Ivy Grove Prep

ONE

THE DAY BEFORE...

"Emma," my mother pronounces loudly, "You need to go to classes."

She has a point. To be fair, its 11 minutes before the first bell and I still have no idea how to locate homeroom... but still. Is she that old to not understand teenage procrastination?!?!

"Mom, seriously, I will be fine if I sacrifice a few minutes to talk to you and Mikey..." my little brother, Michael, had taken my sudden move across the country badly. You see, dear audience: he had a brain tumor a year and a half ago, in his beautiful brain, by his ear. His frail little features are marred by a thin pink scar that crawls from his temple, diagonally behind his ear, to the bottom of his hairline.

"Em?" A small voice calls through the small screen of my laptop, as Mikey snaps into view beside my mother and a feeling of warmth spreads up my spine to pool in my chest. His crazy strawberry blonde hair, his many freckles, and his pale blue-green eyes. Eyes that draw us even closer to our father, who had a matching pair to Mikey's and mine. "Emmie," his little voice croaks, tears thick in his throat and wondering eyes, "When are you coming home?" 

"Oh, Monkey," I begin, with a quivering lip that rivals his own, "I won't be too long. Don't you remember what I told you about the big house I'm going to buy for you and mommy?" He still has issues with headaches and nausea from medication, which ended two weeks ago, after three months of remission. He forgets. But not today it seems-

"Of course I remember!" He announces indignantly, his face red and enraged. My mother begins to placate him and I hear a vague child-like, "Bye Emmie!" before I am hung up, on. Great.

Time to run to room 19 with the extensive 7 minutes I have left to get there.    

This guy is in a hurry. Strangely, that was the first thing I could comprehend when I walked into a boy, on my way to homeroom. "Ouch!" I shout to the guy that just swung away from his locker, hitting me in the process. His arm had waved back and made contact with my ribs. It's made glaringly obvious by the attire that, this prick is a first-year. So around 13 to 14, all freshmen girls have to wear: an orange, brown and red plaid pleated skirt, matching socks, a striped tie, plaid on the left arm of the cotton brown blazer. Boys have orange slacks with the same plaid pattern on the right leg, both genders have ivy embroidery crawling up the long sleeves of their gleaming white shirts (up to their elbows').

"Hey!" The boy yells in my face, with a vehemence that I thought was only reserved for books and teen drama TV shows. "You walked into me!"

Suddenly, I am taking steadying breaths not because I am winded; but because I am pissed. This guy thinks it's my fault?! He walked into me, hit me with his arm! What a muffin cruncher. "Um... I am fairly certain that you whacked into me..." I reply with more than an ounce of sarcasm in the dip of my eyebrows.

Turns out that was a mistake, as he violently shoves me into the locker that he had so recklessly slammed closed, a moment previous. His face dips down close to mine. He is all I see; an ever-growing grin, perfectly tanned skin, dark almost raven-like hair, and bright blue eyes. His eyes have needle-thin emerald streaks and a faint glow of mischief. He meets my eyes does a double-take, with a  'What the hell?'  expression; I mean, my eyes aren't exactly average per se when you've got blue eyes with gold, green, orange,  grey,  purple, etc...

Just as his shit-eating grin reaches its climax, the shrill bell for homeroom comes to life and guess what? The bell is on the ceiling above our heads. To give the boy credit, he at least stumbles a few steps away from me as a teacher from a nearby class walks out, although, that is probably because the bell is about a foot closer to his ears than mine. Tall bastard.

"Miss Oakley," The woman calls, "Are you lost, my dear?" She looks to me, trapped between the locker and Little Miss Princess, over here. I momentarily look at the sign on the door the teacher had arisen from, room 19. Wait, isn't that my-

"Come right this way," The teacher continues, leaving my train of thought at the station and completely ignoring the blatant look I had been throwing in her direction. "This school must be confusing on your first day, as all the other First Years' went to Ivy Elementary School and have been on this campus for most of their schooling. You must learn quickly, my dear. Come to class before I award your snails pace with a late mark, hm?" Christ, this wrinkled bitch is not going to be my new BFF. "Oh, and Mr. Ashton," Whom I assume is the boy whose lazing in the spotlight of her remarkably respectful, albeit fearsome, gaze,- "Will you be joining me in freshman homeroom today?" Does it strike you, dear audience, as odd, that it's phrased like a goddamn question?! 

Favoritism for the rich. Sucks. Ass.