> for beautyatwork, bc she's the sweetest thing ever on ask.fm, and her short story backpedal is literally brilliant.
> "I want to know the first person who ever taught you your beauty could ever be reflected on a lousy piece of glass." - Andrea Gibson
O N E
- Amara -
I pound on the door mercilessly, disregarding his pleas for me to stop. And I can hear him from the hallway, the image of what he must be doing forming in my head; him shuffling around on the bed, huddling underneath the blanket, covering his face with his pillow so as to drown out my yelling. But, of course, to no avail.
"Danny, get out here!" I shout, about to kick down the barrier between us.
Finally, after another handful of seconds of banging, he throws the door open. I smirk, taking in the sight of his irritated, drowsy form. Danny narrows his eyes in a glare at me, folding his arms over his bare chest. I chuckle when I notice his wardrobe; a pair of loose gray sweats, and nothing above them.
"Jeez, Amara, why are you up so early?" He whines, his usually smooth voice now croaky with the sleep still laced through it.
"Early?" I scoff, raising a brow in amusement. "Danny, it's eight-fifteen."
He yawns tiredly, his expression one of sheer indifference. It's obvious that he's forgotten what today is. His next question confirms my suspicion, because Danny drawls, "So?"
I tap a foot on the floor impatiently. "So, school starts in about twenty minutes."
"What?" He snaps, his eyes widening in disbelief. "No... no, it doesn't. School starts on Monday."
"Today is Monday, stupid." I laugh, barging past him and into his bedroom without permission. Flopping down onto his big, waving waterbed, I look up at him as he continues to lounge in the doorway, staring at me expectantly, as though he thinks I'm about to jump up and announce to him that this was all a huge prank. But instead, I click my fingers at him menacingly. "Go on, then, get ready. Hurry!"
Danny shrugs nonchalantly and saunters into his closet. Biting back a smug grin, I hold my breath for a minute, waiting for the panic that I know is about to ensue. And sure enough, in just a moment, the familiar sounds of Danny bustling around in his closet, harping all over the place trying to figure out what to wear, filter through the closed door.
Nine years. Today, on the first day of twelfth grade, marks the nine year anniversary of when Danny and I first became friends. And I remember it like it was just yesterday; the two of us, mischievous little children in the third grade, always whispering secrets to each other and passing notes during class. Danny was my savior, even back then. I mean, come on, there weren't many people in my judgmental third grade class who wanted to associate themselves with the chubby girl who wore thick, nerd glasses. But there was never a moment when I had to face them alone, because whenever they would pick on me, Danny would come to the rescue. I can picture it now; a lanky, clumsy boy standing in front of me, warding the mean kids away.
Although, it didn't take much for them to stop. Especially when we reached the eighth grade, and Danny became one of the more attractive students at the school, and I was his dorky best friend, who no one understood his connection with. Even when I lost the baby weight and replaced the ugly glasses with contact lenses, I was a kind of crutch for Danny. He was on the brink of becoming extremely popular, and here I was, his geeky shadow, keeping him from doing so. But Danny never abandoned me. We're still the same inseparable third-graders, just as more mature, more dramatic seniors in high school.
"Look who's falling asleep now." Someone sneers from above me, and I tear myself out of my reverie to gape up at Danny. He's fully dressed, in a pair of jeans and a blue shirt, and smirking down at me.
"I'm wide awake," I quip, leaping up with exaggerated vigor to prove my point.
"Let's go, then," he says, following suit and hitching his backpack on. "I'm pretty sure we'll be late, anyway, though."
I check the alarm clock on Danny's bedside table for the time; 8:31. "No!" I shriek, seizing Danny's wrist and yanking him toward the staircase right outside his room. "We still have four minutes! Let's run!" I screamed the last part, intent on making it there before the late bell rang.
I tighten my grip on his wrist and bolt down the stairs, dragging a protesting Danny behind me. He keeps grumbling about missing breakfast, but I disregard his complaints and continue to tow him down the sidewalk toward school. The Roosevelt High building is barely a five-minute stroll from Danny's house, and running ought to get us there faster. Besides, at this rate, we should be there with an entire minute left to spare.
"I thought you don't like school." Danny pants once I steer him through the front doors, pausing at the entrance to double over my knees and catch a well-deserved breath of air.
I shake my head. "School is alright. I don't like the students." I explain. As an afterthought, I add, "And my mom said she'd match the amount in my savings if I make it to every class on time all first semester—that means I can finally buy myself a car." I beam at the last part, knowing that's something Danny wants, too.
"Oh," he nods in understanding just as the bell trills, signaling the start of the first day.
All the dawdling students hasten to their respective classes, their bags breezing behind them. I cuss under my breath as Danny and I hustle to the same room; AP Biology. I'm late—we both are—and on the very first day, I might add. We stumble in just as the teacher begins to take attendance, every single pair of eyes trained on Danny and me.
"Sorry we're late, sir," I apologize immediately, careful to keep my gaze locked on the instructor, and as far from Danny's mocking expression as possible.
He waves off my apology and gestures to the last empty chairs; two desks standing right smack in the front of the classroom. Danny and I scuttle quietly over to our seats and drop our bags to the side, sliding in.
"Names?" Mr. Sullivan—which is the name he's scrawled onto the blackboard behind him—demands, glowering at Danny and me over his wire-rimmed spectacles.
I sit up a little straighter, having perfected my appearance as the classic, no-nonsense, shoo-in-for-valedictorian student. Putting on the hundred watt smile I only reserve for times when I know I'm in trouble, I say, "Amara Birch, grade twelve."
