I watch the same old busy streets and crowded sceneries of the city from the car window, thinking about how this school year would go.
Last year was an absolute disaster, here I am swearing to myself that I'd like to make a change about it. Rules, stay out of trouble and the spotlight –which, apparently, I'm always in.
Music in my ears and images in my mind, I memorize the familiar pictures of the buildings and establishments and how they are different from what they were before.
It's both a gift and a curse to remember everything.
That cafe used to be coloured brown and now had been renovated to look like an old red bricked house. That building was under construction, only ten floors high, now about sixty two or three. That street around the corner had a sewer problem.
I blink and lick my lips, if only my parents allowed me to travel, this wouldn't be the scene I'd see everyday. That's all I want to do, get out of highschool and travel. I want to save every image of the world to see inside my head but they can't give me that, apparently.
And my phone rings. I slide my finger across the screen.
"Hey mom," I greet, they're both in Venice, Italy right now and I've never been more jealous about their travels. Of course, they don't go on vacations, but rather businesses, still, Italy is a nice place to go to. I've only been there once three years ago, in Rome but apparently, that was the end of it.
"Hello Taylor, your father and I just want to wish you a better school year. We're sorry we're not always there," Mom says and I don't need to hear that. I've heard that before. . . last year, two years ago, three years ago, four years ago, still the same horrid cycle.
"Thanks mom," I reply. "You and dad have a nice trip, okay?"
"Okay, you stay safe, hon. Bye," she says and then the call ends.
I sigh, seventeen years of this and you just tend to get used to it. I didn't have my parents tuck me in, say goodnight, read me bedtime stories and tell me they love me every moment they can, my nanny did that. . . but, I hold no grudge. Maybe I get disappointed sometimes but I don't hold anything else.
"Love you," I whisper and lean my head back, letting the same old familiar guitar riffs of a country song fill my ears.
I look back on the scenes outside, remembering how, based on Robbie's –our family driver's– speed, it usually takes an average of six minutes to get to school from here. The countdown in my head starts.
Until we get there.
"Have a nice day, Miss Swift," Robbie says with a smile as he usually does when he takes me to school. He's already forty-three, will turn forty-four this November, and had been in our family for quite a while now. He's friendly, familiar face that I've always appreciated seeing everyday, and he is actually a good friend of dad's.
I nod, "Thanks Robbie, I'll see you later." I make my way out of the same gray car.
I purse my lips as I saw the giant letters in silver up on the wall above the glass windows, "Dominicque International Highschool."
Crowds of students wearing our school uniforms of maroon blazers, short skirts, slacks, white polos and blouses inside and black ties.
Same old students. . .
Someone called again so I slide my finger across the screen without even looking at it because, muscle memory on my phone.
"Who is this?" I ask.
"Taylor!" Micha shrieks. I can easily tell it is her.
Truth is, I have mostly about three female best friends in this entire school. Number one, Michaella, the one with the complete package.
Michaella is a girl with long, wavy red hair, blue eyes –just a tad lighter than mine– and apparently, almost everyone would just fall on their knees for her. She is a great singer, an excellent dancer, she used to be a majorette and now she almost became a cheerleader except for the fact that a boy that liked her happens to be the cheer cap's man. So that's that. I'll spare no more details.
"Micha." I groan quietly. "Can we lower the volume down? I'm kind of wearing earphones," I say.
"Okay!" She pipes up and I have to hold myself back from saying a quick rude remark.
That's basically what I do, and it's a choice. . . either resist or regret.
"Look, cutie, we've been searching for you since like half an hour ago? Yeah, we're early. So anyways, where are you?"
"Near the flag pole, in front of the Afton building," I answer. It's a pretty big school, so it isn't too easy to find each other.
"Cute! We're on our way!" She squeals and the call ends.
Typical as apparently, people have a knack on hanging up on me. I rarely get to be the one who does that –unless I don't really feel like talking and that happens.
The two incoming best friends, with her, is Isabelli and Madelaine.
Isabelli is a half Spanish, half American girl who –apart from me– is the palest in our group. Her features include her long, curly brown hair with brown eyes and in my opinion, the prettiest smile. She eats like a whale sometimes but what I wonder, however is that her weight stays the same –although, she isn't as thin as I am. I hold that record in our group.
Madelaine is much like her, only she is half English, which meant I have to deal with her accent and strange way of talking almost all the time. Also add her odd insults. She is a portrait of straight, jet black, hair and dark eyes.
And apparently, both of them are still single because one, they're both picky and two, they have certain standards for boys. Micha, however is the flirt.
As I scan my eyes through the crowd, I see that familiar black Accent, I've seen a month ago. Across the whole parking lot, behind the scenes of people walking, comes out Harold Styles in his fancy, neat haircut –a swirl of curled brown cowlick, slightly thick at the top, and thin at the sides– and his uniform.
