Why Don't We Imagines/Preferences

14. Jack - Speak

In this imagine, I'm going to base it off of the book Speak, which is amazing and you should definitely read it. But, there is a slight warning for this imagine, so I'm going to put it in caps:

WARNING: EMOTIONAL

Enjoy!

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Nothing is 'Merry' about Marion High. Well, except for the pronunciation. We really need to change the name of the school. Bad.

Floods of kids rush out through the buses and into the high school, which is probably bigger than most of their futures. You watch as people talk with friends from last year as they ramble out the first day of high school and how it'll be "awesome" and "fun". It's only a half day today, too, so barely anyone gets to talk about their summer just yet.

You remain invisible as you slip through the front doors and march straight to the gym for some assembly, where the rest of the Fresh Bait Freshmen (the Seniors made up that one) file in to seats, sitting next to their besties from middle school, recollecting everything that occurred during the summer.

Not wanting to talk about your dreadful summer, you speed walk your way to the opposite side of the gym where you see a few empty rows of seats.

"Where ya think you goin', 'lil lady?" The principal bellows, shoving you back with his brick of a hand.

The new principal is tall, big and seemingly anything but nice. You can tell he's wearing a toupee over his balding grey hair. His red beady eyes remind you of a rat, along with his huge ears. You can't help but smile.

"Do you thin' this is funny, 'lil lady?!" He yells, his face nearly turning purple. "This is juss a warning, ya hear? Ness time imma give ya desesenshun."

You nod as you walk over to the bleachers. You laugh at how he pronounces his words when he's mad. In this case, even when he's talking.

You sit down near the wall, which is further away from everyone else. Apparently, while you were being showered by Angry Man, the bleachers you wanted to be empty are now full.

You look behind you, seeing if any of your friends from last year are in the same set of bleachers as you. Behind you, there's a row of popular kinky boys, boys who only talk about football, popular fake girls and attractive nerds who refuse to be popular. In the last row is your best friend from 8th grade. You wave to her. She notices you, but she pretends she didn't see you as she flips her hair, continuing to talk to some of her friends. You wave to her again. She sees you again. She gives you the death glare and ignores you again.

You want to keep pestering. "Vinnie!" You yell, waving to her.

You see her exaggerate and eye roll at you. "Vinnie!" You yell again. You know she hates you because of what happened this summer. But you want her friendship again.

Finally, she faces you. You smile happily, but she smiles devilishly. "I'm not your friend," she mouths at you. With an evil wink, she turns back to talk to her friends.

You release the tooth from your lower lip, drawing blood. You didn't realize you were biting your lip at all.

You swallow hard. Your throat burns, but you don't care; no one needs to know you're bleeding.

You wipe your mouth with the sleeve of your oversized sweatshirt. A streak of blood smears across it.

I need to go, your mind races as you sprint out the gym doors.

Luckily, Angry Man isn't looking so you sneak into the bathroom unharmed.

You look at yourself in the mirror. You don't even recognize yourself. Last year, you were popular, had flawless skin, a flawless body and long, thin hair. Ever since the summer, though, things have changed. You stare at a pale vampire with rolls poking out of a sweatshirt. Baggy jeans cover up a pair of badly beaten up tennis shoes. Ragged witch hair, small grey eyes and thin, blistered lips covered in crimson stare into your soul. Simply, you just stopped caring; how did it get this bad?