ACCORDING TO ESTELLE RICHARDS, THERE'S ONLY ONE WAY TO ACCURATELY DESCRIBE NOEL PEARSON ON A MONDAY AFTERNOON - AND IT JUST HAPPENS TO BE SO FULL OF CUSSING THAT SHE COULDN'T POSSIBLY EVER INK IT ON PAPER.
Unfortunately (or perhaps fortunately for Est, since it prevents her from voicing her opinion and therefore facing the wrath of the principal (who always seems to appear at the least convenient of times) or Noel's army of plastic-doll girls with their long lashes and gold-tinted makeup), her best friend (and pretty much Est's only friend since moving here nearly a year and a half ago), Lea, completely disagrees. "Isn't he so dreamy?" she swoons, as Estelle bites into a red gala apple. "Just look at him, Est - how can someone be so perfect?"
Est rolls her eyes, wishing that her friends (and the entire highschool, and everything else in this so-called "city that never sleeps") isn't so stereotypical - that perhaps for once, there can be a story where the social hierarchy isn't set in stone from freshman year. As a freshman herself, she briefly realizes that she's missed her best shot at popularity (not that she actually ever wanted it) and wonders what might have been had she jumped at it for a second time.
Despite this, Est is fully aware that she is not exactly unpopular. Instead, she's stuck in that uncomfortable no man's land - that place where everyone sort of nods at you but no one really says hi. It's quite a depressing place to be, really, Est thinks.
"Hey - Est?"
Est responds with a mumble, fighting the urge to roll her eyes that is beating in her chest.
"Do you think that I'd ever have a chance with him? I mean, like - would he ever look at me?"
"Who, Noel?"
Lea nods.
Est snorts in response. "No," she says flatly. "Noel Pearson doesn't actually care about anyone."
Lea protests, but Est remains adamant that he's void of a heart, that instead, there's a great big black hole caged in the middle of his chest. She says that sure, he looks like he's been sculpted from the finest forms of iron, and sure, he'd probably ("definitely," Lea corrects) look great in a Calvin Klein advert with his sharp V line that peaks out from beneath his shirt when he stretches, but no, he will never actually love a person - "never," she finishes bluntly. "Never." She half expects Lea to respond with another nonsense spiel, claiming that the two are destined to be or something, but she doesn't. She just sits, a thoughtful look blossoming on her face.
And then she sighs.
"I really want to hate Harley," she says, sighing again as her eyes trace the cheer captain's body. "How many times do you think they've done it?"
Est blushes a little. "By it, do you mean the horizontal hokey pokey?"
Lea groans. "Oh my God, Est," she says, grimacing. "Never say that again! You spend way too much time on Tumblr!" She pauses. "But yes, but it I do mean -"
"Yeah, yeah - I get it," Est cuts in. She shrugs. "Who knows?" she says, and then adds after a moment's thought: "who cares?"
She thinks that she briefly catches her friend's mumble of "I do", but doesn't mention it, instead returning to her apple and inwardly rolling her eyes as Lea continues to stare at Noel.
There is nothing special about Noel Pearson, except from the fact that he has an abnormally large ego. Est doesn't know him personally - the school is huge, there is barely anyone that she does know personally! - but she knows his type. He's loud, obnoxious and a complete douche about pretty much everything.
He's everything that Est dislikes - right from his playboy shoes to his chiseled jawline - and she cannot for the life of her see what it is that Lea finds so attractive about him.
Eventually, Lea stops staring, standing and carrying her tray away. She's got a glum sort look on her face - Est knows that it's because she's comparing herself to Harley - a feat which she'll never recommend unless the person needs knocking down a peg or two. Est follows her friend, trailing away.
They barely have time to return books to lockers and visit the bathrooms before the bell shrieks, trilling a warning for the following lesson.
Est groans. She has English.
It's not that Est dislikes English, it's more that Est dislikes Miss Pond (who likes to randomly select Est to be the first to give a speech or to develop an idea - if Est falters or stutters, then she looks at her condescendingly and says in a patronising tone "well, Estelle, it seems that you need to keep up with the class" which, of course, Est loathes). She turns around, walking with Lea for a little while before breaking off and entering the half-full classroom.
She takes her seat right in the middle of the room - in Est's experience, it's the best place to be. The front makes you seem keen and labels you as a nerd while the back is the place that the teacher's eyes always stray to - and, of course, where the jocks tend to gravitate towards.
Est doesn't particularly like jocks. It's not that she doesn't fit in with them - for sure, she would if she even tried a little - it's that she dislikes the way that they party all the time, drink all the time, how they get by without a care in the world. No, Est doesn't dislike jocks for who they are - after all, Aine was a jock.
But she was also the queen bee.
Est blinks, flicking a stray strand of hair back away from her eyes. She wrinkles her nose as the sweet smell of sweat trudges in, accompanying several of the members of the JV football squad. One of them - he goes by the nickname of Weasley, predominantly because of the fact that when he was younger, his hair was the same as that of his namesake's (Est is silently grateful that it has toned down enormously since them, fading into a handsome bronze) - winks at her, and Est smiles back, if anything, a little shyly.
Contrary to the beliefs of Lea and the rest of her circle of friends, Est isn't completely immune to the charms of boys. Weasley's bright-eyed stare often makes her feel warm inside... not that she'd ever actually admit it to anyone.
Miss Pond struts in exactly twenty seconds before the lesson is due to start, a happy smile tugging at her lips. Est almost recoils in surprise - Miss Pond... happy?
"Children," she begins, throwing a ruler down upon her desk. Est can't understand why she insists on calling them children. Probably just to frustrate them - after all, it's not unlike Miss Pond to think like that. "Does anyone know what the date is today?"
A girl in the front row looks up, confused. "First of December, Miss?"
"Right you are, Bridget," she says beaming once more and. "And can you tell me what happens in December every year?"
Bridget stares at her blankly. "Christmas?"
"Right again!" is her enthusiastic response.
"I thought we were in an English lesson, not some kind of events calendar," someone at the back mutters.
Est mentally tells him to shut his fat mouth before Miss Pond breaks back into her usual, monstrous, let's-hate-Estelle-as-much-as-I-possibly-can form.
"Mr Matthews, for that smart comment you can be the first to share your ideas. Your task for the month will be to write an extended piece documenting the build-up to Christmas." She turns back to the boy. "So - what do you love most about Christmas?"
The kid called Matthews shrugs unhelpfully. "Presents, I suppose," he says. "The food? I don't really know what else."
Miss Pond sighs. "Mr Matthews, I highly suggest that you broaden your mind to the wider world outside of satisfying your personal needs." Her eyes scan the class - "who shall we listen to next to give you a good example?" - and promptly land on Est. She beams again. "Ah yes. Estelle Richards. And what might it be that you love about Christmas - other than the presents and the food?"
Est feels her cheeks flushing a bright crimson color, blood rushing to her neck and face. "I don't know," she mumbles.
"What was that? Speak up, dear."
"I don't know," Est repeats, this time a little louder.
Miss Pond frowns. "You don't know? Well - that's not good enough, is it? Come on - give us some ideas."
Est grimaces, noticing just how unjust it is. Matthews had said little more than she had and he hadn't been interrogated like this.
Est grits her teeth. "I can't, Miss," she admits, her gaze tracing the grain of the table. "My parents don't celebrate Christmas. I don't actually know what it's like."
Silence falls. Est refuses to look up, knowing perfectly well that everyone is staring at her; that everyone is either pitying her or wondering what kind of freak she is.
"You've never had a Christmas?" someone behind her asks in a disbelieving voice.
Est doesn't respond.
The subject is dropped.