Wake Up, Witney

Chapter One:
Typical Friday

I swear, it's just another normal, boring Friday. The clock refuses to move any faster. If anything, I think time has stopped. God, the last hour of the day is so uneventful I just can't stand it. In my mind, I'm begging for some excitement to happen.

Looks like my wishes aren't going to be fulfilled. Mr. Madison is still droning on and on about some economic problem in America. I mean, seriously, do I need to know any of this for my future career an a famous interior designer? I think not. Unless it is affecting the price of furniture and whatnot, I feel like I don't need to pay attention. The slight snowfall outside the window is much more interesting. A lot prettier, too.

I can't wait for winter break. Sitting around the fire with mom, drinking hot cocoa. Occasionally running to the mall with Mara to buy ourselves some cute hoodies and winter boots. One simply cannot have enough winter boots.

Once more, I look up at the clock. Yes! One more minute to go. Since he can't keep us any longer than 3:25 p.m., I pack up my stuff just to prepare myself. It's not like other students in the class aren't doing it. Yet, just to prove his hatred for me, he glares straight into my eyes. I have no idea what he has against me. The guy acts like I'm the only student ever to fail his class...

He's probably just jealous, I suppose.

At last, the bell rings and sweet freedom is bestowed upon us! However, before I can race out the door, Mr. Madison demands I stay a minute after class.

This better be good old man, I've got some last-minute Christmas shopping to do.

He takes off his glasses and sets them on the desk before he sits. His watery, blue-gray eyes peer into my green ones. Mr. Madison clears his throat, "Witney, I'm very disppointed in your grade." he tells me simply. "I know what a smart girl you are. Your math teachers always rave about how intelligent you are, and I believe them. You seem to have a way with numbers."

Yes, I do. Math comes very easily for me, and I can keep up with the best of them in my AP Calculus class. This does not mean I have to make the same grade in American Problems. They're two completely different things. It doesn't matter, though. I've tried to explain this to him more than once.

"If you put a little more effort in, you could make more than a D."

"D plus." I correct him. Geeze, I'm only two points away from a C. He's still glaring at me, though the gaze has simmered down a bit. "Besides, I don't really put any effort into math, see. That's because I don't have to. Mr. Madison, Math and American Problems are two different classes. Therefore, I think it is normal that I make a good grade in one and not the other." Like I said, I've already explained this to him this year.

Luckily, Mr. Madison is extremely passive. "Okay, Witney. Just think about actually doing your homework over break. I really think you have potential." I tap my foot impatiently and he finally dismisses me from the room. If he kept me in there any longer, I probably would have gotten extremely pissed off.

I walk out to my car, trying to dodge the crowds that have gathered in the time I was in Mr. Madison's office. See? I could have avoided all this if he just let me go like the other kids. This is probably the fifth time this year he's lectured me, and it got really old really fast. I quickly walk down the staircase, ignoring catcalls from the perverts.

Trying to, at least. Brian Mills says something particularly rude. I turn to him and suggest something that, if my mother heard, she'd have a heart attack. I remember in first grade, he was so adorable. He had the biggest crush on me. I know because one day, he climbed on top of the monkey bars, handing me a Ring Pop and a half-eaten muffin asking me if I would marry him. Who knew he would turn out to be like this in high school?

Now, I'm no Jessica Rabbit, but I was somewhat lucky in the gene department. Reddish-auburn hair, green eyes, and beige skin; With a bit of effort, I look pretty dashing, if I do say so, myself. Brian Mills is the most perverted boy in the school, though. Rumor has it that he's slept with the whole cheerleading squad. I know that rumor's false, though. Mara's on the squad and she wouldn't go near that guy.

When I make it out to the parking lot, I find that Mara has beat me to the car. She stands, hip cocked to one side, waiting impatiently for me to arrive. "Where have you been?" she calls out.

I unlock the doors and let us get settled in before I answer. "Mr. Madison lectured me about my grade again. He's a real pain in the ass."

Mara checks her hair in the rearview mirror. "Geeze, how many times is he gonna keep you after class? Doesn't he know it's Friday? We've got things to do! Oh, and you've also gotta help me with my speech for debate class."

Exactly. I'm a busy person. I can't worry about American Problems all day long.

Suddenly, I see the man of my dreams. Okay, that's a little bit of an exaggeration. I just have a teensy weensy crush, that's all. Not that anybody can really blame me. Pardon the cliche description, but the 'man of my dreams' happens to have chocolate brown locks with bright hazel eyes that are full of life. Don Altizer is perfect. Perfect. He's handsome, smart, he doesn't make nasty catcalls to every skank that walks by--I am not a skank, by the way--and he's been dropping major hints lately that he likes me. Life couldn't get any better. I take that back, life would be perfect if Mr. Madison didn't nag me all day long.

"Hello, earth to Whitney?" I hear Mara call my name, snapping me out of my trance.

"Oh." I mumble unintelligently, forgetting all about the ignition. I finally put the keys in and start up my Ol' Bessie, a.k.a my bright red Impala.

"You were totally checking out Don again." I hear Mara giggle, and I blush.

I should keep my eyes on the road, but respond anyway. "You're seeing things. I was just thinking."

She taunts me further. "About Don Altizer."

"You shut up." I tease.

She rolls down the window and lets her hair blow in the breeze while I drive. It's not long before we arrive at he mall. However, as soon as we pull into the parking lot, my cell phone rings. Don't spaz, I waited till I was parked before I answered it. The caller ID confirmed it was my mom. Mara pouts when she sees, knowing we'll have to go home.

"Hey, Mom."

"Hey, there, sweetie. Do you think you can get here a little early today? I need help putting up the Christmas tree." she's asking so nicely, and I appreciate that she doesn't talk to me like a retard like some parents do with their teens.

Reluctantly, I agree, and convince Mara we can come to the mall tomorrow. She simply nods at me and runs her fingers through her hair to tame any damage the wind has done to it. God forbid she doesn't look good for the boys we drive by. I drop her off, and make my way home.

My cell phone rings again. I look at the caller ID again, wondering if my mom forgot to tell me something. To my absolute surprise, it is not. It's just some random number. Now, I should be a responsible, reliable, level-headed teenager and not answer that, for I am driving. Except that curiosity got the best of me and I answered it. "Hello? Who is this?" I ask, completely forgetting my phone manners.

"Whitney?" it sounds familiar. When I answer with a yes, the voice replies back. "Hey, it's Don. Don Altizer?"

I feel like giggling until I sound like a giddy schoolgirl. Because of my pride, I resist. "Oh, hey." I say in the sweetest tone I can muster. "How are you doing?" I try to sound sexy and coy like Mara, but I'm not quite up to her level.

"I'm doing pretty cool. Some of the guys wanted me to call and tell you about Alex's New Year's party."

Mr. Madison's nagging can't compare to this at all. Don Altizer is inviting me to a New Year's party, and I know it's gonna be huge, because anybody who's everybody knows about Alex Jackson's annual New Year's party. I've been invited before, but it was during the year Mom just had to send me to Florida to visit Grandma Josephine. Not this year.

This year I would go, no matter what the circumstances.