I Didn't Wanna Be A Half-Blood

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Have you ever noticed that no main character in any book has brown eyes? I mean, I can understand why. Why have brown eyes when you can have icy blue ones? Or emerald green? Or blazing amber? Or golden hazel?

The nicest comment for brown eyes I've ever heard is that they look like chocolate. Others include dirt and poop. Like what the heck? In case you haven't guessed by now, I have brown eyes. I also have dirty blond hair. Or dishrag hair. Not very pretty naming either. Man I got pretty unlucky in the genetics lotto.

The monotonous beeping of my alarm makes me jump.

School. Yay.

Half asleep and done contemplating my existence I roll out of bed and approach my dresser. I pull out a crumpled knit pink top and a pair of grey jeans. Both from the same drawer. Yes, I am very organized.

I slip on my trusty chucks and examine myself in my mirror.

I'd like to think that I'm pretty. I have nice cheekbones and an hourglass figure, though I'm kinda flat. My eyebrows are just a tad too light and my nails are always differing lengths. My skin is tan from many hours of soccer practice, but unfortunately I have a pretty weird tan line because of my shin guards. I am a towering 5'3 and...and my shirt is on backwards. Damn it.

Gracefully wrenching my shirt to the proper position, I yank open my door and saunter out.

My house is pretty small, only two rooms, one bathroom, and a tiny kitchen. I say my house because I'm usually the only one living here... when I lucky.

I automatically glance out the window as I pass it. No car. Thank God.

The kitchen is basically just an oven, mini fridge, and a microwave. Plus like two feet of counter space. The floor is a cheap brown tiling with various stains. Right outside the kitchen is the main entrance to the house, which has a tiny table squished into the corner and a futon against the left wall.

The door is an ugly mustard color, with multiple areas where the paint has peeled to reveal a, somehow uglier, wood supplement.

The house isn't pretty but it's home. Not for much longer I hope.

Remembering that the bus always arrives early and that it's a long walk to the stop, I grab my backpack from it's hook and dash out the door.

The sun hits me like a warm embrace. I smile, relishing the beginning of summer. Last day of school, you can do this. I inhale slowly and begin walking, my eyes tracking my dusty red converse.

I go to Jefferson-Graham High school. Which is known for its filthy bathrooms and high dropout rate. I am currently a sophomore, even though I turned 16 at the beginning of the year. I got held back 3rd grade, mainly because I could barely read. It wasn't for a lack of effort. I had tried so hard. All I had wanted to do was read. The other kids had made fun of me, called me stupid, retarded, basic kid crap.

The teachers said that if I didn't have dyslexia I would be the smartest kid in the class. I was great at math, science, politics, complicated themes, but I just couldn't write anything down. Or read for that matter.

There was this elite group called Scope. It was basically a club for all the kids smarter than everyone else. In the middle of class every Tuesday, Mrs. Ketter would call them out of the room and teach them advanced courses and take them on exclusive, fun field-trips.

One time I actually plucked up the courage to ask Mrs. Ketter if I could join. She had smiled politely and said "Honey, I'm not sure you would like it. It's a lot of extra work and, forgive me for saying this but... you don't seem like the type who would enjoy this." She had patted me on the shoulder and offered to get me an application, but I knew she was just humoring me. There was no place in Scope for a girl who couldn't read.

Suddenly I hear the screeching of a vehicle and look up to see the long yellow bus halt at the end of the road. Shit. I begin sprinting, my backpack bouncing painfully against my shoulders.

As I'm nearing the door I see the driver looking at me, half lidded eyes waiting. Mr. Geralt. Gemma Castes swears that he's high half the time. Something weird always happens when he's at the wheel. 

Walker from bus 216 swears that Mr. Geralt tried to kidnap him once. Taya from 108 refuses to ride when he's driving, because he, supposedly, tried to run her over. Of course no one believes them. But still, weird stuff happens around him.

I finally reach the bus, skipping the last two steps and flinging myself into one of the front seats. Mr. Geralt sighs and cranks the doors shut. The bus makes a gargling sound and begins to move.

You know, with such a great start, how could this day possibly go wrong?