A/N: School is torture. That is my only excuse.

I've decided to split my sixth grade year into at least three parts, since it was a very long and important year. I'm very sorry if you had been expecting a longer chapter, but this was all I could manage between my studies. Thank you all so much for reading, and an even bigger thanks for your beautiful words of encouragement in your reviews.

How Cliché

By: Entrancia

Part 2b: Sixth Grade

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Nora. Perfect Nora. Easygoing Nora. Gorgeous Nora. Nora who made heads turn whenever she waltzed into the room. We all know the type of girl.

I didn’t like her. And I know what you’re thinking at this point. Somebody’s j-e-a-l-o-u-s…

I mean, that’s to be expected, right? The quiet girl with few friends envying the popular girl. You see it everywhere, in every school.

Let’s clear something up. I never was, and never will be, jealous of Nora. I know for a fact that she was gorgeous. She was Miss Popularity, with blond hair, blue eyes, and sixth-grade-jock boyfriend. I was Miss Goody-Goody, not even considering the possibility of dating. She was fun, more of a party girl. I was a boring, bookish person. Boys described her as “hot,” even as a twelve year old. I could pass for “cute.” Maybe. It seemed that she had a lot I should have been jealous of. But I never envied her. Why? Because I knew I could never be like her, and I accepted that. I liked who I was.

Okay, fine. Maybe I was a tiny bit jealous. Not of her looks, but of her popularity. She wasn’t a total bitch, so everyone liked her. Her worst trait was her vanity. I was so quiet that sometimes people didn’t even notice me until I spoke up, and maybe not even then. But I didn’t want Nora’s popularity. I just wanted people to acknowledge my existence, to listen to me when I proposed my ideas. Occasionally, that was what I wanted—solitude—but after a while, I felt... ignored.

I hated her for capturing your attention. Pretty soon your crush on me faded away, once it was evident that I wasn’t interested. And I wasn’t. I only wanted to be friends. You focused all of your attention on Nora instead.

Oh, God. Nora this, Nora that. Every time I tried to talk to you, you were blabbering on about Nora. I didn’t hate her at that point, but I wasn’t so fond of her attitude. She was nice to me, I guess. “Tolerated” would be a better word. People were never mean to the shy girl, for fear that she’d burst into hysterical tears, which, er, actually happened one time. In eighth grade. (I was hyper-sensitive as well as timid.) I think I really started to dislike Nora was when you asked me to help you get with her. Nora knew you liked her, but she didn’t like you.

I didn’t mind it terribly at first. In my eyes, it was simply a favor for you, a good friend. How could I have resisted that hopeful face? Okay, so even if I did resist, you wouldn’t have given up until I caved. Besides, you had done tons of things for me already, so why not? I even ignored that little pang of something that felt suspiciously like jealousy.

My mission began with an easy task: become Nora’s friend, or at least a friend figure, so she’d feel more trusting around me. Piece of cake, right?

It was a breeze. People never suspect the quiet ones.

She was conveniently seated behind me in science class, which made my assignment so much easier. I began the task by doing subtle things, like asking to borrow pens or saying hi once in a while. This might have annoyed her, but at least she knew my voice. Then I dropped the subtlety and got bolder, maybe casually commenting on her hair, surveying her, or making attempts at gossip: (“Hey, did you notice Ms. Saundry’s dragon tattoo?”)

My efforts must have worked, because Nora starting speaking to me more frequently. She asked me where I lived, and when I told her, it turned out that her house was only three blocks away from mine. Because I rarely wandered beyond my yard, I had never seen her around before. I didn’t reveal this little tidbit of information to you, though. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I really disliked the thought of having you drop by her home. Somewhere in my mind I knew you wouldn’t really do that—you’re no stalker—but I had a wild imagination back then. Though I did give you her phone number, which you seemed very pleased to have in your possession, looking like you wanted strangle me in a hug. But you didn’t. I wasn’t the hugging type.

I had thought that was it—that getting you Nora’s number was enough. For a while, it was. Then I had to mess it up by starting to write.

Since second grade, my teachers and parents had commented that I had a flair for writing. And I ignored them for four years, believing that I hated writing because it gave me hand cramps. But then I tried it out: I put my creativity to use and started writing on my own time instead of for school. Almost instantly I fell in love with it. I loved the power I felt in being able to write anything I wanted. I could build the lives of my own unique characters, or I could torture them if they bored me. Particularly I liked to kill characters off. Sadistically.

So that was the year I got into writing. I wasn’t planning novels or anything of the sort; I was only testing my writing abilities to see if whatever I write would be readable. The first thing I set out to do was write series of short adventures about a girl and her friends in school, chapter by chapter. My intention was to print out the chapters when I finish them, and keep them so I could laugh at my ridiculous writing in the future. But while I was in the midst of selecting a name for the heroine, my new friend Kirsten twisted around in her seat and asked me what I was writing. Then it hit me. And I just stared at her with an enlightened grin on my face until she looked scared.

So before she could dub me a freak, I asked her, “Want to be my heroine?”

