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jennaferz

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Waking up on the first day of school was always disastrous for Deni.

She and her mother usually argued endlessly. Can't I stay home? No, the law saws you have to go to school. Can't I be home schooled? What, and have me teach you? You'd never get to college. Can't I go to a different school? A special one? No, Deni, you just have to learn to deal with this one.

She hated those arguments. Her mother was never able to see her side, only looking at her perfect grades and attendance, her perfect punctuality, her perfect everything. Except her perfect life. Her perfect looks.

This year, she was going to be all perfect.

As she pulled on the clothes she had bought two days previously, she glanced at herself in the full-length mirror hanging loyally on the opposite wall. She smiled at her reflection. Everything looked good--but her face. She leaned in, inspecting it, and for the first time in so long hesitantly reached out for her makeup.

Finally, when she had it perfect, she looked at her hair. It hung in its natural, vibrant blonde curls, framing the face that had once made her thick hair look thin. I'll just leave it, she thought. It looks fine as it is.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, she pulled on her shoes and started downstairs. She could hear her mother clinking bowls together in the kitchen. What if she was wrong? What if she didn't look okay? What if she was laughed at for trying to fit in?

Her nerves were almost suffocating. What if this had all been a dream? Any minute now, she would wake up and be her old 200-pound self. But when she stepped into the kitchen and cleared her throat, bracing herself for the reaction, she wasn't disappointed. Her mother turned around; slowly, her jaw dropped. "Deni, honey," she said, "you look great."

Deni beamed. "Thanks, Mom," she said sincerely. "I'm not feeling breakfast-y, so I think I'll just go on to school, okay?" She kissed her cheek and sidled outside, smiling as her mother called after her, "Have a good day!" Every year she said that. This year it was going to be true.

She walked into her first class, Algebra, starting to feel her nerves kick in again. She glanced around at the people in her class. She didn't know any of them except two fellow freshman girls and one locally famous junior boy. She sat down at the back of the room alone, looking around. People were starting to notice her. She could hear one of the freshman girls whispering to the other, "Who's that?"

It seemed to take forever for the teacher to arrive. When she finally did, she pulled out a seating chart. Everyone except Deni groaned. She had actually been hoping for a seating chart.

"Robby, Michelle," the teacher called out, pointing at a seat with each name she called. "Jessica, Lance. Taylor, Denise..."

She stood up and moved to the desk, her mind hardly registering the name that had been called before hers until the junior boy slouched up and sat next to her. Barely sparing her a glance, he dropped into his chair and promptly put his head on the desk, falling asleep.

She rolled her eyes. From what she'd heard about him, he was a total druggie and party animal. Undeniably he was super hott, but she knew he wasn't her type. He went for preps, and she knew that he got any girl he wanted, which wasn't her judging from his not-so-warm greeting.

She glanced at him again, his long black hair falling over his perfect face. Maybe I can just admire him the whole time, she thought, and could hardly hold back a giggle. The period seemed to fly by; she daydreamed while the teacher droned on about rules and handed out the syllabus. When the bell rang, she practically ran out. Glancing at her schedule, she headed for the Art room.

She sat down near the front this time, almost sure that she would soon be redirected with a seating chart. A few minutes later (it shouldn't have surprised her) Taylor slunk in. He glanced at her, raised his eyebrows, and sat in the seat next to her.

"Hey."

She looked at him briefly, then returned to studying her hands. "Hey."

"I'm Taylor," he told her, his gaze intense on the side of her face, and she could hardly stop a smile.

"I know," she said. "I'm Denise."

"How do you know who I am?"

"Are you kidding? Everybody knows you are," she told him with a small laugh. "You're famous, didn't you know?"

He gave a dry chuckle. "I'm not sure I want to know what I'm famous for."

"Drugs," she replied brightly. "Parties. Girls."

"That's about right," he agreed. "So listen, Denise, what do you say to a movie on Friday?"

She turned and stared at him. "Are you asking me on a date?"

"Yeah, I think that's what I'm doing," he said with a grin. "How about it?"

"Well, I'm not sure," she said slowly. "I don't think you're quite my type."

He raised his eyebrows. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Well, for one, I don't do drugs." She saw his expression start to harden, but she ignored this as she continued, "For another, I want a boy who I'm positive won't cheat on me. Also, I intend to graduate. And--"

"I think I've heard enough," he interrupted. "So basically, you don't want to date me because of what you've heard about me. What are you, a gossip whore?"

And with that he picked up his things and moved to a different seat across the room, leaving her staring after him open-mouthed.