Stranger never looked better.
Then I feel something heavy on my shoulder.
"Good morning America, and this is Louis Tomlinson, handsomest man in the street reporting to you live from Dominicque International High parking lot where we've spotted a loyalty awardee, Taylor Swift!" Louis exclaims.
Louis Tomlinson is the captain of the soccer team, and Madelaine's cousin. They came here for about two years earlier than we did. And apparently, the duo is a headache. Especially, him. A little too full of himself but overall a nice guy. He is one of my friends too. That also meant, I have to endure his accent as well. . . and he's got a worse posh level than Madz.
He runs his fingers through his messy brown hair and he grins, "How was your summer?"
"Quiet, as you weren't there," I answer, averting the direction of my stare somewhere else. "Can't complain."
"Sure, how are you and Runner?" He asks, pertaining to my boyfriend. That's what they call him because he's fast in the field and it's close to his surname, Renner.
"Fine," I answer.
"You in the mood for talking or should I leave you alone?" He asks, finally noticing my tone.
Still, I try my best to keep up with the conversation, "I'd rather keep your company," I say.
Knowing Louis, he's already smirked, pursed his lips together and crossed his arms right below his chest. . . I am right.
"Alright then," he says. "Lovely day, no? I've got a load of newbies in my class, Runner's too."
"Is he your boyfriend or mine as even I've no idea which section he is in whereas you, already know his class," I say and smile cheekily at him.
He rolls his eyes and puts his arm over my shoulder, "Look, being boyfriends and girlfriends never meant you should always know stuff about each other, that's usually the best friend's job."
"You're doing one hell of a good job at it," I comment, very nicely. It's Louis anyways and yes, he is a great friend but when it comes to soccer, he forgets everything. He changes in the field.
He grins, "I'm sorry, did I mishear you or was that actually a compliment?"
"Don't make me want to take it back," I say as I see the three girls coming towards us.
"Damn, the ladies are here," he mutters under his breath. "I'll see you, then." He walks away without another word and that's our relationship. . . as always.
"Taylor!" Isabelli yells, and she is quite a few steps ahead, with Micha and Madz.
I smile a bit, "Hey."
"So what's up, you seem a bit, um what do you call this, um not in the mood?" She says as soon as they approach me.
"Just a few thoughts here and there," I answer. "Shall we go?"
Our parents pulled a few strings so all four of us are in the same class. Also given the fact that Isabelli's parents owns about fifty percent of the school.
"Cute! Let's go!" Micha says in a singsong way and we walk altogether to our class, first day and all.
As we walk towards our class, we keep our normal conversation.
"Where's Runner?" Madz asks.
"Honestly, we don't keep track of each other so I've no idea where he is most of the time," I answer very plainly. I'm used to distance and separation –my parents raised me as a warrior for that kind of battle.
"You're too trusting," Micha comments and her nose twitches. "I don't do that."
"Well, that's because you always choose the worst boys, no offense," Isabelli says and honestly, I can't go against that.
Micha scoffs, pretending to be offended when literally, she's enjoying the fact that this'll lead to a friendly argument she usually always wins. . . unless the two go against her.
"At least I choose," she says. "Unlike you, keeping your line unattended."
"Yeah because obviously, Isabelli wants to entertain everyone. First, the boy says he just wants to be friends. And when they'd friends, he'd ask her out. Then after the dates, he becomes her boyfriend. Then they break up, waste of time, heartbreak, cries from a whale and start all over again, yeah, that seems ideal," Madz mutters bitterly. She never even had a boyfriend and yet, she is really really bitter. "Better to be single than date a cuddy!"
Like I said, weird insults.
"I don't cry like a whale!" Isabelli defends herself.
I laugh, because she does. "Madz, that seems a little, well, bitter."
"Well, I know, but--" she groans, "That's what usually happens. On the other hand, good luck with you and Runner, still going strong?'
"I suppose so," I answer.
"Good, because at least we get one that doesn't end in boy tears and whale cries," Madz emphasizes the last part, pertaining to Micha and Isabelli, in that order.
I laugh again as the other two scoff in disgust.
The day goes on. At lunch time our group doesn't go in the cafeteria, we usually eat outside, in the fast food chains nearby as it's cozier, less hassle because no one cares what you do or eat. As usual, the boys are a little late.
The three all voted for a chicken bucket so, that's what we're eating right now. No wonder some of us are a little chubby, not mentioning any names. . . Isabelli, and Micha. . . Madz is already near them too. Apparently, I don't eat as much as they do so I'm the thinnest.
I'm still on my first chicken whereas they are already on the second and a half.
I pinch off the chicken skin and dip it in gravy, "Would you cats save some for the boys?" I ask.
