Chapter 1

London stared at the clock and watched the seconds of her agony slowly tick away. English was always a torture; she hated listening to her teacher’s crack-pot ideas and then pretending to agree with them. Today they were reviewing sixth grade grammar rules since Mrs. Jones had found their papers so disappointing. Little did she realize that the people who didn’t pay attention in sixth grade weren’t going to pay attention now that they were sophomores. London was one of those people; in her opinion, any idiot should have been able to figure this out just by reading a couple of books.
  Instead of listening to the different uses of colons versus semi-colons, London was watching the brunette boy in front of her make beautiful pictures out of nothing more than a mechanical pencil and cheap lined paper. He drew pictures of people in their class, usually adding something odd, like a mole or an eyebrow piercing before flipping the page. London loved to see his hands make smooth lines that magically turned into noses, hair, shoulders, and glasses. She had the shape of his hands memorized and got flutters in her stomach every time they picked up a number two. They were average size, with square nail beds and a few random freckles here and there. London didn’t know about the rest of him, but he sure had a fine pair of hands.

                The bell finally rang at 2:50 and London hastily pushed her empty notebook next to Middlemarch in her backpack. Reading was always a heavenly refuge for her, but writing was near torture. She hated grammar, she hated her teacher’s ideas, and she hated writing boring book reports about Tom Sawyer. What was it about Mark Twain that everyone loved? There was no beautiful flare in his language – only flat depictions of a life slightly more depressing than her own.

                London left English and forced her way into the crowded hallway. Trying to get from one class to another was like trying to leave a burning theater. Everyone desperately pushed and elbowed their way through. She hated it when the seniors grabbed her backpack and swung her out of the way. She wore her backpack over one shoulder so that she had a better chance of avoiding a face crunch into the wall. High school was brutal. She hated it.

London’s last class was gym. This probably would have been her least favorite, but Abigail was there, so it got second place on her list of “worst torments endured upon receiving a high school diploma”. They had the most uncreative gym teacher of all time. First semester they swam laps every day, second semester they ran laps every day. And to top it off, he was a major pervert. This was still first semester so London had to undergo the humiliation of wearing a one piece swimsuit that only covered about half her lower set of cheeks. Mr. Leonard loved this.

London slammed her locker shut and anxiously pulled down her swimsuit.

            “No use Chica, your buttocks will be bared like everybody else’s.” Abigail pulled her hair into a ponytail and tossed London the brush.

            “I’m pretty sure my bulging butt creates more drag than a snug pair of shorts would.”

            “We have to wear these school issued suits because creepy Mr. Leonard likes to stare at our butts during diving. The boys don’t have to wear Speedos; so I guess we can be sure Mr. Leonard isn’t gay.”

            London shuddered, “This is so wrong.”

            “Welcome to the system. You are under their power and must suffer the necessary humiliations.” Abigail wrapped a towel around her waist and headed for the pool.

            As soon as they reached the bench Mr. Leonard yelled, “Abigail, no towels.”

Abigail nodded her head and regretfully removed it from her waist. “Everyone acts like teenagers are so obsessed with sex and drugs, but I think adults are just as bad.”

“At least the ones who work in high schools; they only teach so they can continue creeping on freshman girls and getting drunk every weekend without feeling like a loser.”

“Seriously.”

Both girls jumped into the pool and began doing warm-ups. Mr. Leonard made the girls stand in front of the boys so he could get a better view. This meant that the back row of girls was reserved for those with a self-esteem established on immodesty and who found pleasure in being ogled by nasty teenage boys. The middle row was where everyone normal tried to be, and the front row was for the poor girls who were always late and, therefore, continually molested by Mr. Leonard’s stare. Abigail and London headed for the very crowded middle row so the boys couldn’t see their butts and Mr. Leonard couldn’t stare at their chests. London felt bad for the girls forced to be in the front row today, but she wasn’t about to take degradation on their behalf.

“I was wondering if you would do me a favor,” Abigail said as she reluctantly put both arms over her head and stretched.

“Not a chance.” London and Abigail had very little in common, and when Abigail asked for a favor it usually meant doing something only she would like.

“Oh, please. It will only take like an hour and I really don’t want to do it alone. I need you there for support,” Abigail said in a whiney tone.

“Don’t try and guilt me into anything. It only makes me want to do it even less.”

“Okay, fine. I just wanted to audition for the fall play and - ”

London almost whacked the girl next to her in the face. “No way! I am not auditioning for some stupid play. You can do that on your own.”

Abigail began bouncing up and down. “Oh come on. It will only take like an hour and it is The Crucible. You love Arthur Miller.”

“Correction. I love reading Arthur Miller, not performing him.”

“It is pretty much the same thing. All you have to do is read him out loud.” Abigail turned toward London with big eyes, “Oh, please, please, please. It would mean the world to me.”

“If that is your world, then I am sorry for you.” London watched Abigail pout for a few seconds before finally saying, “Fine. I’ll do it. But you owe me big time.”

Abigail clapped her hands, “Yay! I love you so much! Thank you, thank you, thank you, I promise you won’t regret it.”

London just scoffed, “I’ve heard that before.”