The Confessions of Lucy Smith
Meet Tommy
The Confessions of Lucy Smith
Confession #1:
I hate switching schools with a passion.
Okay, so.
School.
Breathe, kiddo. It’s just school.
Just a new school. A HUGE new school.
Yeah, school. No biggie.
I stepped off the curb and crossed the street into the courtyard of Rising Heights Academy. It was supposed to be for exceptionally gifted kids, but they excepted me, so they must not be to picky.
I pushed my messenger bag higher on my shoulder and walked into the school.
Motherfucker. This place is huge. Okay, so it’s big. No problem. Just go find the reception thing. We can do this, I told myself.
I walked over to the front office and smiled at the middle-aged receptionist.
“Hi, I’m Lucy Smith. I’m new,” I said. She glared up at me and grunted in understanding. Well, you’re just a charmer aren’t cha?
“Lucille?” She asked.
Oh, how I hate my full name.
“I prefer Lucy.”
She shoved my schedule and locker information at me.
“Here’s a map of the school, if you have any trouble finding anything, let us know and we’ll do our best to help you,” she recited as she put a complicated diagram on top of my schedule.
“Get your teachers to sign this slip,” she passed me a piece of paper, “And bring it back at the end of the day.”
“Okay,” I took all the papers and thanked her.
I turned on my heel and went searching for my new locker.
109… 111… 113…. Gah, this is gonna take forever.
253… 255… Here it is, 257. Finally.
I quickly put in the combination and observed the super good cleaning job its former occupant had done.
Not.
There were old stickers stuck all over and gum wrappers scattered at the bottom. I made a mental note to bring cleaning supplies the next day.
I shrugged my coat off of my thin frame and hung it along with my bag. I grabbed the schedule and map.
What’s first? Um, let’s see… AP Art History.
Oh joy.
I started walking in what I thought might be the right direction with my nose buried in the map I was trying to memorize.
CRASH!
I felt something big smash into me and my papers go flying as I fell to the floor.
“Mofo!” I shouted. That hurt. Jeez.
Brushing my bangs out of my face and picking up my papers, I looked up to see the most beautiful man I had ever seen in my life.
His dark curls were messy and his perfect features were arranged into an adorable look of confusion. He evidently had also fallen down.
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry! I didn’t see you. I’m so freaking clumsy,” he exclaimed in a high-pitched, girlish voice.
Please don’t be gay, please don’t be gay.
“Oh, its okay, I wasn’t looking where I was going,” I replied.
“Here, let me help you with those, honey.”
Damnit.
“I’m Tommy by the way. Who’re you? I’ve never seen you before. Ooo, are you new? I just love new people,” he prattled, smiling at me.
“I’m Lucy. I just moved here from New York.” This was true. I didn’t usually tell strangers the truth. I liked to lie and see if they caught it. But something about Tommy made me want to tell him my deepest, darkest secrets while we were painting our toenails and sipping strawberry daiquiris.
“Well, honey, you’re lucky you met me. I’ll show you everything there is to see in this godforsaken place. Oh goodness, we’re sitting in the middle of the hallway. Haha, didn’t notice,” he helped me up and put his arm through mine.
“Let’s see,” he grabbed my schedule and scanned it. “Oh my God, honey. You’re like, freaking Einstein.”
Confession #2:
I am not Einstein: I hate math.
“Eh, I guess so. It’s no fun.”
Confession #3:
I’m kinda a pessimist.
“Ooo, well you’re lucky I’m kinda a genius too. We have like, all our classes together. Oh my God, this is so exciting! I love newbies!”
“That’s great,” I said, trying to be optimistic. My sister tells me to be optimistic sometimes in her therapist voice. She’s a freshman in college studying to be an adolescent psychologist and she tries out her therapist voice on me. She sucks at it, but I try to make it look like it’s working.
Whoa, way off topic there.
I tuned back into Tommy who was rambling on about how we should have a studying sleepover and a George Clooney movie marathon.
“… because he’s just so dreamy, ya’ know? In my opinion, he should be McDreamy, not Patrick. Don’t get me wrong, Patty’s a dreamboat. But there’s just something about George’s ruggedness, don’t you think?”
“Um, I guess. I don’t really pay attention to that kind of thing.” This was also true. In New York, I had been a party girl; I’d met celebrities. I had connections, phone numbers, you name it. But boy, had that fucked up. My very best friend in the world got really screwed up because of my bad habits. So I stopped the partying. My parents sent me here, to California. But that’s all for another time.
Confession #4:
Life’s a bitch.
“How can you not pay attention to the most beautiful people on the planet? Oh hun, you are just so lucky you met me. Now, enough chit-chat, kitty cat. Let’s party it on over to Art History!” Tommy crowed.
Tommy seemed like one of those people that you can’t help but be happy around. He was going to be a big help this year.
We arrived at the Art History room with seconds to spare. Tommy slipped out of my arm and headed over to an empty table as I shyly walked up to the teacher.
“Hi, I’m Lucy Smith. I’m supposed to get you to sign this.”
“Huh? Oh, right. The new girl, mhmm. I’m Mr. Hector, the teacher of this class. Here’s the syllabus and class information.”
Jeez. I thought. This school gives you a crapload of paper work.
Mr. Hector was probably in his mid 40’s with graying hair and glasses. His eyes were bright and attentive; he seemed nice.