I think that creeped her out more, so I clarified my words by asking if I could name my protagonist after her. Her mouth formed an O of understanding, and she gave a huge grin and said I could—but only on the condition that I let her read my finished chapters. Being my uncertain self, I hesitated. I was merely in a discovery stage at that time, not yet ready to reveal my writing to anyone. Kirsten begged and gave me that oh please please please with a cherry on top look I so dreaded, and of course, I relented. From then on, every character I used in the series was named after a student in my class, with or without their permission.

The end result of that first chapter featured violent flesh-devouring zombies, mean chicks and their creepy boyfriends, and a girl with wish-granting abilities. All this under four hundred words, typed up in an obnoxiously curly font, and had no distinctive paragraphs. And I was so proud of it.

Here’s a sample of that first chapter, mistakes and all, straight from the original document that had yellowed with age:

Once upon a time, there was a girl named Kirsten. She was a quiet, klutzy, 12-year old student at Ghostville Middle School. No one ever noticed her, even her teacher, Miss Alicia. Sometimes, The teacher marked her absent. Kirsten was very smart, but Miss Alicia never noticed her intelligence. Kirsten didn’t really mind all this. Her real problem was this kid (Well, actually I think he’s an alien) named Luke. Luke and his Girlfriend, Gabrielle would point and laugh at Kirsten whenever she trips. Even though she was unpopular, she still had 2 friends, Anthony and Cassie. When the bell rang at 3:00, She went home.

Wasn’t that the most excruciating and pitiful thing you ever had to read? With a title like “The Zombies of Locker 101,” you know it can’t be good. Gee, take a guess at who Kirsten was based on. I’ll give you a hint: it sure wasn’t Kirsten herself.

BLECH.

The girls I spoke to regularly—you could call them my friends—liked it. Then again, they couldn’t tell what good writing was even if it smacked them in their faces. Like I cared. People actually enjoyed and understood something that I had written, and this was all the encouragement I needed. They really wanted to be in my mini-series once Kirsten showed them the first chapter. I was weak, so put them in. They liked my writing so much that when I made their character hook up with someone they resented, they didn’t kill me—though there were plenty of complaints, death threats, and bribes. I was the writer, and therefore, I could do whatever I pleased. I savored the newfound attention while it lasted.

Naturally, it wasn’t long before you found out about the series. Word had been going around. You confronted me about it, and I knew right away what you wanted. I have recreated as much of that conversations I can remember:

Poke. “Hey, Mimi...”

“Hmm?” Scribble.

“Sooo… I hear that you write. About things.”

“Yup. I started a while ago. So?”

“And you put people in them. People from our class.”

“Yup. You heard right.”

“I see.”

“Where are you going with this?”

“Can you...?”

Small smile. “Put you into my story?”

Nod.

“Oh, sure. Next chapter, ‘kay? Now, let me do my work.”

“Wait. One more thing.”

“What is it?”

“Can Nora be in it, too?”

Drops pen. “WHAT? Um… why her?”

“Please?”

“...No.”

“Why not?”

“I... I don’t like her.” Feeling a tiny bit jealous, but is too stubborn to admit it.

“Come on. Please?” Poke, poke.

“Quit it.”

“Please?” Poke, poke, poke.

“Liam...”

“Please?” Poke.

“Cut it out.”

“Please?” Poke, poke, poke, poke, poke—

“OKAY. Okay. I’ll see what I can do. Just—stop poking me!”

That was the technique you always used when you wanted to persuade me to do anything—lots of begging and pokes. The please worked because I respected polite people, and the poking annoyed me enough so that I would be driven to say anything to get you to go away.

A very effective tactic, indeed.

It must have been the moment after you made that request to be in the series did I start to detect the jealousy kindling. At the time, the feelings weren’t extreme. But they existed, and that was enough to make me do what I did next.

In the next part of the mini-series, I stayed true to my word. You and Nora were put into my latest chapter, titled “The New Kid,” just like you asked. I knew that you wanted me to make your and Nora’s characters a couple. I didn’t do that.

So what, exactly, did I write?

Nora became Kirsten and Co.’s new teacher, after the old one moved to Italy without any notice. You were her adopted son. (Which, by the way, makes so sense. I wrote that Nora adopted you when you were a baby, meaning that she had been barely a teenager when she became a mother. I may have been book smart, but my common sense was nonexistent.)

I guess I was mad at you for liking Nora, so I forced your character to fall in love with someone else. Someone I knew you loathed.

Tracy.

It felt good to be in charge.

In addition to that, I gave Nora a rotten personality. You were a foreign exchange student from Australia with an “awesome Australian accent,” and could ride motorcycles at age fourteen. To sum it up, I made you extra cool, and I emphasized how horrible Nora’s character was.

Tracy, my most avid reader, was angry as hell with what I had done, and the girl was always deadly when she was angry. But she got over it. I made her break up with you later, anyway. You, on the other hand, didn’t get mad because you were never one to lose your cool, especially not at me. It was hard to figure you out the majority of the time. But once you learned what I did, you never read another chapter I wrote. Too painful, huh?

Mwahaha.

One would assume that this little episode would have made a dent in our friendship. On the contrary, we were closer than ever. We were best friends.