Can I Have Your Attention Please

Chapter 3: Mock & Mimic

QOC: Dancing or singing?

o • O • o
Sam's POV
O • o • O

At nine, I arrive at Westland High, skating through the very large parking lot and dodging expensive vehicles. I roll my eyes at them all and shake my head as I near the entrance, slowing to a stop.

I glance up at the fanciness laid out before me. Technically I wasn't supposed to show up until nine-thirty, but I was done strolling around the city and stuff aimlessly. And I couldn't go to the beach like I normally do on the days I'm not looking for a job because it's too far out to ride my skateboard to and back to the school. I wouldn't of arrived here until ten. So, as they never say, better early than never.

I sigh as I gaze inside the blue glass, hesitating on going inside. I really shouldn't be so irritated by the mere sight of this place, but I am. It's not because it's something I can't have. I don't really care about not attending school. No. The reason I'm pissed is because this school has all of this money. Why are there so many expensive schools out there? The private ones? Don't they realize kids need educations for free? Can't they use citizens' taxes for something more important like supporting homeless teens. Adults that're homeless are a different story. But teens? It's just—

I inhale a deep breath. It's fine, Sam. You're fine.

I leave my skateboard leaning against the school on the side, out of sight. I think it'd be okay for awhile there.

Then I stroll inside, not caring that my hair's a mess - as usual - and that I must look so out of place. I mean, I'm dirty and wearing the same clothes from four days ago. It's rare that I go to the dry cleaners because I don't want to waste a couple bucks on washing the same pair of clothes every time I wear them.

A few students turn their voices to low whispers, giving me side glances before going back to their little groups. I roll my eyes and find the front desk, eyeing everyone suspiciously. I swear one of em's gonna turn around and blast me with "Proper Spray" or something.

I tell the receptionist my name and that I have an appointment with Mr. Danes as she gives me a judgmental expression. When she turns her back to go to the phone, I stick my tongue out at her and then look around at the few students roaming who have a morning free period. I'm surprised to see that there isn't a specific uniform these preppy kids have to wear. Still, they dress like they are heading to a conference meeting in Facer's Incorporate on the fourth floor. All except for a few guys who wear casual materials.

"He said to give him a minute. You're a bit early," the receptionist says, eyeing my clothing and dirty skin up and down with distaste.

"Okay aaaand...where do I wait?" I ask.

"Preferably outside with the rest of the mangy mutts," someone says behind me.

I raise a brow at the nasally sound and turn around, crossing my arms. A girl with fiery red hair curled to thick and sleek perfection and -crystal blue eyes relative to glaciers stands with her left hip jutted out to the side. Her lips match her locks, painted a very dominant red. Her eyes are thickly lined in black around the rims of her lids, and the eyelashes are completely caked up with mascara. The air around her seems to glow in hostility and beauty. Unfortunately the air also reeks of bitch.

"I'm sorry. Who are you exactly?" I ask her boredly. I'm uninterested in her snarky remarks. Plus, she doesn't even know me. It's not like her words can affect me if I don't care about her.