“Shit, shit, shit,” I scream as I skid through my kitchen. I grab the first breakfast-like thing in my path and begin the epic search for my car keys.

“Leana!” my mother protests while pouring her coffee.

“No time for a lecture,” I gasp as I finally rescue my keys from a pile of mail and post-its. “ First period starts in five minutes.”

“Let the girl curse.” My grandmother heckles from her seat at the kitchen table. “Better she have a sharp tongue than a pierced one.” Although it sounds like my grandmother is trying to defend me, I know she is not. I stick my unpierced and pink tongue out at her as I fly out the door.

As I’m cruising towards the high school at just a tinsy bit over the speed limit, my thoughts turn to my grandmother. She is always making not-quite-rude remarks about my appearance, trying to be subtle with her disapproval. She thinks that just because I happen to love rock and punk music that I am some kind of rebel without a cause. I mean, I don’t even dress all that punk, though it is true that I do have punkish tendencies. But my style is more eclectic than anything else. I’m not sure what her problem is, because I’m a far cry from the kids who stay out in the schools parking lot during classes, doing doughnuts. Of course I am thinking about getting “Grandma” tattooed on my forehead just to tick her off….

Anyway, at least my grandmother is subtle about her criticism, unlike my mother. I’ve always thought that it was weird the way my mother obsesses over my appearance. For one thing she is always telling me that I would look “so cute as a blonde.” That’s right, my mother is possibly the only mother in the world that wants her daughter to dye her hair. She’s also always trying to get me to dress “like all the other kids your age,” as she puts it. Unfortunately for me, that entails comfort pullovers and sweatshirts from the Gap and Abercrombie and Fitch. Uhg.

What my mother can’t seem to grasp is how there’s no chance in Hell that I would ever consider doing either of those things. For one thing, I’m addicted to fashion. True, I tend to favor rocker chic, but I will never surrender to the evil that is Abercrombie and Fitch. Besides “all the other kids my age” pretty much wouldn’t know style if it bit them in a not-so-nice place. Jeans and Abercrombie shirts are practically the uniform at my school. I think they might even have an endorsement deal with the cheerleaders.

And if there’s no chance in Hell that I’ll ever dress the way my mom wants, then there’s even less of a chance that I’ll dye my hair. I will definitely admit that my hair is the one thing that I am totally vain about. I love my hair. It’s naturally dark, almost black, the same exact color of my eyes. I wear it long, down to my waist, and it curls at the ends. If anyone ever came near my hair with scissors or hair dye, I’d kick their ass before you could say “attitude problem.”

My mother however, has no appreciation for her natural gifts. She should be the kid, and I should be the parent telling her that she’s “beautiful the way she is.” We’re Romanian (which I think is one of the most kick-ass things about my life), but you would never know it looking at her. We’re both dark haired, with dark eyes and extremely pale skin. But my mother has made use of the wonders of blonde hair dye and tanning salons to completely reverse her genetic appearance. She even wears blue color contacts! The way she and my grandmother carry on sometimes makes me hope that I’m not the great-grand daughter of some escaped Nazi.

Pulling myself away from my thoughts, I skid into the school parking lot with at least thirty seconds to spare. As soon as the ignition is off, I jump out of the car and make a dash for the door. I throw a cheerful wave to the drugies, for good measure, as I fly past them. Well maybe they’re the ones flying, but whatever.

I manage to make it to first period only two minutes late. My teacher is used to it by now, so he just gives me a disapproving look and turns back to his extra large coffee. Even teachers know that seven thirty in the morning is an ungodly hour to learn at. I slip into my seat in the back of the class and look at the problems on the board. I groan inwardly, math is my least favorite thing in the world, next to Abercrombie and Fitch. Over the course of this year, pre-calculus and I have built a solid reputation as mortal enemies, so I pull my ipod out of my bag before laying into the problems. There is no way that I can do math at seven thirty in the morning without something to cover the screaming inside my head.

As soon as the sounds of Fall Out Boy reach my ears, I grin and relax. Yes, that’s right, I, Ileana Cosmina Marinescu, am a Fall Out Boy junkie. Don’t get me wrong, they’re not the only band or style that I like. I am a total mixed up, eclectic, loser-freak when it comes to music. It keeps life interesting. My other vices include The Goo Goo Dolls, The Hush Sound, Metallica, Counting Crows, and Guns ‘n’ Roses, just to name a few. I have just finished the fifth problem and am about halfway through “Champagne for my Real Friends, Real Pain for my Sham Friends”, when the bell rings. Ah the sweet sound of freedom. I cram everything into my bag and make for the door like it’s a lifeboat on the Titanic.

