Messed Up Vita

Chapter One

Going straight to the story here, guys. Please comment your opinion on this upcoming story, whether it's good or bad :) seriously. Do it. 

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   I shoot open my eyes, my mind immidiately knowing what today is, before I could even think. I stare up at my ceiling, letting the wash of dread drown me. I sigh and close my eyes, whipping open my covers. Coldness surrounds my bare legs from the shorts, and I quickly put on some skinny jeans to keep them warm. I quickly drap a sweatshirt over my body, pulling my hair out of the hood.

   Today was homecoming, and also the tallent show. I was planning to play my guitar, and to also sing. But my nerves might get in the way of that, because I had a tiny bit of stagefright.

   Okay, a lot- I won't lie. But I promised myself I would try, and I keep promises. Even to myself.

   I slip on some socks and my black and purple Converse, my clothes ready in less than three minutes. I open my door and step out into the hallway, looking up and down. The lights are all off, and that means I have to walk myself to school today. My step mom and father are both at work, and they took both their cars. Not that I like driving, anyways.

   I go into the bathroom, stepping in front of the mirror. Today was thankfully one of my good hair days, because I easily brush through it. I quickly pull the tangles out of my medium-longish brown hair, and I comb through my bangs with a different, tighter-toothed brush. Brushing my teeth quickly,  I paste my lips in a clear blueberry lipbalm, smacking my lips afterwards.

    There. Ready in under ten minutes- my on-going record. 

   Wait, I say to myself. I can't see anything. I look at my thick-rimmed glasses, then my contacts. I usually switch them on and off, because some days I am too lazy or too late to put my contacts in. I shrug, and quickly put in my contacts. Today was special- sorta - so contacts are required.

   I grab my backpack and phone on the way out of the bathroom, and feel the heaviness of books inside the bag. I groan and pull both straps over my shoulders, also grabbing my huge guiter case from underneath the table. It was lighter than my backpack. 

   Not hungry, I walk out of the house without breakfast. My stomach was tilting and rocking back and forth from the nervousness, so I don't think I could cram down toaster-waffles.

   I lock the door with my keys and jog as fast as I could down the porch with the case in hand. I walk down the sidewalk in long strides, checking my phone for the time. I have ten minutes to get to class and drop off my case in the band room. It's even colder out here than it was inside, I think bitterly. I wrap my hands in my sweatshirt sleeves, walking a little faster to get out of the cold biting at my nose and ears. I wish I would've brought my handy-dandy cartoon fox hat.

   I finally make it to the school, walking onto their grass quickly. I half-jog to the top of the hill, where the front entrance lies. People pass me looks of I don't know what. Who-the-heck-is-she is one of my most popular. I hate-you-so-much-you-little-tomboy was my second.

   Just because my name is freaking Eliot Peterson doesn't mean I'm a boy, like most new teachers and random strangers think. Some people said it was a cute name for a girl, but most called me a tomboy. Partically I was, I have to say. I didn't like pink, I didn't hang out with the girls, and I ran, shot some photos, and played guitar. People don't know I sing, which I kept private until this day. But I never grew my hair too long, I never painted my nails, I wore boy-ish clothes, and I was confident of a lot of things. Not everything, but most.

   How the heck does that mean I'm a tomboy?

   I make it into the school quietly, and I push through the crowd of annoying girls. They shoot me dirty looks, which I ignore. I make my way to the band room, and I push the door open. A band is playing Thriller, and some glance at me. I put my guitar in the back, and softly close the door again.

   Having my books already in my bag, I walk to my first class, which is English. I have a strong B in this class, but have D's in science and math. Whoops.

   I open the door to a silent classroom. Narrowing my eyes curiously, I wonder in my head why they're so quiet. Usually a window is about to be shattered in this first class with noise.

   Then I turn my head to the front, where I see a tall skinny man with thin glasses pirched on his nose. He had black short hair, and a hard glare. He looks at my accusingly, like I wasted his whole class period. His hands are behind his back as he turns to me.

   "Sit down, Ms. Peterson," he says, his voice deep and stern, which matches his appearance. How did he know my name?

   Then I realize I'm the last to arrive in the classroom, because every single chair is occupied except one. I gulp and cast him a sheepish smile.

   "Sorry," I mutter. I scurry to the empty seat in the middle row, two desks down. I set my bag on the floor and sit my late butt in the seat, staring up at the substitute. Some people chuckle, and I glare at them.

   "Let us begin, then," he says pointedly, staring at me. I drop my gaze to the desk. "My name is Mr. Fielder, and I will be your substitute for the next few days while Mrs. Kuehn is visiting her new nephew. Open your textbooks, and turn to page 256." He still stands, looking each one of us over like we were dogs.

   I knew I wouldn't like this guy from the second I saw him. I glare at my book like it was all it's fault, and I turn to page 256 relucantly.

   At lunchtime, my nerves rose higher and higher. After this, it was the tallent show. Everybody will sit in the cafiteria where the stage is, and the people preforming will go up one by one. I was numer twenty seven, so that gave me time to practice first. 

   Our school was a large school, you see. Many kids go here, because it's public. There's more than a seven hundred students, and all of them are forced to attend.

   I know a lot of them, too. Most don't like me for whatever reason, so I have a lot to worry about it I mess up. If I even strum a note wrong on the guitar or sing a wrong note, I'll get judged big time. I bit my lip at the thought of all those people, staring at me. Listening. Taking pictures and possibly videos. I shudder.

   I look down at my lunch, which is unappitizing as breakfast sounded. But I force myself to drink/eat the chicken noodle soup, to fill my stomach up. I drank so much water for my voice during the day that I didn't feel hungry, but I knew water wasn't the same as soup. 

   I feel a tap on my shoulder, and I sort of jump in surprise. I turn to see one of the nicer girls standing beside me, named Beth. 

   "I heard you're playing your guitar for the show," she says. She brushes back her neck-lengthed blond hair and looks down at me nicely. Before, I tried to befriend her. But she always hung out with the mean girls, so I stayed away.

   "Uh, yeah," I say. Also singing, I think to myself. But you don't know that. "I am."

   "That sounds cool," she smiles, holding both her hands in front of her.

  "Are you doing anything?" I ask, putting my spoon down to look up at her.

  She shakes her head. "No. I'm not very good at doing anything on stage. Well, I have to go. See you later up front, then?"

   I smile and nod. "Yeah. See you." She smiles and walks away, back to her little group. I sigh and look down at my soup agian. She seems really nice, but those girls aren't. I wonder if I could convince her to ditch them, I think.

   I shake the thought away. That would be mean, if she's happy with them. I'll stay a loner for a little while longer, unless she changes her mind.

   My best friend had moved to South Dakota a month ago, right in the beginning of school. Of course, he was a boy named Jayden. But we were never romantic or any of that crap. He had a girlfriend, and I was happy for him. They broke up when he moved, sadly. And I was heartbroken at the news. We were friends since sixth grade, and we did lots of weird things together. We ran through the sprinklers with our play costumes on in seventh grade, going to the musical soaking wet in dripping dog costumes. We were forced to run the set and things, so we were okay with that.

   I lip my lip at the memories flooding back, and eat more of my soup. Life sucks. Why the heck did you have to move, Jayden?