A New Forever
written by Hannah
A story has a clear beginning. A place where the narration commences and the plot begins to unravel. It makes sense, to have a clear starting point, but that's not always the case. Everything doesn't always just line up perfectly and begin with "Once upon a time." In the storybooks, you know right off the bat who the "bad guy" is and right away you begin to root for the hero. But in the real world, you don't know who the bad guys are until you read ahead until you've trusted them and they've betrayed you. Life is not a storybook, life has no set good guys or bad guys, and the story has no clear beginning.
Last Updated
05/31/21
Chapters
3
Reads
551
Vera's Vera Bradley Bag
Chapter 2
Day 1: Sophomore Year
It was a crisp autumn day - as cliche as that sounds it actually was - and being my usual self, I didn't skip joyfully over to my window and open the blinds (this isn't a lifetime movie). I rolled out of bed with my frizzy morning hair and zombishly made my way to the bathroom down the hall. I closed the door silently; my dad is a light sleeper and I didn't want to wake him.
I stared into the mirror. My red (not orange-red) hair spiraled in every direction and, I kid you not, it made me 6 inches taller. I turned on the squeaky faucet and splashed my acne-riddled face with cold water and brushed my teeth. Normal teenager stuff, nothing out of the ordinary. I grabbed my "Ultra detangling brush for normal to thick hair" (a late-night purchase from QVC) and began to unravel the web of tangled hair my blissful sleep had created.
"Emily!" -We're going to call me Emily, for the simplicity of writing and for my sake of sanity- my dad yelled. I was surprised he was awake- he must have a conference call this morning. And being a completely normal and 100% average teenager, I groaned -which symbolically means either 'what' or 'go away before my pre-coffee soul eats you.' My dad assumed it wasn't the latter and continued speaking, whilst my mind drifted off to a land where is was the latter and my pre-coffee soul devoured my father savagely.
I started listening again after the word food entered through my left ear. See, if you aren't aware, we humans require nourishment on a regular basis to remain human-y, and we teenagers must eat at least 1,200 times a day or we shrivel up and die - or so we think, but who in their right mind would take that chance? Oh, well now you know I'm a teenager, so you can add that to your little list of facts. (Oh, and I'm also human.)
Are you done? Good, I'm going to continue talking (Writing). After I ate my food (A glorious feast of many flavors and colors, otherwise known as fruit loops), I limped back upstairs to my room. I glanced over at my unmade bed- Oh, I wished to flop into it and cover myself in my pure white down comforter. But, that wasn't possible. It never was and never would be. See, we teenagers have to go to a glorified prison every day. The wardens like to pretend that they're teaching us things whilst in reality the only thing they're doing is keeping us busy for 8 hours while our parents "go to work". This prison has the chilling name of School. And it's a place where what brand of clothes you wear trumps what you know about the real world and how to live.
"School" has these things called Cliques, small meaningless groups of teenagers who think they're better than the rest of the other small meaningless groups of teenagers. There are the cheerleaders, the dumb but beautiful girls who voluntarily get thrown into the air; the jocks, mainly football players, but having a varsity letterman jacket virtually punches your ticket into the club; the nerds, smart people who spend their days being tormented by their future employees; and probably the worst of them all: the popular girls.
Bianca Cassidy -a spoiled blonde whose main goal in life is to date every boy in school- was the popular girl. She had the mindless followers, a McMansion on Champagne Avenue, and the coveted pink Mercedes. She also had her 'friends': Camilla Dram, the girl who knows everything (both in gossip and academics); and Lacey Orson, the girl who was just simply there for no good reason at all. Together, the three of them are the clique, the girls who weren't really friends but wouldn't be caught dead without each other. They had their Louis Vuitton bags (they never carry backpacks, only oversized purses), their makeup-covered faces, and fake hair. Amidst all that, I decided to call them what they obviously are- The Barbies. Fake girls that are just cold, hard shells of human beings. Sadly, that's what our society has come down to.
"Have a good day, Sweet Pea," my dad called monotonously into thin air as he looked briefly at me and continued his conference call. The pet name seemed to have lost it's meaning over the years, too many times I had heard it called out into space with no love behind it.
I didn't notice the drive from home to school, but I was there and there was no turning back now. I took a deep breath and stepped out of the car, releasing myself into a swarm of mindless teenagers searching for their friends and swinging their backpacks carelessly into the air.
"Emily!" a sing-songy voice shouted a millisecond after my feet touched the ground. It was Vera, my best friend. We had an odd friendship. Me, the cynical, quiet, and very opinionated nerd (with glasses and everything!). And her, the popular, talented, theatre star. But I loved her like a sister. We were like Elsa and Anna without the whole snow-queen issue.
