Style | Dallas Winston

Chapter Twelve

"I am not afraid of storms, for I am learning how to sail my ship"- Little Women, Louisa May Alcott

Maeve learned early on that the world was a shitty place. That some people get the good life, the big houses, the white picket fences. The ones who knew what trust fund was before middle school. And there were the ones that got the short end of the stick. The ones that couldn't afford fancy clothes like their peers, or didn't have much to stay when the others talked about their summer vacations. When the more fortunate kids were learning about their trust funds, they were already saving for college. Maeve also learned quickly that she was a part of the latter group.

She saw the kids on her side of the tracks, broken and abused, cold hearted, and forced to grow up too fast. She heard from her neighbor, Mr. Robinson about the segregation riots and more that was never seen in the papers. Everywhere she looked there was something, tainting the world that she lived in, and she wondered how everyone could see what was happening without actually seeing.

She used to think that it was just the socs, too arrogant to see the problems going on in the world and past their white picket fence. Not a care in the world for anyone but themselves. But she realized later that it was the greasers as well, too focused on their own problems to notice that there are more important things to worry about.

It was around then that she knew she wanted to be a journalist. No matter the good, the bad, or the ugly, people deserved to know what was happening in their world, but more than that, people deserved to be heard.

Of course it was a long shot to assume that the old white man running whatever printing company she would end up working at would ever let her write about important matters, but she would worry about that when she got there. For now, she would worry about making a good impression with Mr. Attwood, and all of the other students that are a part of the school paper.

She was standing outside of the door to the yearbook room, mentally preparing herself for whatever would happen upon entering. They already didn't like her, that she knew for sure. They thought she was just an incompetent, stupid girl who would do nothing but slow them down. But she would prove them wrong, because they may hate her, but they can't deny her work. She would be the best damn writer this school has seen.

Upon entering the classroom she could see that most of the others were already there. Three boys–including Simon– were having a heated discussion about something while Mr. Attwood nursed a cup of coffee, his face bearing his usual bored expression.

All eyes cut to her a second later, the conversation stopping. She didn't know whether or not she should introduce herself, lucky Mr. Attwood made the decision for her.

"This is Maeve Hartwell, our new writer," he said, gesturing to her.

"Are you serious?" said one boy with dark brown hair. He apparently didn't care that she was right in front of him and could hear.

"Yes Bryan," he replied. Bryan tried to protest a second later but Mr. Attwood spoke over him, "if you have a problem with it maybe you should've found someone else to be our writer."

Maeve chose to sit down in a chair the furthest away from the boys as she could get, the three of them shooting her less than happy glances.

"Alright let's get started-"

The door opened, cutting off Mr. Atwood as a girl clutching her books came in. She was clearly in a hurry to get here, looking winded, as though she had been running. She was slightly taller than Maeve and had shoulder length dark hair. When she noticed everyone turning to look at her she froze like a deer in headlights.