Living Dead Girls
Not So Average A Day
I pulled up to school on October 13th, the first day of my junior year. I parked my car against the chain link fence and sat on the hood of my very average Honda Civic, in the very average parking lot of the very average Forks High.
I, unlike the rest of the student body, was alone -- which wasn't much of a difference from the norm for me. I was the girl who worked in her parents record store. The freak who thought she could see ghosts.
I heard a collective gasp from the other early kids and kept my eyes on the page of my favorite Agatha Christie novel. I assumed they were about to make some crack about seeing fake people, but no joke ever came.
My head snapped up at the sound of two engines battling each other for most powerful. One was a loud purr, singing its own song of imported power, while the other was a roar of fully restored, vintage American muscle.
I gaped as the two vehicles fighting coasted into spaces side by side not too far from me. They were beautiful, and with the exception of the mayor's daughter's car, a shiny new Chevy Impala, they were the best cars in the lot.
"Holy shit! Do you SEE that car?" Dylan Murphy whispered to Christian Walters. "It must've cost a fortune. It must be brand new. They don't have that body style out yet."
I rolled my eyes and went to stand next to them. "It's not new. It's a fully restored 1967 Ford Shelby Mustang GT500." I stated smugly.
Dylan looked over at me. "Did your ghosts tell you that?" he questioned harshly.
I ignored him and pushed through the crowd of onlookers and my 'ghosts' to better see the cars. I stood at the front of the two vehicles, right between them and watched.
The driver, a girl with pitch-colored hair exited the Mustang first. Her face was a mask of concentration until the front passenger, a boy with the same colored hair and same honey-hued eyes caught her about the waist. She visably relaxed and turned her back to the group.
The next duo to exit the car was a boy of incomprehensible size. He looked no more in a mood to fight than a canary, but his posture and the way his biceps flexed of their own accord put everyone on edge. The woman with him had radiant blond hair, the kind Amanda Newton only dreamed of being able to reproduce, and the same eyes as the intimidating boy and the other two.
To the average onlooker, they seemed as though they would be shooting a Gucci commercial rather than walking towards the Hell known as small town high school.
My gaze was averted to the second car where a couple, looking much like the others exited, holding hands and ignoring the crowd of gawkers. The last to leave the car was a boy who looked more like a colored in version of the statue of David than an actual person. If his mouth hadn't been turned down at the corners in a grimace of remembered pain, he could have easily been an angel in a renaissance painting.
As I watched him turn to follow the others, my lungs quit working. I'd seen this pained angel before. He was one of my imaginary friends. The first, in face, and the most frequent. My eyes widened impossibly large and he stopped suddenly, turning to face us. His eyes found my face instantly, not very difficult considering I looked like a flounder, and he glared at me.
No, glared, wouldn't be the right word. He didn't have to glare. His darkened amber eyes watched me with so much intensity, I could've sworn I was going to combust at any moment. My instincts finally caught up with me and I tore through the crowd, snatching my backpack from my passenger seat and sprinted to my homeroom class.
I sat in the far back and replayed over and over why my imaginary friend would suddenly be able to see me. Then the unlikely alternative that he was real, and then the more likely alternative to that: I had finally gone completely insane and was fabricating people.
It wasn't long before Mr. Jones, my homeroom teacher was crouched beside me, trying to calm me down ehough to get me to breathe properly. Then the intense eyes were in my line of vision. A muffled sound, like someone was saying my name underwater a foot too far from my ears. I glanced up to see the driver of the Mustang looking at me from next to the statue, looking amused, and then I finally blacked out.
I, unlike the rest of the student body, was alone -- which wasn't much of a difference from the norm for me. I was the girl who worked in her parents record store. The freak who thought she could see ghosts.
I heard a collective gasp from the other early kids and kept my eyes on the page of my favorite Agatha Christie novel. I assumed they were about to make some crack about seeing fake people, but no joke ever came.
My head snapped up at the sound of two engines battling each other for most powerful. One was a loud purr, singing its own song of imported power, while the other was a roar of fully restored, vintage American muscle.
I gaped as the two vehicles fighting coasted into spaces side by side not too far from me. They were beautiful, and with the exception of the mayor's daughter's car, a shiny new Chevy Impala, they were the best cars in the lot.
"Holy shit! Do you SEE that car?" Dylan Murphy whispered to Christian Walters. "It must've cost a fortune. It must be brand new. They don't have that body style out yet."
I rolled my eyes and went to stand next to them. "It's not new. It's a fully restored 1967 Ford Shelby Mustang GT500." I stated smugly.
Dylan looked over at me. "Did your ghosts tell you that?" he questioned harshly.
I ignored him and pushed through the crowd of onlookers and my 'ghosts' to better see the cars. I stood at the front of the two vehicles, right between them and watched.
The driver, a girl with pitch-colored hair exited the Mustang first. Her face was a mask of concentration until the front passenger, a boy with the same colored hair and same honey-hued eyes caught her about the waist. She visably relaxed and turned her back to the group.
The next duo to exit the car was a boy of incomprehensible size. He looked no more in a mood to fight than a canary, but his posture and the way his biceps flexed of their own accord put everyone on edge. The woman with him had radiant blond hair, the kind Amanda Newton only dreamed of being able to reproduce, and the same eyes as the intimidating boy and the other two.
To the average onlooker, they seemed as though they would be shooting a Gucci commercial rather than walking towards the Hell known as small town high school.
My gaze was averted to the second car where a couple, looking much like the others exited, holding hands and ignoring the crowd of gawkers. The last to leave the car was a boy who looked more like a colored in version of the statue of David than an actual person. If his mouth hadn't been turned down at the corners in a grimace of remembered pain, he could have easily been an angel in a renaissance painting.
As I watched him turn to follow the others, my lungs quit working. I'd seen this pained angel before. He was one of my imaginary friends. The first, in face, and the most frequent. My eyes widened impossibly large and he stopped suddenly, turning to face us. His eyes found my face instantly, not very difficult considering I looked like a flounder, and he glared at me.
No, glared, wouldn't be the right word. He didn't have to glare. His darkened amber eyes watched me with so much intensity, I could've sworn I was going to combust at any moment. My instincts finally caught up with me and I tore through the crowd, snatching my backpack from my passenger seat and sprinted to my homeroom class.
I sat in the far back and replayed over and over why my imaginary friend would suddenly be able to see me. Then the unlikely alternative that he was real, and then the more likely alternative to that: I had finally gone completely insane and was fabricating people.
It wasn't long before Mr. Jones, my homeroom teacher was crouched beside me, trying to calm me down ehough to get me to breathe properly. Then the intense eyes were in my line of vision. A muffled sound, like someone was saying my name underwater a foot too far from my ears. I glanced up to see the driver of the Mustang looking at me from next to the statue, looking amused, and then I finally blacked out.