"Come on! Let's go!" she yelled as she grabbed my arm and pulled me towards the prison of a school. My scuffed black flats skidded across the sun-warmed blacktop as Vera yanked me through the throng of students. We passed people I'd known since 1st grade but had since become crazy )ie. dyed black hair, thick eyeliner, tight clothes, the works) and people I'd met the previous year who had reached the same fate. Grizelda Watkins, an ex-friend of mine, had dyed her blonde hair blue and now wore contacts so here green eyes were black. She had also 'embellished' herself with piercings galore, a bit over the top for a sophomore at Plainsboro High.
Vera pulled me up the moldy, concrete steps and through the doors of the 90-year-old school. It reeked of rotten sandwiches, gummy bears, and cheap perfume. The principal should have been standing at the door distributing gas masks to all the students. Anywhere you looked, you would see a guy dousing himself in Axe or a girl misting and shimmying through a cloud of floral scented body spray. That cost, may I add, nineteen dollars a bottle.
"Sorry, excuse me, just gotta get through, pardon." Vera continuously muttered as she bobbed and weaved through all the nauseatingly-scented students holding my hand so tight she was cutting off my circulation. A very similar sensation to the inch of black hairbands I wear daily on my wrist. Her long blonde hair blew against my face as we ran, not as pleasant as it might sound. Nowhere near.
As I knew, she was completely aware of what she was doing,- This wasn't the first nor the last time she dragged me through a crowd- I let my mind wander. Somehow, I wound up focused on her Vera Bradley backpack and the way it bounced as she ran. Vera was obsessed with Vera Bradley, for obvious reasons. I couldn't blame her- if there were a famous designer brand that shared my name, I would own a lot of their merchandise too. As she has mentioned time and time again, the print is fanfare, her absolute favorite, a simple black and white, retro design with sparks of green that splashed at symmetrical points. Vera had the lunch tote and cross-body to match, every year she bought a different set. This year's had to be one of my favorites, behind that of the previous year, which was in Petal Paisley.
"Isn't it amazing," Vera muttered in awe, staring excitedly at the sign-up sheet for the fall musical Les Miserables, "Are you going to finally sign up this year?"
"Maybe." No.
"Then I'm so excited for auditions! We need to do a duet!"
"Sounds great." Sounds terrible. Then, a miracle occurred, the bell rang.
"Oops! I'd better go, don't wanna be late for homeroom- I've got Mr. Jaberson," Vera stuttered nervously, still staring at the sign-up sheet, "Bye," and before I could even glance her way, she was gone. Typical. I guess, in a way, this was like the storybooks, I was saved by an inanimate object, the bell.
It was a crisp autumn day - as cliche as that sounds it actually was - and being my usual self, I didn't skip joyfully over to my window and open the blinds (this isn't a lifetime movie). I rolled out of bed with my frizzy morning hair and zombishly made my way to the bathroom down the hall. I closed the door silently; my dad is a light sleeper and I didn't want to wake him.
I stared into the mirror. My red (not orange-red) hair spiraled in every direction and, I kid you not, it made me 6 inches taller. I turned on the squeaky faucet and splashed my acne-riddled face with cold water and brushed my teeth. Normal teenager stuff, nothing out of the ordinary. I grabbed my "Ultra detangling brush for normal to thick hair" (a late-night purchase from QVC) and began to unravel the web of tangled hair my blissful sleep had created.
"Emily!" -We're going to call me Emily, for the simplicity of writing and for my sake of sanity- my dad yelled. I was surprised he was awake- he must have a conference call this morning. And being a completely normal and 100% average teenager, I groaned -which symbolically means either 'what' or 'go away before my pre-coffee soul eats you.' My dad assumed it wasn't the latter and continued speaking, whilst my mind drifted off to a land where is was the latter and my pre-coffee soul devoured my father savagely.
I started listening again after the word food entered through my left ear. See, if you aren't aware, we humans require nourishment on a regular basis to remain human-y, and we teenagers must eat at least 1,200 times a day or we shrivel up and die - or so we think, but who in their right mind would take that chance? Oh, well now you know I'm a teenager, so you can add that to your little list of facts. (Oh, and I'm also human.)
Are you done? Good, I'm going to continue talking (Writing). After I ate my food (A glorious feast of many flavors and colors, otherwise known as fruit loops), I limped back upstairs to my room. I glanced over at my unmade bed- Oh, I wished to flop into it and cover myself in my pure white down comforter. But, that wasn't possible. It never was and never would be. See, we teenagers have to go to a glorified prison every day. The wardens like to pretend that they're teaching us things whilst in reality the only thing they're doing is keeping us busy for 8 hours while our parents "go to work". This prison has the chilling name of School. And it's a place where what brand of clothes you wear trumps what you know about the real world and how to live.