As soon as I’m among the crush of students in the hall, I begin fighting towards my locker. When I finally reach it I take a moment to scowl at the horribly oppressive, now passing crowd, and take a moment to smooth my clothes. Today’s ensemble consists of a short, empire waist plaid jumper with a high, thick black belt. Underneath I have a black scoop neck t-shirt and a pair of black leggings. And of course my fabulous plaid ballerina flats complete the look. I like my style, and I put time into it, at least more time than I put into my math homework. I mean when has pre-calculus ever looked cute, or helped me meet a boy?

I open my locker, and start to rummage through the array of loose papers, books, and various objects that I don’t remember ever putting in my locker.

“Hey.” Even though the voice is familiar, I still jump at the sound.

“How do you manage to sneak up on my everyday?” I ask as I turn to face my best friend, Fi.

She shrugs her shoulders. “ I’m small, and you have Fall Out Boy on the brain?”

“That is true,” I agree. Its definitely true that that Fi is small; she’s an even five feet and petite to boot. She always manages to sneak up on my, although one look at her tells you that she’s hard to miss. If I am an imitation punk, she’s the real deal; all goth, all the time. Her naturally blonde hair is pixie-cut, and dyed black with streaks of electric blue that are the exact same shade as her bright blue eyes. Her lightly freckled, button nose is pierced with a cute, and in my opinion, tasteful, stud. She is probably one of the only people I know who can pull off a nose ring, probably because she’s freaking gorgeous. Fi’s tough look is one of the things I like about her. She’s an individual. I always tell her that she makes one cute, scary little pixie.

Most people would take Fi for a bad kid based on her look. They’d probably peg her as part of the boozing, stoner, parking lot crowd I mentioned earlier. But one of the things that’s cool about Fi is that she’s not like that. I mean, she still rejects authority and has a tough rep, but she’s not a druggie.

I’m one of the only people who know the truth about Fi’s dark past. She used to be one of those kids who’d skip school and booze it up or get high. Mostly it was because that’s the way her mom was, so Fi would steal from her stash and get wasted. Not to mention that the crowd she hung out with at the time was minus a few vital brain cells. But one night a couple years ago, one of her mom’s loser boyfriends tried to rape Fi. That’s when she got the hell out of her mom’s house and turned herself over to Child Services. After that, she went to live with her totally cool foster-parents. Since then, Fi’s cleaned her act up, if not her look. She’s made new friends (like me) and is doing really well with her life. But she can still kick ass and take names, so people don’t generally mess with her.

“ So today’s the day, isn’t it?” her face was full of concern.

“ Yeah,” I answered, knowing instantly what she meant. “Is it written all over my face?”

“ Kind of, but only cuz I know.”

I sighed. Fi knows that today is the day that I’m going to break up with Nick. Yes, shock of all shocks, I actually have a guy! Nick and I have been going out for a few months now, but it just isn’t working out. It’s nothing horribly dramatic; there just aren’t any sparks between us anymore. We’re more like friends now, and as corny as it sounds, I’m looking for something more than that in a relationship. But he’s a great guy; so breaking up with him isn’t going to be easy. I’ll probably kick myself for it later, but I know it’s the right thing to do. Staying with him would be just like leading him on, just so I can have a boyfriend. I’d drown myself if I thought that I was that shallow.

Fi puts her hand on my shoulder. “You can do this Lean. It’s for the best.”

“ I know, but it’s so not gonna be easy. I feel like such a jerk, and I haven’t even done it yet.”

Fi just sighs. “Get used to it, we all feel like jerks most of the time. You’ve gotta get over this guilt thing. Take me for example, I have absolutely no intention of going to english class today, and I have no remorse.”

I raise my eyebrows at her. “ You never feel guilty about cutting, I mean all you do is go to the piano room and play all period.”

“Exactly, I’m doing what makes me happy. It’s not so wrong. Besides, I went to english class yesterday.”

“Well I’ve got history next. I’m gonna talk to Nick after that.” I shut my locker and grab my bag. “ Gotta go. I’ll see you later.”

I head towards my class, and as I’m leaving I hear Fi yell. “You’re gonna be fine.” Yeah, easy for her to say. Some of us aren’t as fabulous and confident as she is.

I slip into the sweet reprieve of history class a few moments early. Yeah, that’s right, I just called history class sweet. Yet another one of my many quirks is that I love history. I don’t really know why, but I’m fascinated by the past. Plus, I was able to get into the advanced history class this year, and I’m actually managing to ace it. Actually, I think that it pisses off my guidance councilor that I can ace advanced history and english yet still suck so much at math, science, and life in general. Ah, the wonders of the teenage attention span!

