "So?"
Lydia shifts from foot to foot. This wasn't how she was expecting this to go. She can feel every eye on her.
"I was...uh...wondering if me and my friend could sit with you guys," she says. Her arms are stiff around her books, hugging them almost painfully into her chest. Her knees feel weak, cheeks hot and hands restless.
The girl scoffs again, rolling her eyes. "Find another table, fire cracker. We don't need no babies sitting with us."
Lydia frowns. "I stopped being classified as a baby when I turned one. Individuals are then classified as toddlers until the age of three, and then from them they are categorised as children until they reach adulthood at 18. I am 12, so I'm hardly a baby—"
"Jesus Christ!" The girl groans. "Alright, we get it. You're not factually a baby. But you are to us, so run along to your mummy."
"But—" Lydia starts.
The girl stands abruptly, climbing out of her chair and rounding the table so she's standing in front of Lydia, looking down on her like a tower.
"Listen to me, dork," she snarls. "You can't sit with us, and no amount of facts is going to change that. You see, being smart isn't going to fit you in with the cool kids. Looks and confidence does. And you, baby, do not fit into the cool kids category. Maybe when you grown into your ears and learn how to apply lipstick, then you might be welcome in the loser squad of your year." She leans down so she's at Lydia's height. Lydia refuses the urge to move back in a flinch. "But until then, you're just a little baby who still carries around a Dictionary like a freak."
"It's not a dictionary," Lydia says automatically. "It's a Mosbey Dictionary. It's a book about medicine and diseases, written for medical prof—"
The girl interrupts her with a low laugh. Lydia can feel her heart hammering so hard in her chest she's scared it's going to burst out in the middle of the floor.
"You just don't listen do you?" She asks, condescending and cruel. Everyone around them laughs. "No one gives a fuck about your medical books. Now, fuck off."
Lydia didn't need to be told twice. She spun around, feet unsteady as she sprinted out of the canteen. She heard Heather shout for her, having still been standing where she had been before, most likely watching Lydia get shouted at. Everyone probably watched, everyone saw. She was humiliated, striped down and laughed at because of her fucking facts and intelligence and her stupid, stupid book!
Lydia runs to the girls bathrooms, bursting through the door and huddling into a cubicle. She slams the door with burning anger and panic, thanking that the toilet is empty and she's alone.
The first sob is like it's punched out of her. It's abrupt and hard, choking her on its way out. Her lungs constrict, feeling tight and empty. She feels so small, so humiliated and embarrassed. She feels like an idiot.
Why did she think that was a good idea?
Why did she even try?
Her mind slowed, taking in the words the rude girl had snarled at her.
Being smart isn't going to fit you in with the cool kids. Looks and confidence does.
Maybe when you grown into your ears and learn how to apply lipstick.
Was that what Lydia needed to do? Did she need to grow up? Was makeup and fashion the answer to climbing the schools hierarchy?
She let the books she was hugging drop to the floor in front of her. Her Mosbey Dictionary haunted her as it sat there; the source of her humiliation. Being smart wasn't cool, not here anyway. If she wanted to fit in, she needed to change.
And she wanted to fit in, she wanted to be cool and popular. She wanted to be beautiful, admired and surrounded by friends and people. If ditching her books and facts was the answer to that, then so be it.
If stupid was cool, then Lydia was going to be stupid.
She dumps the Mosbey Dictionary in the bathroom bin before she exited the bathroom.
*
The next day, Lydia walked the corridors with a new aura. She'd gotten her mother to curl her hair that morning so it fell down her back in long, luscious curls. She stole her mothers red lipstick the night before and spent hours in front of her mirror practicing - thankfully, Stiles had taken a night off asking about her every action and didn't even interupt her.
So today, Lydia walked with a sense of confidence. Her books were in her bag that was held in the crease of her elbow. Her eyelashes were darkened with a stroke of mascara and she fluttered her eyes as she walked.
In class, she sat at the back with one book on her desk and a fluffy pencil case at the side. She chewed on the end of her pen as Miss Garcia talked, barely paying attention and instead sending glances to Jackson, who she hadn't realised was in her class until he sat down next to her.
At the end of the lesson, Lydia is stopped on her way out by Tracy.
"Hey, I was wondering if you wanted to come and check out the library with me," Tracy says. "I heard there's a really big history section, and you said yesterday-"
Lydia chuckles, cutting her off. "No thanks, Tracy. History is boring."
Tracy frowns. "B-but, yesterday you... yesterday you said-"
"I was joking," Lydia replies. Smart isn't cool. History isn't cool. "Books are stupid, Tracy. The library is the most pathetic place to hang out, anyway."
She doesn't wait for Tracy's reply before she moves around her and meets Heather at the door. Heather joins her in her stride, a step behind. Lydia can see her looking behind, eyebrows pinched in a frown.
"What was that about?" She asks. "I thought you loved history? And books?"
"You thought wrong," Lydia replies, not a fault in her step.
"Lydia-" Heather starts, but is cut off by someone elses shout.
"Lydia!"
She spins to find Jackson standing by the enterance to the fields. He waves her over, and Lydia smiles.
Stupid is cool, she tells herself again. You're going to be cool.
*
authors note: I'm so sorry this took so long, I've been so busy with exams and college work. This chapter was also hard to write because I had to rewind Lydia's current development and try to create the source of her habits for when she's older. I hope I did that with the bully and the humiliation into thinking being smart was not cool.
the next chapter should be up soon, but I can't promise it will be next Sunday!
hope everyone has a good week :)
love ells xxx