Fiction/ Young Adult/Drama
Assumptions — Senior Year — Chapter Ten
Danielle Robertson
High School (n) — where self-esteem, innocence, and dreams go to die (unknown)
“Whatever, Shelby.” I clicked off my cell and tossed it on the bed. I would have to say my so-called ‘besties’ were only best at one thing, being bitches.
So, instead of my girl, Shelby, someone I’d known all my life and who was a fellow cheerleader and dancer, not able to give me a ride to school, she dumped me to pick up Reagan.
Me, Shelby, and Reagan go way back, like pre-middle school days. Our group, including Ash and his boys, used to be tight, but a few, mainly Tabby, slowly broke away once sixth grade happened. It was Ayma’s arrival that separated the group. Reagan decided she didn’t like her, Tabby did, and we all had to pick sides. You know the usual middle school bullshit that went on everywhere.
‘If you’re friends with her, then you can’t be friends with me.’
Most kids were so juvenile at that age, and the way I saw it, nothing changed as they got older.
I mean, really, was it my fault Ash couldn’t give Reagan a ride? Nope, but unfortunately, Reagan is Queen B of the school, and most people, like Shelby, would drop and roll at her command.
Now I had to walk almost a mile in the wonderful Florida August heat and humidity. I would look so freakin awesome on the first day of senior year.
NOT!
Dammit, I looked pretty good this morning.
I finally got my shoulder-length brown hair to cooperate and stay flat, not frizz about like it usually did. My makeup was accentual, my deep brown eyes looked sultry, my lips were cherry red, and my cheekbones were well-established. And finally, yes, finally, I went down two sizes. I worked my ass off all summer with dance and cheer to get back down to a size four. Which by most standards, like high-end fashion models, still made me a freakin pig.
My clothes were half decent. I got a great discount when we went to the outlet mall. I mean, really, who could pass up a ‘take fifty percent off regular price’ sale? I tried to stay moderate in the style of clothing I chose for senior year.
Ahem, no slut clothes this year.
Today was regular jeans, tight, of course, a fitted t-shirt, the one Reagan made us wear every year showing we were Bayshore cheerleaders.
WooHoo. Insert finger into mouth and gag.
And of course, good ole classic sneakers.
I was going for a new look—a new me, maybe trying to forget my past and reinvent my future.
Fuck, in this town, no one forgot, especially the students at Bayshore.
Who was I kidding? I could try all I wanted, but there was no way to escape the hellhole I was placed in for being me. I knew my reputation, but believe me, almost ninety-nine percent of everything wasn’t true.
Sure, I went to parties and had fun, but what teenage girl didn’t?
Okay, a few, but none I hang around. But the lies the guys told—the ones where I was easy—were totally false. There’d been only one guy—yep, just one I’d slept with—not half the school like everyone suspected.
Oh well, no sense in doting on the past. I had a mile of walking ahead of me. I looked back at the vacant house. My parents left an hour ago for work. That’s how it always was at our home. Gotta get the money to pay the bills, which was a legit reason for working so many hours. But sometimes, it got lonely being a latchkey kid since I was eight years old.
Now, I was almost seventeen. My birthday was in late September, which was odd for a senior. So, I was practically an adult and shouldn’t complain about my parents wanting to make money.
Maybe this year will be different. I mean, it couldn’t get any worse than the previous twelve years of schooling I had.
Oh, fuck, who was I kidding? I was Danielle Robertson, of course, it could get worse.