"No," Madz answers. "They can buy for themselves."
"Alright," I say and then continue eating.
Finally, Louis and Runner comes, continuing with our usual routine.
"What took you boys so long?" Micha asks.
Runner pouts as he takes a seat beside me, "Louis here had a little trouble with a junior. Female junior, not mentioning names. Hey, Tay," he says the last part to me with his usual mischievous smile.
"Collar," I say with a sweet smile yet it is an order. I have this slight irritation when it comes to students not wearing their uniforms properly. Runner is number one.
"Course," he replies and then fixes it immediately. He is a combination of tanned skin, blue eyes and jet black hair. Same as Louis, he is a member of the soccer team and that's where he got his nickname, Runner because he is wicked fast. He used to be in the track and field but he changed his mind. I call him his real name when we're alone though.
Don't get me wrong, Runner may be my boyfriend but he acts like my best friend usually so people don't suspect much. And I like it that way. Things are quiet, there are barely rumors and it makes my life easier.
By the afternoon, I go on with the habit I've started from the last month of the school year last time. I separate from the group, and head to the bleachers on the soccer field. Unlike the field for the football, the bleachers are roofless, the lampposts aren't as bright and the field isn't as green. . . yet, it isn't as noisy either as sometimes, Louis and his team practices on the other field, depending on the schedule.
As I am on my way, I put my favorite lightest brown coat even with my uniform inside.
Apparently, someone else had gone here before I have yet I don't mind. The bleachers and the field is far too big for two people. It's slightly funny as this rarely happened last year.
Ignoring the existence of the boy playing soccer alone, –split second notice was, he isn't wearing his gala uniform, most likely our P.E. though that isn't due until this Friday– I walk towards the bleachers and settle for the middle row seats.
From here, I can get a good view of the field, but I'm not here for it. I take off my shoulder bag and set it down at the floor near my shoes. I take out a book by Suzanne Collins and start reading.
I've read this book before, I practically know it word for word but it's still wonderful to read and relive every single word.
I put my earphones on and start playing every song from my playlist which consists of almost nothing but country songs.
I like country songs, it gives a me a little nostalgia about my life before we moved into the city. Truth is, my parents weren't always like this, and we didn't use to live like this. . ., we used to live at the countryside, we had a farm, things were quite normal until I was six. That's when the horror started. It was only until I was ten when my parents made the decision of finally choosing a city to settle –by other terms, choosing a place to leave me when they're off.
Yet, like I said, I hold no grudge against them.
I spend my hours like this, no one minds anyways. Not including our family friends.
I slowly move from one page to another, taking in the story. Chewing through the insides of my lip, I glance up. I don't move my head, I just look at the field.
Why does it not surprise me that the boy happens to be Harold Edward Styles?
It confuses me a bit as it's been hours since dismissal time. In fact, it's already nine PM, and he's still here, playing on his own. I admire the perseverance but Seniors don't make it into the team. Too bad for the so-called Daredevil.
Upon the last month, I stumbled upon a business magazine issue where they called him that. As apparently, he spent his last year racing all over the world. He's a car racer. . . but his father doesn't want to spoil him so he gives him an Accent. . . Styles logic.
The racing thing wasn't as fascinating as I've known a couple of rich kids who knows that, what I've been interested in however, is the fact that he's been all over the world because of it. That, and the fact that news people call him the Daredevil as he has those pretty dangerous pictures, him standing on the edge of a building or a cliff, he went sky diving, hiking, camping, he also had loads of pictures with snakes and other dangerous animals and load more which is too many to mention. There's even a rumor that he has his own pets of dangerous animals.
Funny how much you can read about person you don't even know.
Although in my opinion, he doesn't look like much. He just seems absolutely grumpy, that's it.
Someone calls me up and I know who it is.
"Yes Robbie, I'm on my way, thanks," I say immediately and stand up. That's what I told Robbie, in agreement to last year as they got tired of telling my parents I go home late all the time so I just told him to pick me up at nine. That way, Robbie still does his job and I get home safely.
I put back my book inside my bag and put it over my shoulder. I sigh as I make my way down the bleachers and walk at the side of the field.
I try not to look at my peripheral vision as I know what it'll show. On my right, are the bleachers yet on my left is the field.
As soon as I got the parking lot, Robbie opens the car door at the backseat for me.
"Thanks, Robbie," I say quietly with a smile. I go inside and lean against the seat.
Robbie goes in and starts driving.
"How was your day, Miss Swift?" He asks, always in his kind tone.
The thing is, I always answer when it's them. Regardless of how my days went, days rarely go by without me talking to our family friends –driver, butler and maids.
"It's good, I guess," I answer. "Things are still the same. But, this year seems to have a better start. Looking forward to it."
"That's nice, Miss Swift," he replied.
And that is my life. . .