These stories are written to be a description of a character, both physically and emotionally. The viewpoint was to be from a character who would have some bias when describing the other. For example a father meeting his daughter’s boyfriend for the first time. Then, they had to examine the first charcter from the second’s point of view. Seeing the same scenario through the other’s eyes.
The First Day
As I enter my math class the bell rings. Anyone who shows up to class is officially tardy. As I sit the classroom door creeks open and the new kid walks in. The teacher announces that her name is Vanessa. She walked through the door wearing dirty old sneakers, ripped skinny jeans and a baggy sweatshirt. I was stunned that she was wearing something so out of date. how could someone dress like that? I wouldn’t be caught dead in that outfit. Her sneakers are squeaking and falling apart. Her jeans looked like they haven’t been washed in months and her sweatshirt looked old and ragged. They look like hand me downs. She was wearing a minimum amount of make up but, still looked tired and stressed. Maybe she’s poor and can’t afford it.
“Vanessa I like your shoes,” I said as a empty compliment.
“Thanks,” she replied with a smile.
I don’t like them, I don’t understand what is going on through her mind, they’re hideous. She is such a loser, I mean everyone keeps up with trends, it’s high school you have to. Vanessa’s hair looked like she just got out of bed, staticky and wavy.
Today was breezy and cold, a good autumn day, to be perfected with leggings a long sleeve with a black vest and some cute tall boots. That’s what’s trending right now for fall attire. I walked through the doors of the school and saw Vanessa at her locker, wearing grey sweatpants, those awful converse and a black tank top, her hair in a messy bun. Did she not understand that dressing with trends was part of being “cool”. All her so called friends kept up with somewhat of a trend. They were wearing skinny jeans new boots and sweaters. They didn’t look as good as me and my friends, we coordinated our outfits so people new we were following trends. People would be called losers if they didn’t fit the trend and that’s what we didn’t want to be.
“Hey, I like your boots!” Vanessa hollered.
“Thanks.” *rolls eyes*
I walk down the hall trying to find my classroom. Being the new girl isn’t fun. I wasn’t sure how people were going to react to a new girl. I was pretty excited that this school was going to be a new start for me.
Please, please, please Vanessa don’t ruin this school for yourself.
I got stares, but that usually didn’t bother me, except this one girl wouldn’t stop staring at me. I sat down and got a compliment from the girl eyeing me. I didn’t take it as one.
She must be Queen Bee around here.
All through class I could hear her slowly judging me, even if it wasn’t out loud.
Today I really didn’t want to dress up, I already made my first impression and people didn’t seem too thrilled, and I didn’t really want them to think I’m dressing for them. I didn’t keep up on the fall trends, it wasn’t the way I expressed myself and I couldn’t afford it. I didn’t come from a family where you should keep up with the so called “trends” in fashion. I walked over to my locker having a conversation about the “populars” with my friends. Plus I didn’t care what they thought of me.
Perfection (Part 1 Only)
By Angie Perkins
I sit in the second row of desks. Two seats away from the girl that everyone knows. Even if you haven’t met her, you know the type. Overachiever. Best in the class. Probably even best in the school. At whatever she wants. Whatever she picks up that day. Must be in her genes, the ability to have everything.
Every day she comes in and sits, two seats away, wearing a picture perfect outfit, smiling and talking to the people around her. Making them laugh easily. Occasionally flashing smiles at people that seemed to light up the room. The people she spoke to shined just as brightly as her, until she turned back to her work. And then the glow seemed to slowly fade back to its origin.
I expect most people, deep down hate or envy her. Deep down they are hoping she finally fails as they succeed. Hoping that they too can have what she apparently does, perfection. I hear people asking her what she got on assignments, holding their own, ready to flaunt if she scored lower. And I see them lower their own paper, tuck it into a bag or push it under a binder as she beams and relays her perfect marks.
Every awards ceremony means her name is called. Every time she gets up, glowing with apparent shock and excitement, and sashays to receive her award. Gliding in heels as if barefoot. She smiles for pictures as her admirers applaud her success. They don’t even begin to capture her beauty, and yet she looks better than I ever have.
We all know her story, her life. Where she’s applying to school, or should I say, where’s she’s going to school. Because, obviously, she’ll get in no matter the odds. No one else could even possibly contest her.
