you should know what you're falling for

one

I plunk my tattered old backpack down on the floor and slowly lower myself to take a seat. Every eye in the room is glued onto me and I can feel it. 48 pupils, fixated wholeheartedly on the new girl with the messy blonde braids. This isn't the first time I've been given the stare-down. To be exact, this is the ninth time.

Nine different foster homes I've been through in the last nine years. It seems as if I've just had the worst of luck.

Another wave of giggles trickles across the room. It's as if they think that I can't hear.

Yes, in fact, I am aware of my outdated, faded clothing. My olive green shirt is as plain as a white crayon, and my cargo capris hang loosely at my waist. It's certainly nothing special compared to all the designer handbags that I'm surrounded by, but I wouldn't want it any other way. I happen to be perfectly fine with the way I look and with myself.

When homeroom is finally dismissed, I stand up cooly and shrug my tattered old backpack onto my shoulder. Outside the doorway, a group of snobby, plastic girls are gathered, applying lipgloss and flirting with guys. I notice a few of them staring me down and self-consciously pull up my rugged old top. 

There's a few sarcastic remarks spewed around, but I shake them off and snap back, "At least mine are real."

I continue to stalk down the hall, my trusty combat boots clacking against the squeaky clean tile of this obnoxiously fancy school. In my right ear, I hear someone jogging up behind me, and it sounds like a male. I turn around to face the boy, and roll my eyes. 

"Hey," he spews, casually leaning against one of the royal blue lockers. I open up my own and shove some books in,

"Hey." I retort flatly, slamming my locker shut once more.

He doesn't take no for an answer, "Anyone else would look like a little girl in those braids, yet you make them edgy and rebellious."

Not impressed, I continue to walk down the hallway, and the last thing I hear from him is, "I like that."

When I reach my next class, I receive quite a lot of dirty looks from the other female students. "What the hell is going on?" I groan, turning to face a quiet, bookish looking girl.

She points at the boy who was pestering me in the hallway, "That's Josh Hyland. He's the hearthrob."

I nod irritably,"Cool beans, whatever."

"That's his girlfriend," she continues, pointing to the hot blonde with fake boobs standing vainly in the entryway, "And he was all googly-eyes for you."