A/N
I used to be popular. Apart of the it-crowed. And there was even a time where I was the Queen Bee of the populars.
Honestly, your either born with the gene to lead or not.
Not all popular girls as mean as movies portray them... to start. It's the pressure, misalliance family issues, and the constant on slaught of 'friends' who actually are only around you so that they can learn to stab your back. That's what usually turns you into a bitch. Ya know? That's how I was a bitch for the longest time; learning peoples secrets and than turning it against them.
In the end, I never wanted to be popular; I wanted to be liked.
I realize that most people here have probably never been in this situation before, and now probably think of me as concieted, and maybe I am. And maybe you have been in this tight, uncomfortable zone before, maybe you'll appreciate this writing. On the other hand it might bring back painful, parnoid memories that you've tried to block (I know I have). So I guess it's time to start.
~Michelle's POV~
click-clack.
Clickedy-clack.
taptaptaptap taptaptaptap taptaptaptap
tap.
These sounds kept wafting through my ears as I tried to finish my article for the news paper. This article is the constantly recycled idea of global warming, and it's effect on the world. I re-adjust my cherry-red glasses, and take the last bite of the smallest tub of Ben&Jerry's chocolate-chip cookie dough icecream. In the background I here an alarm. The alarm to get up. I was too buisy notice the fact that I pulled an all-nighter though; to tired to remember cramming for a test as a Softmore.
I run around my cramped apartment, while trying to piece together a outfit and the article in time for the deadline. Today. Alright, I admitt it, I'm a procrastinator. That's what I am. That's what I do. But I always have good intentions (!) or atleast when I'm explaining to my boss I do.
I slip on my ballet flats, and than grab my cofee. I make the best brew. It's always my reason for being late, getting him cofee I mean. I take a sip of mine, letting myself go on auto-pilot to work.
------------
"You want me to do WHAT?!" I ask, he is sooooo making fun of my height right now ( I'm 5'6), isn't he?
"I want you ... to go.... back to highschool. As an article. I want you to make friends with fetch people, and I want you to come back and report all you noticed about them. Parents are concerned, and I have faith that you can get the goods." I hold back a chuckle, Jonah used such lame lingo. I'm not "with it" but I sure do know that 'fetch' has never been popular- and so should he, he's only about three years older than me.
"I can't do that," I mumble "I couldn't figure out how to do that even when I was in highschool. I can't do it now..." I say, my own insecure arms around my chest.
"Look. Do you want to do this or not?" Jonah (my boss)'s grey eyes peirce into me.
I wanted to say no. Believe me, I did. I had all intentions of saying 'no. I'm not right for the job. I'm sorry, I can't', but instead what came out was "Yeah, sure, I'd love to" I give a sheepish smile to Jonah.
Oh god.
I'm going back to hell.