On the field she plays, she runs, with a gracefulness others lack. She makes the cliché of “girls don’t sweat, they shine” a reality. She plays with ferocity, a hunger for success. And she gets it. Over and over and over again. She is unstoppable. She is unanimously MVP in every aspect. All she has played for and with rave about her, no matter the sport.
Much to every boy’s discontent she has a boyfriend. He is not her equal. She of course has no equal. But she dates him, loves him I expect from the looks she gives him. And he so clearly loves her back, from the way he talks to her, the way her looks at her. They emit a glow when together, so powerful that all other light pales in comparison. Their relationship is what we secretly hope ours can be, infinite and blissful.
She is everything we want to be. She is the embodiment of perfection. She is what will never be achieved because we, are not her.
Two seats away, in first period is as close as I get. As close as I dare. I fear speaking to her, fear that she will dismiss me quickly, fear I will never feel her glow warm me too. But today she is not two seats away. She simply is not. The room seems to lack something. It does not glow. Talk breaks out as usual, but it is not punctuated with her laughter, not laced with her voice. Something is missing. She is missing. And it feels wrong.
I can’t take it. I have to leave. Go somewhere, anywhere. Anywhere but here. The bathroom. The only foreseeable escape.
I get my pass and take time to walk to the farthest bathroom, savoring my escape. As the bathroom is within sight, I can hear something. A faint whine. A moan. A suppressed scream. I want to run, want to get away, but I am drawn, there is something in those cries that makes me want to go to them. I quicken my pace and open the door.
And there she is. Sitting on the ground. Clutching something in her hand. Crying as if mortally wounded. I can’t move, I can’t breathe. This is all wrong. There is no shine, no glow. Her face is blotchy, her hair matted. She is broken, the perfect girl is broken. The silent cheers that would be expressed by those she has beaten ring in my ears. This sight is a phenomenon they would all secretly kill to see.
When she looks at me, I do not feel warm, I do not mirror back her beauty. Instead I fill with dread, with darkness, I feel myself being dragged down into hell alongside her.
“What are you doing here?”
“Are you ok?”
“I said get out”
“Do you need help? I can go get someo-”
“No, I don’t need help, I’m…fine”. Her voice breaks on the last word. She can’t hold back her tears. The moans that briefly subsided as I entered once again fill the room, echoing off the dank tile walls. Reverberating pain and suffering that chills me to the core.
I walk over, as if possessed, to her side. I cannot let her suffer. I have to help. Have to fix her in some way. I crouch down, extending my arms. I expect her to lash out, to draw away, to yell again for me to “get out”.
But she does not. She pulls me next to her, melting into my arms. Shaking, and sobbing into my shirt. She does not stop, she cannot it seems, pull herself from the abyss. Something hard is pressing into my side, the thing clutched in her hand.
She slackens her grip and looks at me, with her red glassy eyes. “P-p-please, don’t t-t-tell anyone you saw me here.”
I go to nod, to promise my silence, when I catch a look at the thing in her hand. It’s a pregnancy test.
I look at it transfixed. She sees my gaze, and grabs my arm with her free hand. “Please.” There is more power packed into this word than I have heard in any speech. It holds so much in it’s balance. A reputation. A life. It is everything to her. My silence means everything.
“Are you-” I can’t bring myself to finish it my sentence.
“It’s ok-” I begin, but before I can finish, she laughs. A high mirthless laugh, that echoes even more horrifically around the room.
“It’s ok? It’s ok?! It is so far from ok! My parents will kick me out! Is that OK? My boyfriend, I just told him,” She gestures toward a phone on the floor, “is going to leave me! Is that OK!?! I can’t play sports! I can’t do anything! No college will want me! Everyone is going to see me and know. They will look at me with triumph and think to themselves good, she deserved it. My life is over. Is that OK!?” She falls quiet and the anger gives way to painstaking sadness. “I can’t have a baby, I’m only 17”
“I won’t tell,” I reach down to comfort her again, “I promise.”
She looks at me, with the eyes I’ve wished I had more times than I can remember, but now would only be favorable to the blind. She sobs still harder, her throat jerking, and her breathing ragged. And so she breaks. Every part of her. In this moment she is just as flawed as any of us.