REWRITING Burn You Alive

Chapter 1

Round 1: JAZZ

 

I’m the perfect boy. You don’t believe me? I’ll prove it to you.

Do I have:

Killer looks? Check.

Nice bod? Check.

Smart? Check.

Charismatic personality? Check.

Good family background? Check.

Heart-stopping smile? Double check.

Am I a/an:

Athletic? Competitive? Sociable? Teacher’s pet? Model student? Class representative?

Check. Check. Check. Check. Check. Check.

Do you think all of these are impossible? Hah. I also bet you think angels aren’t real. Yet, here I stand before you.

I’m Jazz Lewis, at your service. I’m always on the top of everything at anything.

It’s the beginning of the school year and I drove down to the parking lot of our prestigious private school, St. Anne’s Academy. It’s my third year in high school and I still can’t believe I’m already a junior.

As I find a parking spot for my new car, a sleek, black Maybach Landaulet –my sweet baby, people stared and those who knew me waved at me. I gave them a million-dollar smile and a small wave just to seem refined.

Ahh…everyone wants to be friends with me. It’s so tiring.

I got down my car like a monarch wearing brown slim fit trousers, white and red Nike dunk high tops, and a white branded v-neck shirt that was tight enough to show my six-pack abs, small wolf-shaped silver ring as my lucky charm, and a golden spider web necklace to complete the look.

What can I say? First impressions are important. Moreover, I’m going to make an impression of myself that nobody will forget.

I just got out of my car after parking and people already flocked all over me. I got a lot of hugs, ‘hi’s’ and ‘hello’s’. I’m just too irresistible and very delectable. At least that’s what my fan club tells me every time we meet.

“Jazz!” as I turned to the sound of my name, my posse parted like the Red Sea, and my best friend walked towards me like Moses. Or was that Noah? Wait, Noah was the arc dude. Heh, I never got the story straight. I’m not interested in the bible.

Colin Slate, the super goody-goody player and airheaded jock. Typical blond and tan. We’ve been friends since sixth grade. He has a metal body and golden heart, but with cheese for brains. His looks aren’t bad, too. But that’s what I like about him. He never outshines me.

“Yo, dude.” I greeted him with a handshake, bumping on each other’s chests followed by a pat on the back.

“’Sup,” he replied. “Look, sorry if I haven’t been with you this summah, chap. My ‘rents forced me with them to Paris. So how’s ya summah?”

 Colin asked in his British accent. He’s an American born in England, but lived here in the States for so long that he lost his heavy drawl and speaks like a typical American except for the twang.

“It was quite boring. Same parties, more girls, nothing new. Same old me. So, how was Paris? Meet any models?”

“Still a horny dog, eh?” He chuckled. “Paris was…brill. A lot of pretty ladies. Too bad I don’t speak French.”