The Player Game

Chapter 3

Monday mornings.  You either hate them or you love them.  Me?  My feelings towards Monday mornings are negative.  In fact, the truth is that my feeling towards every morning is negative.

Some people are born morning people.  Obviously I’m not one of them.

I sit up slowly, my head like a boulder on my neck.  I have to blink a couple of times to clear my vision before my room comes into view.

There’s an empty bookshelf in the corner of the room, towering over the foot of my bed.  As per usual, the covers around me are dishevelled, thrown this way and that by my restless sleeping habits.  To my right is an electric blue wall, plastered from the floor to ceiling with posters of bands and celebrities.  The grinning face of Tyson Ritter stares at me from the middle of the cluster and I can’t help but smile.  The All-American Rejects will always be my favourite band and the lead singer will always have a special place in my heart.

I purposefully slide out of the left side of my bed, taking care not to glance to the right where a mirror darns my wardrobe.  I’d rather be spared from seeing my reflection at the moment.

I make a beeline for the bathroom, which I realise is not the best idea when I come face to face with a wide mirror.  Scrap the plan to avoid my reflection.  I stare at my reflection exasperatingly.  My blonde hair is almost as dishevelled as my bed covers and the skin on my face is decorated with red lines, the result of lying on a creased pillowcase.  My eyes stare back at me, big and startled like a wild animal.  Of course, the look of a wild animal isn’t helped by the mane of blonde hair.

I scrutinise my eyes carefully.  I never know what colour to call them.  Aqua is probably the most accurate description.  In the light, they seem blue and in the shadows, they seem green- not to mention the little sprinkle of hazel in the centre.  I'd much rather have a single colour, then I'd know what option to choose on the What colour are your eyes? question on a quiz.

Baffled, I start to wash my face.  Hopefully the crease marks will disappear after a good wash.  I can’t turn up at school with big red marks down my face, especially considering the occasion; it's the first day of The Player Game.

I wonder what Aaron is doing right now.  My first thought is that he’s recovering from staying overnight with a girl, as I know Players do.  Surely he wouldn’t, not after agreeing to this.  Would he?

Does The Player Game mean that we can’t hook up with other people?  There’s so much we haven’t worked out about it.  Perhaps I’m just overcomplicating the matter.  This is supposed to just a casual thing - a little bit of fun.  I shouldn’t be worrying about it.

After towelling my face, I make my way back into the bedroom and strip out of my stripy pyjamas to get dressed.  I pull my school blazer on, buttoning it up carefully.  It’s stupid that we have a uniform.  We’re one of the only schools in the area that has one.  Out of the few schools that do, ours is by far the worse. We have to walk around in ugly brown blazers and black trousers with a white shirt everyday.

I look myself up and down distastefully in the mirror, deciding to make a start on my makeup.  I pick up a mascara brush from the floor, starting to add it to my lashes.

Absentmindedly, I find myself wondering about what I’ll do when I see him, or what he’ll do when he sees me.  Surely we’ll start out with the smaller things on the list, like the first couple, rather than delving straight into the making out part.

Smearing some foundation onto my face, I reach out to behind me where I can see the reflection of my jeans on the floor.  Sticking out of the pocket is the corner of a white piece of paper.