Us Against the World

Chapter 1- Pilot

Hey! Welcome to my new book, Us Against the World!

This book is going to be told in two different perspectives. Keep an eye out for ◇ and ♤, that means the perspective has switched.

Hope you enjoy:) Make sure to leave a vote if you do! It really helps encourage me as a writer:)

◇◇◇◇

"Latelatelatelate!" I rushedly exclaim.

Skillfully, I weave through the group of alleged stoners that always hoard around the front doors of my highschool. They stare at me with puzzlement as I bump them to get past, even though this happens almost every school day.

That is, all except for one. He has his back leaned against the doors I need to get through, red rimmed eyes that almost match the color of his hair intensely trained on me.

I bite down on the annoyance steadily creeping it's way throughout my chest as I finally stumble out of the throng and take a few steps towards him. Is there going to be a day he doesn't try and get me roused? Knowing him, maybe when pigs fly. I don't know why, but ever since grade school I've always been on his hit list.

"Move out of the way Dustin," I demand, moodily crossing my arms. "I don't have time for this, I need to get to class."

He stays planted where he is, giving no indication he's going to ensue my request. "So what's the reason you're late this time? Is this sweet, little, innocent girl doing things she shouldn't?"

I don't answer in hopes he will become bored enough to give up and let me through, but my logic does the opppsite of it's intention since he continues talking. "No? Oh silly me, it was because you just got off working the morning shift of your second job, isn't it? How does it feel, being poor? I wouldn't know."

"F-you," I angrily mutter.

He puts his hands up, mocking a surrender as he steps out of the doorway. "I just wanted to ask. You know, if you ever want to I can help. I've got a guy who needs some business delivered, and I can arrange for you to help him. After all, it's a good deed to help charity work."

Finished with this conversation, I shove my hands in the pocket of my old hoodie and slam my shoulder at his thin figure as I stride past into the school. He stumbles backwards, though I can hear his laugh echo into the school, happy that he got underneath my skin.

My hands grip my messenger bag to my chest, holding it closed so my homework doesn't splatter on the floor. The clip that holds it closed had broken a while ago, and I haven't deemed it necessary to spend the money and get a new one.

I don't bother stopping at my locker to put my stuff away, instead heading directly to my class. If I can make it before the bell, then . . .

Ring.

Shoot.

"Late again," my teacher, Ms. Brown, points out as I walk into class. I don't acknowledge the obvious comment, keeping my head straight as I trudge over to my desk stationed in the very back corner of the room. I exhaustedly plop onto the chair, chest heaving in a long sigh.

This isn't a rare occurance. I'm late a majority of the weekdays, and it's not because I sleep in, it's the opposite. I work two jobs on top of school. My life has been like this ever since I was 14, when I got my first job. I got the second a year later. I barely have time to spend time with my friends, and I'm not going to sugarcoat it, that sucked at first. But, I've gotten used to it. Plus, I'm working for two reasons: to support myself and to save for college.