The one thing people don't understand about me is that I'm actually a pretty genuine person. Most of the people nowadays, or at least, those wandering the halls of Lawndale High, are capable of saying one thing to your face, and thinking the complete opposite. My genuine personality doesn't stem from a good upbringing or anything like that. My family's actually pretty dysfunctional, but that's not the point.

The reason for my lack of lies and backstabbing is because not only do I try to distance myself away from negativity, but I also have a problem with lying. My eyes do this thing where I start blinking rapidly. It is physically impossible for me to lie. Unless it's tactfully, like that time I told my mum that her new hair cut look amazing, when really I was trying not to making jokes about her resembling a certain family member who is not female, nor middle-aged. Because, hey, she might've been going for that look.

I actually didn't realise my condition until my best friend, Chris, pointed it out to me one day. And considering he'd known me since we were born, and he didn't notice until fifteen years later, just proves my point. I'm a good person.

That particular day, I'd woken up to the sound of my blaring alarm right next to my head. It usually rested on my desk, located at the opposite side of the room to my bed. I'd done this deliberately because I knew that if it was next to me, I would just slam down on the snooze button, roll over, and fall asleep again. Placing it on my desk would mean that I would have to tumble out of bed, crawl to my desk, open my eyes to see the alarm clock itself, find the off switch, and turn it off. The reason for it being next to me that particular morning was because I'd actually fallen asleep on my desk. And the reason for that was because I'd stayed up all night, and a couple of hours that morning, too, to complete a project. And it wasn't even my project, rather, Chris'.

So it shouldn't come as a surprise that I was late that day. When I arrived in my homeroom, I could just feel every pair of eyes on me. Well, almost. Chris had his head down on his desk, sleeping peacefully. But every other guy had their eyes glued to my chest, as I realised – belatedly, of course – that my shirt was only half buttoned up. All the girls were probably staring at my head, either jealous of my sexy bed hair – I kid, I kid – or disgusted at my dark circles. Still, when I caught their eye, their smirk would suddenly turn into a sympathetic smile. I grinned cheerily back – ignorance was better than bitchiness.

It wasn't until I plopped down in the seat next to him – after a long lecture delivered by my anal homeroom teacher, Ms. Hawks – did Chris wake up.

"I'm present," he said automatically, before opening his eyes and squinting confusedly at me. His eyes seemed to widen at the sight of my shirt, and I blushed. My hands were full of his stupid project, which I shoved in his direction, before working on buttoning up my top. There was a soft wolf whistle behind me, but I ignored it, as it'd come from Chris' good mate, Rory.

You know how I'm a genuine person? Rory Tate is the opposite of genuine. If it weren't for my hanging around Chris, I wouldn't have seen the other side of him at all. To the girls, he played the part of the perfect guy perfectly. He could make them laugh, swoon, spill all their secrets, and fall head over heels. Having a godly bone structure, misty grey eyes and a headful of crazy and strangely sexy hair helped. To the guys, he was a god. He could get any girl he wanted, was good at sports, and, despite never doing any work, he managed to scrape by on most subjects. Well, the ones which had female teachers.

And to me? He was a complete jerk. I would watch as he lied through his teeth to win his women, and made crude and offensive remarks about his hook-ups later. All respect that I held for him would die every time, until there was none left except revulsion and disappointment. Why did guys think that he was a hero, a role model? Did they all want to be like him, a liar, a cheat? Were there any decent guys left?

The thing is, I knew there was. Because I'd been in love with him since I'd stopped with the whole 'ew, cooties' faze. My crush, chose that moment to turn to me, and say with a lazy smile, "Hey, you alright?"

I stared back at him, blinking a few times to clear my head. God knows how long I'd stared at him before I answered with a slow nod.

Chris turned around for a second opinion. "Does she look alright to you?" he asked his friend.

Rory winked at me. "She looks fine," he said, dragging out the last word. I cringed at his tone.

"You didn't spend all night on it, did you?" Chris asked, turning back to me, concern written all over his face. (See what I mean? Nice guy, right there.)

"No," I said, and the rapid blinking began. "It didn't take very long, honest."

Chris stared at me, probably startled by my blinking.

"Is something in your eye?" Rory asked – he could see my blinking too, from the side.

"No," I said, giving him a weird look.

"You're lying aren't you?" Chris said.

"I think I'd know if there was something in my eye, dork," I said, rolling my eyes.

"No, I meant about the staying up late thing," he said.

"I don't know what you're talking about," I said, and the blinking began again.

"Aha!" he cried.. "You blink like a crazy woman when you lie!"

Rory had to add salt to the wound, by adding, "You mean she blinks."

I couldn't help cracking a smile in his direction at his comment, but it quickly turned to a frown when he took that opportunity to wink at me, again. I remember thinking he couldn't blink properly, when I first met him, but then I realised he just liked doing that to see me pull faces at him.

Which I promptly did.

"Why did you stay up all night?" Chris asked, his concern still apparent, but there was a small smirk forming on his – totally kissable, by the way – lips.

I rolled my eyes in an attempt to hide my feelings, but I couldn't help the slight blush rise to my cheeks. "I stayed up because I left it to the last minute," I lied, but this time, I looked down at my hands. I could feel my eyes doing their spasm again, but luckily Rory decided to interrupt, and claimed Chris' attention. For once I was grateful. Not that the look I gave him was remotely grateful. And his response definitely wasn't one of amusement either.

"Hey Chris, Hetty just walked in," Rory said, but his eyes were on me.

I couldn't help myself. My head snapped up. So did the corner of Rory's mouth.

Hetty – short for Henriette – Williams was the girl who had everything. She had the bouncy hair, preppy personality, drool-worthy curves which actually made the school's uniform look good, doe eyes and mostly importantly, she had Chris wrapped around her little finger.

"Hey Hetty," Chris called, interrupting the lecture Ms. Hawks was now giving to Hetty. It's funny how if it's not happening to you, you find it hilarious. Ms. Hawks turned to glare at Chris, but his attention was on Hetty, who gave him a coy smile.

"Nor," Rory hissed from behind me.

I didn't respond. He was probably going to torture me about Hetty, anyhow. He'd never directly confronted me about my crush on Chris, though I was pretty sure he knew. Instead, he loved to torture me by talking about how wonderful Hetty was, a conversation which Chris would very enthusiastically join in on.

"Nora," Rory said, this time more firmly. To avoid him shouting my name, I turned around with a sigh.

"Yes, Rory?" I asked, my voice patient.

"I like your shirt," he said with a grin.

"You mean you liked my shirt," I said dryly. "When it wasn't buttoned."

"How could you think of me like that?" Rory said, his expression hurt but his eyes mocking. "I love your shirt, just the way it is."

"Really?" I said with a smile. "What do you love about it, then?"

Rory's grin broadened, thought I didn't think it possible. "I love the way it hugs your – "

"Stop," I said, shoving him.

"I'm kidding," he said, his expression softening, and he held up his hands in defence. I was about to turn around to sort out my books for next period before home room ended, but Rory stopped me by asking, "Why did you stay up, actually?"

My mouth grew dry, either from his penertrating gaze, or his question. Possibly both.

For once, luck was on my side, and the bell rang, signalling the end of home room. Slinging my aged backpack over my shoulder – the school's bag was way too pricey – I said, "Got to go, see you later."

"Sure, sweetheart," he said, picking up his bag as well. "I'll say bye to Chris for you."