Under My Skin

There is a note in my locker.

I’m not sure where it came from, but it’s just sitting there, all folded neatly and perfect, with my name on it. And I’m standing here, staring at it like the moron that I am.

“Hey, Crys!” a voice calls, my head snapping in the direction of the sound. A girl with long, red hair comes tumbling at me, along with recognition of who it is. Her name is Chelsea Stalls, aka my best friend and self-proclaimed dork! She’s actually very pretty, even with the flaming red hair color. Her eyes are this bottle green color, and they are also quite large. She can pull off the innocent, puppy-dog look professionally, in my opinion. My best friend also doesn’t need to wear a lot of make-up to look stunning; she has that natural beauty about her, which I envy. I can’t live a day without putting on eye-liner, at the least.

“Chelsea, hey,” I greet, putting a smile upon my face. It’s genuine, I promise, because Chelsea is the kind of person who can lift a mood with the snap of her fingers.

She returns the smile and I notice her teeth aren’t covered by the braces she is supposed to have on. Has the time passed that quickly?

“Nice teeth! You finally got your braces off?” I question, almost excitedly. She’s been waiting to get her braces off ever since she had gotten them on, in the seventh grade. A long time, if you ask me.

“I know! It feels so awesome! I don’t have to deal with getting food stuck in between the wires, anymore! I feel so free,” she beams, bouncing on her heels, her smile growing wider. I giggle at her antics.

“I can only guess,” I say before turning back to my locker. The bell has rung and I’m late to my Psychology class. The note catches my eye again, but I ignore it for the text book that I’m going to need.

“Do I see a note in that locker of yours?” Chelsea asks, moving in closer to where I’m standing so she can get a better look inside. I don’t want her to see it, however, so after I have my book in my hand, I slam the locker closed before she has the chance.

“It’s just a couple of note papers from classes that I took. I, uh, just sort of left them in there, because they aren’t really that important,” I excuse, glancing at her uneasily. But it’s too late to convince her of anything else. Her eyes are sparked with curiosity. The skepticism begins!

“Who’s it from?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did you read it?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t really want to know, Chelsea. Can you stop with the questionnaire, please?”

We walk down the halls together, side by side. I am exasperated and Chelsea’s imagining all of the possibilities of that note. I know her well enough, by now, to know that she would be doing something like that… I’ve been friends with her since fourth grade. Which means, she’s not going to leave the subject alone, now. Oh, joy.

“Do you want me to read the note for you?” she suggests, and I sigh, shaking my head at her.

“Sure, it might be better off that way, anyway. You should probably get to that Calculus class, though. You are very late,” I claim and she smirks, giving a nod.

“Yeah, I may be late. But you are, too.”

“Thank you, Captain Obvious. Now, go!”

She lets out a small, girlish giggle as she turns around and starts to skip down the hallway like a little kid. Sometimes I worry about her… Just not at moments like these where I’m super late for Psychology. Miss Massa is not going to be happy with me. Oh well. I’m almost at her classroom, and I know it’s too late to turn back, now.

When I finally reach the door, I grab the knob and twist it. Walking in, I can definitely feel all eyes on me, but I avoid making eye contact with anyone, at all costs. Miss Massa is the exception, thus there is some amount of respect that she has for me, because I’m one of few students who aren’t afraid of her. She deserves that much, the eye contact, I mean.

“You’re late,” Miss Massa states simply, sternly, tapping her foot on the tiles floor, presenting her impatience with me. I lift my eyes, meeting her stare and keeping it for a few seconds before I respond.

“I know.”

“This is the fifth time in two weeks. It needs to stop. One more late day, and you’ve got yourself a free trip to detention, you hear?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“All right. Good. Please, take a seat, Ms. Peterson.”

The eye contact breaks after the confrontation and I simply nod, rushing to the back row of the classroom. The seat that I usually sit in is taken, I note, when I approach it. Gazing at the person who has taken my favorite spot captive is only… Hayden James… the boy of my nightmares!

Why me?

Hayden smirks at me cockily; I roll my eyes. He really needs to have his ego deflated. You see, he is one of those guys that have the right looks in order to be considered “hot” by the female population. Most of the female population at our school adores this kid. But he’s a jerkface, and I don’t know what girls see in him.

“Move your feet, lose your seat, Topher!” he sneers, using the nickname he created for me, back in the eighth grade. My nickname is Crys, but he took it and made me into a Christopher. Hence, Topher. He never bothers using any other names; whatever floats his boat, I guess.

“Yeah, I noticed, Haydumb.” I retaliate, noticing the only other empty seat in the room is next to him. Rolling my eyes, I throw my bag and books on the floor, sitting down beside him. He leans over to me, whispering.

“It’s not nice to call people names, you know,” he teases, but I snarl at him, warning his ugly face to leave me alone. He leans back, throwing his hands in the air, surrendering. I have only won this battle, but the war rages on.

I almost lose track of what class I’m in until I actually pay attention, so I face the front board, bringing my mind back into reality.

Psychology pushes Chelsea, the note, and Hayden to the back of my mind.