At the very least, today the period distracts me from the unpleasant task in my very near future. As we begin our discussion of the French Revolution, I actually start to feel a little better. I mean, I’m breaking up with a guy, it’s not like I’m over-taxing peasants or guillotining anyone’s head off. But the bell rings too soon, and I reluctantly gather my stuff and head out the door.

“ Leana, are you sick or something?” one girl asks as we’re leaving class. Yeah, maybe I’m not so good with conflict. I decide that I had better get this over with as soon as possible. With any luck, I’ll pass out before I have to go to Chemistry.

Nick is waiting for me out in the hall. He is leaning against the lockers, tall and athletic as usual. His sandy blond hair is spiked back and his genuine smile makes me feel like I was kicked in the stomach. Back when we were first dating, the sight of him used to make me get all jittery and fuzzy inside, but I know that I haven’t felt that way around him in a long time. And the worst part is how he pretends not to notice my indifference. It makes me feel like an ice-queen, when I’m just being honest to myself.

As soon as I reach him, he wraps one arm around my waist and kisses me on the lips. Does he have to make this so hard for me? The kiss still feels good, but not the way it used to feel when we kissed. Kissing him now is like kissing an attractive stranger, enjoyable but somehow empty. Maybe I’m a romantic, but I want more than a relationship that’s gone cold.

“Hey babe.” He smiles as we part. I refrain from rolling my eyes. I used to think that the way he calls me babe was adorable. Now I feel like a cheesy fake actress at doing lunch with her agent. I take a deep breath and prepare myself for the plunge.

“Nick,” I manage to spit out. “We need to talk.” I give him a meaningful look. “ It’s about us.” I can’t bring myself to look him in the eyes; for fear that what I see will cause me to chicken out.

“What about us?”

“ Things just haven’t been the same between us lately. I think that we should you know, try being friends and see other people. What we have just feels more like a friendship now.” By this point my voice is little more than a squeak. I am such a wimp. I chance taking a peek at his face. I see a flash of sadness in his eyes, followed by resilient anger.

“Liana, you’re not breaking up with me. You can’t.”

Okay, I started off feeling sorry for the guy, but now I’m getting pissed. Who does he think he is? I mean the fact that this relationship is not working out is at least half his fault. “Yes I can, and I am.”

He grabs my arm, though not hard. I’m not scared by his anger, I mean he is a jock but he’s no football player. He’s not a particularly scary guy. But I’m getting annoyed. I push his hand away.

“Nick, don’t do this. I want us to be friends. But you can’t tell me what to do.”

Nick’s face becomes sullen. “ Fine we can be friends. But I think you’re gonna regret this. You’ll change your mind.”

“ Ok,” I say trying to calm down. “ I get that you’re mad. You have a right to be. I’ll write off your jerky behavior now, and let you cool down. Maybe we both need to cool down.”

“Fine.”

“ Here.” I reach up to the clasp of my necklace to unclasp it. Nick gave it to me when we started going out, and I don’t feel right about wearing it anymore. It’s very old, some sort of family heirloom, and probably valuable. It’s a round pendant of some sort of shimmering black stone that resembles onyx set in gold, on a gold chain. I try unsuccessfully to undo the clasp, but it won’t budge. “Could you help me with this?” I ask, frustrated. “ Hello?”

Nick just gives me a satisfied look. “ No, and good luck trying to get it off.”

Now I’m getting mad again, and a little weirded out. “ Did you rig this or something?” Nick doesn’t answer, and just then, the bell for next period rings. All the students still left in the hall scurry towards class.

Nick joins the crowd. “ Gotta go to class. See you around.”

Okay, now I am way passed mad. That is just immature. “Nicholas Coven,” I scream above the ringing bell. “ You get back here and take this fucking necklace off of me!” Unfortunately the bell cuts out just as I get to the adverb of my sentence, and Ms. Lawford is standing in close proximity. Ms. Lawford is not one of those cool teachers who’ll let you off with a warning. And I have an uncanny habit of swearing when I’m upset, or frustrated, or emotional in any way. Ms. Lawford has an uncanny habit of being within earshot when I swear.

“ Leana, how many times do I have to tell you to watch your mouth, young lady? That language is not acceptable in school.”

I sigh. Damn my gutter mouth and my wanton ways! I’ll surely be the ruin of civilized society. “ Sorry Ms. Lawford.” Like apologizing ever works in a situation like this.

“Detention, this afternoon.”

“ Yes Ms. Lawford.”