"School" has these things called Cliques, small meaningless groups of teenagers who think they're better than the rest of the other small meaningless groups of teenagers. There are the cheerleaders, the dumb but beautiful girls who voluntarily get thrown into the air; the jocks, mainly football players, but having a varsity letterman jacket virtually punches your ticket into the club; the nerds, smart people who spend their days being tormented by their future employees; and probably the worst of them all: the popular girls.
Bianca Cassidy -a spoiled blonde whose main goal in life is to date every boy in school- was the popular girl. She had the mindless followers, a McMansion on Champagne Avenue, and the coveted pink Mercedes. She also had her 'friends': Camilla Dram, the girl who knows everything (both in gossip and academics); and Lacey Orson, the girl who was just simply there for no good reason at all. Together, the three of them are the clique, the girls who weren't really friends but wouldn't be caught dead without each other. They had their Louis Vuitton bags (they never carry backpacks, only oversized purses), their makeup-covered faces, and fake hair. Amidst all that, I decided to call them what they obviously are- The Barbies. Fake girls that are just cold, hard shells of human beings. Sadly, that's what our society has come down to.
"Have a good day, Sweet Pea," my dad called monotonously into thin air as he looked briefly at me and continued his conference call. The pet name seemed to have lost it's meaning over the years, too many times I had heard it called out into space with no love behind it.
I didn't notice the drive from home to school, but I was there and there was no turning back now. I took a deep breath and stepped out of the car, releasing myself into a swarm of mindless teenagers searching for their friends and swinging their backpacks carelessly into the air.
"Emily!" a sing-songy voice shouted a millisecond after my feet touched the ground. It was Vera, my best friend. We had an odd friendship. Me, the cynical, quiet, and very opinionated nerd (with glasses and everything!). And her, the popular, talented, theatre star. But I loved her like a sister. We were like Elsa and Anna without the whole snow-queen issue.
"Come on! Let's go!" she yelled as she grabbed my arm and pulled me towards the prison of a school. My scuffed black flats skidded across the sun-warmed blacktop as Vera yanked me through the throng of students. We passed people I'd known since 1st grade but had since become crazy )ie. dyed black hair, thick eyeliner, tight clothes, the works) and people I'd met the previous year who had reached the same fate. Grizelda Watkins, an ex-friend of mine, had dyed her blonde hair blue and now wore contacts so here green eyes were black. She had also 'embellished' herself with piercings galore, a bit over the top for a sophomore at Plainsboro High.
Vera pulled me up the moldy, concrete steps and through the doors of the 90-year-old school. It reeked of rotten sandwiches, gummy bears, and cheap perfume. The principal should have been standing at the door distributing gas masks to all the students. Anywhere you looked, you would see a guy dousing himself in Axe or a girl misting and shimmying through a cloud of floral scented body spray. That cost, may I add, nineteen dollars a bottle.
"Sorry, excuse me, just gotta get through, pardon." Vera continuously muttered as she bobbed and weaved through all the nauseatingly-scented students holding my hand so tight she was cutting off my circulation. A very similar sensation to the inch of black hairbands I wear daily on my wrist. Her long blonde hair blew against my face as we ran, not as pleasant as it might sound. Nowhere near.
As I knew, she was completely aware of what she was doing,- This wasn't the first nor the last time she dragged me through a crowd- I let my mind wander. Somehow, I wound up focused on her Vera Bradley backpack and the way it bounced as she ran. Vera was obsessed with Vera Bradley, for obvious reasons. I couldn't blame her- if there were a famous designer brand that shared my name, I would own a lot of their merchandise too. As she has mentioned time and time again, the print is fanfare, her absolute favorite, a simple black and white, retro design with sparks of green that splashed at symmetrical points. Vera had the lunch tote and cross-body to match, every year she bought a different set. This year's had to be one of my favorites, behind that of the previous year, which was in Petal Paisley.
"Isn't it amazing," Vera muttered in awe, staring excitedly at the sign-up sheet for the fall musical Les Miserables, "Are you going to finally sign up this year?"
"Maybe." No.
"Then I'm so excited for auditions! We need to do a duet!"
"Sounds great." Sounds terrible. Then, a miracle occurred, the bell rang.
"Oops! I'd better go, don't wanna be late for homeroom- I've got Mr. Jaberson," Vera stuttered nervously, still staring at the sign-up sheet, "Bye," and before I could even glance her way, she was gone. Typical. I guess, in a way, this was like the storybooks, I was saved by an inanimate object, the bell.
