Soulless (Justin Bieber Love Story / Fan Fiction)

II

II.
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Song of the chapter:
I Want What You Have by WIllamette Stone (OK I LOVE IF I STAY THAT MOVIE IS MY LIFE HONESTly OK THANKS FOR YOUR TIME)
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Mr. Paulson babbled on and on about the theory of evolution for what seemed like hours. My ninth period science class was only forty minutes long, but it felt like it had been dragging on forever. Not only was it last period, but it was a Friday. I was more than prepared to go home.

Restlessly, I tapped my pencil on my blank notebook. Sarah Peters, the number three ranked student in our entire class, scribbled down notes on the topic as if her life depended on it. When my pencil tapping distracted her focus, she snapped her head over at me. Her dark brown eyes held a scowl in which case I just rolled my own eyes. Though I loved that Mr. Paulson paired me with one of the smartest girls in the world, I was kind of hating the idea at the same time. She was very full of herself.

I began looking around the room nonchalantly in order to keep myself occupied. I noticed Nate Wesley, a "class clown" type of kid, with his forehead in the palm of his hand. His eyes were at half mass and barely focused on his empty desk in front of him. Except, I don't think his tiredness was intended to be funny. I think he was just that bored.

Marissa Marawicz, one of the cheerleaders for the football team, attempted to secretly text underneath her desk. It was completely and utterly obvious that she was texting— which she always was, but Mr. Paulson gave up on telling her to stop. She was absolutely addicted to her phone much like every other teenager in the twenty-first century. Anyways, it was pointless for Mr. Paulson to waste his breath on her. She was the one who was going to suffer when she failed the class.

My eyes trailed back to my own desk but were stopped when I noticed the empty one on the complete other side of the room. It was usually always vacant considering that was where "Satan" himself sat— Justin Bieber, I mean. It wasn't unusual for him to skip class or just not show up to school at all for days at a time. I had no idea why he cut class so much, but it was almost more normal for him not to be there than to actually be present.

I would assume that he left school around lunchtime after Grace had inevitably blown up on him in the middle of our school's cafeteria, but I had to remember who I was thinking about. Justin Bieber wasn't one to care about what other people thought of him. He had been screamed at by girls almost every week for the last year, yet he still had the nerve to show his face in public. It probably wasn't wrong to speculate that he relished in the attention. He probably got off knowing that he could tear a girl's heart out of her chest, convince her that she could trust him with it, only to later throw it on the ground and smother it into the concrete. He was so twisted.

My eyes averted from his empty desk and to my lap. The screen of my phone lit up, indicating a text message. It was from my dad.

In my seventeen years of life, I had definitely grown to be a "Daddy's Girl." I was my parents' only child, after all. Many people would assume that me being the only kid in the family meant that I was spoiled silly and given just about anything I wanted. However, that was not true. My father taught me almost everyday how to manage money and how to be on my own. Sometimes it was a little annoying, but he was only preparing me for the real world that was to come after high school.

Dad: Can you help out at the diner tonight? Paulina called in sick.

I mentally groaned to myself. My dad owned Dennel's Diner, a restaurant that resided in the village of Elmwood. His mother (my grandmother) inherited it from her father (my great grandfather) who opened the eatery in 1932. It was kind of an heirloom, in a way. Just about every single person in my family was employed there at one time or another. I wasn't legally employed at the diner, but I helped out when my dad needed it. If they were ever short staffed or expecting a busy night, I was always there washing dishes or waiting tables— one of my dad's ways of teaching me how to deal with money.