“Well, why don’t you go sit down next to Tommy there and we’ll get started.”
Confession #1:
I hate switching schools with a passion.
Okay, so.
School.
Breathe, kiddo. It’s just school.
Just a new school. A HUGE new school.
Yeah, school. No biggie.
I stepped off the curb and crossed the street into the courtyard of Rising Heights Academy. It was supposed to be for exceptionally gifted kids, but they excepted me, so they must not be to picky.
I pushed my messenger bag higher on my shoulder and walked into the school.
Motherfucker. This place is huge. Okay, so it’s big. No problem. Just go find the reception thing. We can do this, I told myself.
I walked over to the front office and smiled at the middle-aged receptionist.
“Hi, I’m Lucy Smith. I’m new,” I said. She glared up at me and grunted in understanding. Well, you’re just a charmer aren’t cha?
“Lucille?” She asked.
Oh, how I hate my full name.
“I prefer Lucy.”
She shoved my schedule and locker information at me.
“Here’s a map of the school, if you have any trouble finding anything, let us know and we’ll do our best to help you,” she recited as she put a complicated diagram on top of my schedule.
“Get your teachers to sign this slip,” she passed me a piece of paper, “And bring it back at the end of the day.”
“Okay,” I took all the papers and thanked her.
I turned on my heel and went searching for my new locker.
109… 111… 113…. Gah, this is gonna take forever.
253… 255… Here it is, 257. Finally.
I quickly put in the combination and observed the super good cleaning job its former occupant had done.
Not.
There were old stickers stuck all over and gum wrappers scattered at the bottom. I made a mental note to bring cleaning supplies the next day.
I shrugged my coat off of my thin frame and hung it along with my bag. I grabbed the schedule and map.
What’s first? Um, let’s see… AP Art History.
Oh joy.
I started walking in what I thought might be the right direction with my nose buried in the map I was trying to memorize.
CRASH!
I felt something big smash into me and my papers go flying as I fell to the floor.
“Mofo!” I shouted. That hurt. Jeez.
Brushing my bangs out of my face and picking up my papers, I looked up to see the most beautiful man I had ever seen in my life.
His dark curls were messy and his perfect features were arranged into an adorable look of confusion. He evidently had also fallen down.
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry! I didn’t see you. I’m so freaking clumsy,” he exclaimed in a high-pitched, girlish voice.
Please don’t be gay, please don’t be gay.
“Oh, its okay, I wasn’t looking where I was going,” I replied.
“Here, let me help you with those, honey.”
Damnit.
“I’m Tommy by the way. Who’re you? I’ve never seen you before. Ooo, are you new? I just love new people,” he prattled, smiling at me.
“I’m Lucy. I just moved here from New York.” This was true. I didn’t usually tell strangers the truth. I liked to lie and see if they caught it. But something about Tommy made me want to tell him my deepest, darkest secrets while we were painting our toenails and sipping strawberry daiquiris.
“Well, honey, you’re lucky you met me. I’ll show you everything there is to see in this godforsaken place. Oh goodness, we’re sitting in the middle of the hallway. Haha, didn’t notice,” he helped me up and put his arm through mine.
“Let’s see,” he grabbed my schedule and scanned it. “Oh my God, honey. You’re like, freaking Einstein.”
Confession #2:
I am not Einstein: I hate math.
“Eh, I guess so. It’s no fun.”
Confession #3:
I’m kinda a pessimist.
“Ooo, well you’re lucky I’m kinda a genius too. We have like, all our classes together. Oh my God, this is so exciting! I love newbies!”
“That’s great,” I said, trying to be optimistic. My sister tells me to be optimistic sometimes in her therapist voice. She’s a freshman in college studying to be an adolescent psychologist and she tries out her therapist voice on me. She sucks at it, but I try to make it look like it’s working.
Whoa, way off topic there.
I tuned back into Tommy who was rambling on about how we should have a studying sleepover and a George Clooney movie marathon.
“… because he’s just so dreamy, ya’ know? In my opinion, he should be McDreamy, not Patrick. Don’t get me wrong, Patty’s a dreamboat. But there’s just something about George’s ruggedness, don’t you think?”
“Um, I guess. I don’t really pay attention to that kind of thing.” This was also true. In New York, I had been a party girl; I’d met celebrities. I had connections, phone numbers, you name it. But boy, had that fucked up. My very best friend in the world got really screwed up because of my bad habits. So I stopped the partying. My parents sent me here, to California. But that’s all for another time.
Confession #4:
Life’s a bitch.
“How can you not pay attention to the most beautiful people on the planet? Oh hun, you are just so lucky you met me. Now, enough chit-chat, kitty cat. Let’s party it on over to Art History!” Tommy crowed.
Tommy seemed like one of those people that you can’t help but be happy around. He was going to be a big help this year.
We arrived at the Art History room with seconds to spare. Tommy slipped out of my arm and headed over to an empty table as I shyly walked up to the teacher.
“Hi, I’m Lucy Smith. I’m supposed to get you to sign this.”
“Huh? Oh, right. The new girl, mhmm. I’m Mr. Hector, the teacher of this class. Here’s the syllabus and class information.”
Jeez. I thought. This school gives you a crapload of paper work.
Mr. Hector was probably in his mid 40’s with graying hair and glasses. His eyes were bright and attentive; he seemed nice.
“Well, why don’t you go sit down next to Tommy there and we’ll get started.”