"Daniel Birmingham." Danny grunts from beside me, apparently less interested in impressing our new teacher.
"I won't mark you both tardy today," Mr. Sullivan warns, his lips twitching into a hint of a shallow grin. "But if either of you are late again, it'll be straight to detention."
"Thanks, sir," I insist gratefully.
Without further interruption or introduction, he then casually waltzes up and down the aisles between the rows of desks, handing each student a thick AP Biology textbook. I flip to the table of contents section of the book and rake my gaze over the topics we'll be studying. Mr. Sullivan jabbers on a little about the rules, and then dives into a lesson about the diffusion and osmosis.
"So, class," he begins, smacking his palms down on the front lab station counter, where all of our desks are aimed. "Who can tell me the difference between diffusion and osmosis?"
Immediately, as though on impulse, my hand shoots into the air. Mr. Sullivan glances around me once, and then chuckles lightly at my enthusiasm, nodding for me to answer. I feel my cheeks redden in embarrassment, suddenly realizing that I've already assumed the role of both teacher's pet and know-it-all.
But rather than dwelling on the negatives, I announce, "Well, in diffusion, molecules travel from an area of higher concentration to an area of lower concentration. In osmosis, the molecules also travel from an area of higher concentration to an area of lower concentration, but osmosis consists mainly of the transfer of water molecules." I finish with a flourish, proud of my exact response.
He smiles at me approvingly, clearly proud. "Nicely done. What was your name again?"
"Amara Birch," I chirp.
As Mr. Sullivan moves onward with the lesson, the familiar coughs of "nerd!" and "kiss-up!" engulf me from behind. I groan, ducking my head a little. The whispering continues as Mr. Sullivan starts to lecture about diffusion, oblivious to the teasing going on around me.
It happens every year. And you'd think I'd be used to it—but I'm not. Even now that I'm in twelfth grade and officially a senior in high school, I get tormented for being such a geek. Everyone makes snide comments because I know the answers to the questions teachers ask me. But what's wrong with that? They couldn't give a correct response... so I did. But no, instead of recognition, I get harassment.
This is why I hate high school.
- Danny -
I follow Amara out of the classroom, shoving my science book into my backpack. I have to choke back laughter when I see her rush out with her nose embedded in the pages of the textbook. Her light brown curls are falling over her face, shadowing her already hidden eyes. Her emerald green irises are darkened with humiliation, and I catch a glimpse of them as she raises them an inch to navigate her path through the halls.
After being called a "dork" and a "know-it-all" the whole class period, Amara kind of shrunk back into her shell. She seemed brighter, happier this morning, the prospect of having all new classes lightening her mood, but that has disappeared already.
"Amara," I latch onto her elbow and pull her back. Luckily, I stop her just before she bangs into a group of passing sophomores.
"What, Daniel?" She hisses at me, and I know that she's genuinely upset. The only times I ever get addressed by my full name are either when I've gotten in trouble or when Amara is frustrated and doesn't feel like being friendly. And seeing as how I've done nothing wrong, I chalk it up to the former.
"Come on, it's alright," I mutter, closing her into what I hope is a soothing embrace. "Don't let them get to you. Amara, don't be such a downer—it's only the first day."
Don't get me wrong, I'm not a fan of Roosevelt High School, either. I don't like it at all—in my opinion, the students at this school are shallow, selfish phonies who don't give a shit about anything in the world other than when the next football game is and what happened at the latest house party. All I want to do is finish my final year, earn the baseball scholarship that I've basically been guaranteed, and then jet off to Duke University to begin my college life. The sooner I get out of this judgmental hell, the damn well better.
But right now, I have to make my best friend feel better.
"Well, you stop being so perky." Amara counters, but I can see her lips wavering into a grin.
"Aw, come on," I yank the ends of her hair lightly, poking at the tiny dimple that I know will form in her left cheek once she smiles.
Finally, I coax a giggle out of her and she relaxes, stowing her Biology book away in her purple bag. She sighs and walks with me at a leisurely pace, falling into step beside me. We make our way to our assigned lockers, which, coincidentally, are next to each other. Actually, it's not much of a coincidence; our last names are alphabetically close together—Birch and Birmingham, like the perfect team.
I fling open my locker, stuffing in my newest textbook and a few notebooks and pencils for good measure. From the corner of my eye, I glimpse Amara twisting a strand of hair around her index finger; a sure sign that something's on her mind.
"You know they were just messing around, right?" I check, worried that she might slip back into that depressed state of hers.
"I don't think so, Danny," she murmurs, crestfallen. "Just because I answer a couple things correctly, they think I'm some sort of freak."
"No, they don't." I assure her. "They only tease you because they're jealous that you're smarter than them."
"Well, I wish I wasn't." Amara huffs, her lips drawn into a childish pout. "I wish I was just as stupid as all of those football playing tools and just as airheaded as those prissy Barbie dolls. I wish I wasn't the know-it-all loser, that I was one of the dumb cheerleaders. Maybe then, if I had less brain cells than I had toenails, they'd accept me."
I shake my head in disappointment. "You don't mean that. You can't. Look down, look at what you're wearing," I point at her sweatshirt, maroon with the Harvard logo emblazoned on the front. "You've made it into Harvard, Amara Birch. And you've done it even before the start of your senior year—over the summer, after an interview with the dean of admissions. You wouldn't give that up for the world."
"I'd give it up if they'd quit picking on me." She mumbles, more to herself than to me. "If I was really pretty, or... or beautiful, they would leave me alone. In fact, if I was half as good-looking as those preppy girls, they'd probably want to speak to me. But I'm not."
Oh, Amara, if only you knew how beautiful you really are.