Another day, another misery. I stood in front of Mystic Heights Academy, a school so rich, even the walls probably had a trust fund.
I mean, it looked like the place was built with gold bricks—glittering windows, perfectly manicured lawns that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe, and a fountain that looked like it belonged in a palace.
Honestly, I kept asking myself, how do my parents afford this? Maybe they found a treasure chest or struck oil—either way, I wasn't complaining. Well, not loudly, anyway.
I was dressed in my "nerd-chic" outfit—think thick-rimmed glasses, a very important-looking cardigan with elbow patches (because I'm serious about my books), and a plaid skirt that looked like I was ready to join a Hogwarts house.
My shoes? Comfy sneakers that had seen better days but still ran faster than my mood.
My blonde hair was tied in two messy ponytails, strands curling around my small, cute face like they were trying to steal the spotlight.
You know, the usual "I woke up like this" look, but secretly I'd spent ten minutes fixing it. I adjusted my glasses, which perched precariously on my nose—probably plotting to slide down again.
As I stepped inside the school, my heart... actually, I felt nothing.
Yep, nothing.
I was already invisible—like a ghost with NO fashion sense—so no one noticed me.
I just quietly slipped in, trying to avoid the gaze of anyone who might mistake me for a piece of furniture.
I headed straight for my locker, feeling like a ninja on a secret mission.
But of course, my admirers had left me a little gift.
I saw a crumpled piece of paper taped to my locker with the words "Ugly Snort" scribbled in childish handwriting.
I groaned loudly, yanking it off like I was ripping off a bad band-aid.
Honestly, it wasn't anything new. Kids were basically professional bullies at this point.
I rolled my eyes so hard I thought they might get stuck. "Oh, look, a new masterpiece,
" I muttered, annoyed. "Because that's exactly what I needed today—more insults from the universe."
I opened my locker, and on the inside, AHH it was my sanctuary.
Plushies of all shapes and sizes—pink unicorns, squishy cats, even a tiny dinosaur that looked suspiciously like it was about to eat my homework—created a cozy fortress.
I sighed happily, a small smile creeping onto my face.
But then I saw it—a sticker of my favorite T-pop group, BUS.
My heart did a little happy dance. I looked around to make sure no one was watching, then started singing my ultimate favorite song at the top of my lungs:
"It's just a lie, oh liar... la ah ah ah liar..."
Yeah, I don't really sing.
I just pretend I'm auditioning for The Voice in my head.
But at high pitch, I sounded like a dying cat being strangled, so I quickly coughed and tossed the sticker back into my locker like it was a fire hazard.
I fidgeted with my hair, straightening the little strands that refused to obey, then adjusted my eco-friendly bag—because saving the planet is important, even if no one notices.
With a deep breath, I swung my locker shut, feeling like I'd just survived a small war.
I took a step forward, trying to look confident, but really, I was just walking to class like a ninja in stealth mode—silent, unseen, and slightly embarrassed.
And honestly? I wouldn't have it any other way.
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As I was sitting in class, trying to survive the chaos—because honestly, a typical day in my classroom is like a circus gone wild.
The "Mean Girl Group" plotting their next gossip attack, the "Rich Athletes" throwing paper footballs across the room like they're in the NBA finals, and the "Goth Kids" sitting all dark and mysterious, probably planning to summon a storm or cast spells, I don't know. There are so many groups,
I swear if I tried to join one, they'd chase me out faster than I run from my math homework.
Of course, there's the "Bad and Popular Rich Boys." As soon as I mentioned their name, they swooped in like they owned the place—probably because they do.
Let me introduce you to them:
The Smart One or should I say Brainy
Mark. He's always the smartest kid in the room, with perfect styled black hair that seems to roll down onto his nose like a wave, and glasses that fit him so well, I think they were made just for him.
Girls would do anything to get him to tutor them—if only they knew he'd rather be anywhere else.
The Playful One
Liam. The crazy, mischievous, definitely a playboy. Blond hair, a mischievous smile, and a cute, heart-shaped birthmark that I swear is his signature move for breaking hearts. Honestly, I think his charm is more powerful than his muscles.
And of course my Brother is one of them the stupid jerk
Jake. The fighter, the troublemaker—yet somehow, he always wins.
He's got an athletic body, a sharp jawline, and smooth skin. His hair is a little pointy—like he's been electrocuted, not straight like everyone else.
Sometimes I wonder if he's part cat because he always lands on his feet.
The Cold Guy or the one who's always proud of himself
Ethan. The brooding, mysterious one who carries himself with grace. Handsome, with black silky hair framing his face, and eyes that could freeze water.
He always has his hands in his pockets, watching everyone with that stern look, like he's judging whether your shoes match your attitude.
His eyes landed on me once, and we locked eyes—well, I quickly looked away, not blushing, just trying not to catch his attention.
Just like I always do—blend into the background.
Meanwhile, my stupid annoying brother was pushing the others aside, probably ready to start a fight, while the playboy was already making his move.
Mark was busy accepting tutoring requests from the girls, and I sat there trying to be invisible—because that's my superpower. And guess what? It always works.
The girls were swooning over the boys, and I was just hoping I wouldn't get caught in their orbit.
Then, just as I was about to disappear into my chair, the teacher barged in—like a hero arriving late to save the day—and started the lesson.
And I sank lower into my seat, praying I wouldn't be the next victim of teenage chaos—or my brother's latest trouble.
I was sitting there, trying to push a stray strand of hair behind my ear, when my brother shot me a look that could freeze lava.
He calls me a "goat"—like I look like some mountain-climbing, grass-eating animal. Do I look like a goat? Honestly, I think I'm cuter than him.
Just because he's got an athletic body—even though he's not all that bulky—he thinks he's some kind of sports star or some shit.
Yeah, I wasn't exactly looking forward to him talking to me.
He just glanced my way, gave me this disgusted look—as if I'd just insulted his favorite team or something.
Maybe it was because of my clothes? I mean, how the heck did he even end up in that 'cool' group of sports guys when we're not even that rich? Like, I swear, I'm just a regular girl trying to survive high school, not some fashion icon or part of the royal family.
I sighed a long, annoyed sigh—like a steam engine ready to blow—because dealing with him is always a headache.
I mean, seriously, how does he even fit in with those guys? I don't get it.
Maybe they think he's 'cool' because he's loud, or because he throws a good punch or something.
Whatever. I just leaned back in my chair, trying to ignore his judging stare, hoping he'd forget I was even here.