Prologue
Prologue
Mike Fyler. His name is Mike Fyler. He’s tall, around five foot eleven. He has chocolate brown wavy hair and natural tan skin. His basketball, football, baseball, and lacrosse muscles bulge out of the sleeves of every shirt he wears. Not that I stare at them or anything. His teeth are crooked in the most perfect way, and shiny and white. His lips look velvety and gorgeous. His jaw is square and manly. His hands are big and he has veins all over his forearms and his butt looks hot as hell in about every pair of pants he wears. His voice is deep and raspy and oh so masculine. Enough said. Mike is the hottest boy alive.
Shilah Dayvor. My name is Shilah Dayvor. I’m short, around five foot three. I have dark auburn wavy hair that falls to my elbows and a freckled nose and arms. I’m a ballerina, so muscles stick out clearly on my thin body. Not that I stand in front of my body mirror in just undies and a bra for hours or anything. My mom, who was a used-to-be Victoria’s Secret model, and who must have been more than disappointed when I landed in her arms, all pale and freckled and not a model, says I’m the most intelligent person she’s ever known. However, I find that as a good opportunity to see myself as a school-obsessed physics dork. I have a heart shaped face, with a small chin and nose. I’m graceful while dancing but clumsy every other place. I stutter when I’m nervous, which doesn’t help with getting to know people (by people I mean boys). Enough said. I’m not the hottest girl alive, the most confident, the most interesting, which is why I still can’t fathom the fact that Mike Fyler is interested in me.
Chapter 1
It’s a cold autumn day. I wake up and run my thin fingers through my wavy locks and look out the window. A blanket of leaves covers my lawn. I see my neighbor, Sean, raking his yard while his golden retriever, Daisy, leaps and bounds up and down the sidewalk, her shiny golden fur flapping against her body in the breeze. I smile and push the blankets off my legs. I trot down my steps and am in my foyer. I walk down the hallway to my kitchen and see my mom, cross legged on the counter with a bowl of cereal at her side and a newspaper in her lap. Her short brunette curls are messy from the night’s sleep and fall to her collar bone. She has sparkly green eyes and a pert nose that crinkles when she laughs her beautiful, high pitched laugh. She looks up at me and smiles, displaying straight, pearly teeth.
“Good morning, baby girl,” she says to me, setting down the newspaper and sliding off the counter to wrap me in her thin, toned arms.
“Hey, mom,” I say, closing my eyes and breathing in her familiar scent of dove soap and sunshine.
“You finish that project last night?”
“Yeah, three hours after you went to bed.”
She pulls me back from her embrace and looks at me with dramatic, concerned eyes.
“Shilah! You should have just told me to write a note. You barely got any sleep!”
“I almost have an A in that class mom; I don’t want to blow it.”
She sighs. “You’re not going to. You’re the smartest girl I know.”
I roll my eyes at her. “Yeah, well, I’m also your daughter, so that makes your judgments of me a little biased.”
She ignores me and hands me a blueberry scone from the counter: my favorite breakfast in the whole world.
“Here, baby girl.”
I grin. “Thanks, mom.”
She grins back, making me ashamed of how pathetic and plain my grin must look compared to hers. She is so beautiful.
“Now go get ready, sweets.”
Once I’m in my room again, I try to put together an outfit that would appeal to my mom: light blue faded skinny jeans, a dark blue button down blouse with ruffles around the short sleeves, gold sandals, and a gold juicy charm bracelet and hoops. I go into my bathroom and plug my curling iron in, and, while I’m waiting for it to heat up, I apply the makeup I need, making sure I rub the perfect amount of green and light brown on my eyelids to bring out my eyes. I wrap the waves that aren’t in perfect tact around the now heated curling iron to even them out. I swing my backpack over my shoulder and apply some lip gloss before skipping down the stairs and saying bye to mom.
She up and downs me and smiles, letting me know she is in approval. I nod and wave to her over my shoulder as I walk quickly out the door to make the bus.
The bus irritates me, as usual. Behind me, loud jocks in varsity jackets, way to hyper to have just woken up, throw things and yell and discuss last night’s game while cheerleaders laugh obnoxiously with them. I wonder what the jocks are saying that is so funny, but decide not to beat my brain up about it since I have a Calculus test this morning. The people of the student body that are labeled as strange sit in front of me, giving me a view of the notebooks they’re doodling anime characters in, along with their greasy hair and occasional dandruff.
