The New Girl

Chapter One

Chapter One

(Jordin's POV)

I duck into Montgomery High School, my face hidden by the hood of my sweatshirt. I'm immediately swept into the thick student crowd. I let myself drown in the swarm of teenagers and try not to make eye contact with any of them.

I hate being the new student, in fact, I hate being a student at all. The storm of kids continues to push and shove me forward. I follow with it until I'm unceremoniously slammed face first into a row of lockers.

I shriek and pinch the bridge of my nose, which is now oozing blood. I mop up the sticky red stuff with the back of my sleeve, nasty I know, but I don't have another choice. I can hear muffled laughter coming from somewhere near me, but I ignore it. I've learned to build walls around myself so that other people's rudeness just bounces off.

Instead, I yank my schedule out from my pocket and scan the paper for my locker number. I finally find it at the top; locker 315. I look up, expecting to find a random locker that is far away from my assigned one. But, to my surprise, I see that I was crashed against my own locker.

It's almost as if the students knew where to throw me off, I think bitterly.

I slowly shrug my sweatshirt off and stuff it in my locker. I then begin to cram in my other stuff; books, pencils, extra notebooks. When I'm finished with that, I tack a miniature mirror to the inside of the locker door.

I examine myself in the reflective glass. I frown at my appearance; it's just so...plain. I have boring red hair and even more boring brown eyes. Even my clothes are plain; light blue jeans and a white full-sleeved top. I don't put makeup on, so none of my already dull features are enhanced. I sigh and just shut the locker.

I check my schedule once again for my classes:

1.      College Algebra – Clement, P.

2.      Advanced Placement Biology – Rogers, T.

3.      Painting II – Lewis, M.

LUNCH

4.      Debate – Gunter, D.

5.      Honors English – Sanford, T.

DANCE PRACTICE

My eyes widen at the last two words on the sheet of paper. Dance practice?! When did I sign up for dance team? Oh, yeah, I didn't. So, how am I already on the squad?

As I think about it, the answer swims to the front of my mind. It's pretty obvious when I really ponder it. My mom must have set it all up. She probably just played the tape of me dancing at my eighth grade graduation for the principal, knowing I would never try out.

Rage boils inside of me as I hike my bag higher over my shoulder and stomp to class. I ferociously shrug my bangs out of my eyes and flip my hair back. I hate it when my mom decides to take it upon her to involve me in school activities. It's like she thinks she can throw me into a bunch of clubs and make me instantly popular.

I find Mr. Clément's class and sidle in; trying to ignore the stares I keep getting from the students. The teacher scrutinizes me over the rim of his glasses, probably trying to figure out whether or not I'm a good student, and nods to an empty desk toward the back of the room.

He watches me take my seat and writes my name down on a piece of paper, most likely a seating chart.

"Hey, babe," a confident voice drawls from my left.

I neglect it completely, expecting it to be some self-centered jerk flirting with a cheerleader. I hate cheerleaders. After my misfortune with one, I hold a grudge against them all. There might be some nice ones, but I don't mix with any cheerleaders. Ever. I dislike them almost as much as I hate football players—just players in general, really.

The same voice clears its throat. "Hey, baby,"

This time, I pay heed to the calling. I glance over to the side and realize that the guy is actually talking to me. "Uh, hi," I mutter, turning back to the front.

"Talk to me, Flame," he says, cocking his head to the side.

"Flame?" I raise an eyebrow at him.

He reaches out and fiddles with a strand of my hair. "With hair like this, I can't exactly call you 'Ice,' can I?"

I laugh humorlessly. I move my head back, pulling my hair out of his fingers. I've heard way too many stereotypes and jokes about my hair. It's just annoying now. When you hear "the redheaded stepchild" and "hothead" all your life, you get bored of it.

"My name is Jordin." I tell him matter-of-factly.

"Okay, then, Jordin," he smirks, playing with my hair again. "I'm Scott, the guy you've been waiting for."

I scoff, about to answer, when I remember that I'm supposed to keep a low radar. I don't want a repeat of what happened at my last school. So I just shrug and face the front again.

I realize that I've missed half of Mr. Clément's lesson already and just zone out. It's not like I'm going to learn anything by listening from the middle of the lecture. I sneak a sideways glance at Scott and see that he's slumped back in his chair.

He's not bad-looking, really. Quite the contrary, he's really good-looking. Scott has dark brown hair and pale green eyes, shiny and mischievous. His skin is lightly tan and his lips are plump and full.

Whoa, Jordin, calm down. Remember what happened the last time? Stay away from him; he's just another selfish jock. And I hate selfish jocks.

The bell rings a few minutes later and I lurch out of my chair. I hear Scott call after me but I tumble out of the classroom, aiming to get lost in the sea again. My attempt is successful because I'm instantly drawn into the crowd and dragged down the hall.

But I don't concentrate on making my way to my next class. My mind is hung up on a certain boy I met last class period. For some reason, I can't get him out of my head. However much I want to leave him in the dust and forget about him, I can't. He was irritating and persistent and self- righteous. Those are all the qualities I hate in a person.

But, I have to admit, I liked it when he called me Flame.