The people who are like me-the people sitting in the middle of the bus- talk amongst themselves at a normal, peaceful tone and exchange answers on homework assignments.
“Do you know if you’re going to get the scholarship?” I hear my good friend Lynn ask from across the narrow isle.
I smile. “Which one?”
She chuckles under her breath, unlike the piercing cackles coming from the cheerleaders behind us.
“Whatever one you have a better chance of getting.”
“Well, I almost have straight A’s. If I get a good grade on this project,” I say while signaling to my neon poster board that I spent nearly my entire night working on, “Then I’ll be in the clear. I’ll get the scholarship.”
She smiles. “And the other one?”
This question makes me squirm. “I don’t know for sure. There are a ton of students coming in that could be better than me. And the showcase is in only a few weeks. I’m almost finished with my dance, but there’s something dull about it. It needs a--,”
“Spark?” Lynn finishes for me.
“Exactly.”
The bus comes to a stop and I nearly fly forward. I wonder how our bus driver received his license. I quickly forget about the bus driver and his infamous driving scandals when I notice who’s getting on the bus. He’s wearing ripped, faded blue jeans, black and white Adidas tennis shoes, and a white v-neck undershirt that clings to his muscular torso underneath a varsity jacket. His cropped brunette shiny waves are messy but perfect at the same time, and his coppery skin is glowing. His blue eyes sparkle and squint as he smiles at someone behind me while waving. I don’t even notice my heart racing until he passes me. My hands turn clammy and the grip on my poster board is tighter than it had been for some reason. I inhale deeply, realizing I hadn’t been breathing. I shake my head at myself, wondering what my deal is. He’s just a boy. Sure, he’s a remarkably perfect and beautiful boy, but he’s still just a boy nonetheless.
I look up to see Lynn glaring at me. “Oh my God,” she whispers. “You totally have a crush on him. You have a crush on Mike Fyler.”
I squint at her. “What are you talking about? That’s impossible.”
She grins. “Nothing’s impossible.”
“I wouldn’t ask a girl who’s about to get a full ride scholarship for Social Sciences,” I whisper back at her.
“Yeah, yeah,” she says.
I can’t help but think of him again. He makes me want to scream but I don’t even attempt to think about doing that. I simply bite my lip and widen my eyes.
The bus arrives at the enormous brick blob I call my high school. I have a quick flashback of my first day there. I remember how small and stupid I felt, and then realize how much I’ve grown in the last three years. It is a new beginning of my last year here, and, thinking about this, a bittersweet emotion flows through me.
The same familiar aroma enters my nose when I enter the school that I have smelled so many times before. It’s a mixture of waxed floors and pencil lead and new binders. I am crazy about that smell. I am crazy about school. I know I’m over-obsessed with my grades and on the perfectionist side. I’ve been like this my whole life.
“Miss Dayvor,” my physics teacher says to me, not making eye contact but keeping her reading-glass-covered eyes glued to my poster board.
It is after class, and my mouth is dry. When the teacher asks to see me after class about my project, it either means an extremely good thing, or an extremely bad thing. I swallow hard and look up at her, my fingers trembling.
“Yes?”
“This project is impressive,” she says in a tone of voice that sounds like my project is the complete opposite of impressive to her.
I exhale slowly and quietly.
“I’m very…satisfied with it.”
“Ok,” I nearly whisper.
“Shilah, you know you’ve never failed to make me proud. You are a very intelligent and hardworking young lady, and those attributes will take you far in life.”
I grin. “Thank you.”
“But,” my grin quickly disappears.
“Your projects have always lacked…”
“Spark?” I finish for her, quoting Lynn from this morning.
“Exactly.”
I sigh deeply and look at the neon green poster board sprawled across her desk.
“So, what’s my final grade?”
Now she sighs. “Shilah, you know if any other student were to give me a project like this they would have an immediate A, no doubt about that. But you are Shilah Dayvor. You’re not any other student. You are smart enough to get a full ride scholarship to any college you want, especially the good ones. You have worked harder than I’ve ever seen a student work in my years. But this project makes me think…you’re tired. It makes me think you are sick of being the intelligent one, and you just want to get your senior year over with so you can go off to an expensive college and wear your brain out even more. I don’t want to see you do that. You are far more than just a smart student. You could literally change the world around you some day. With your knowledge, college professors will be put to shame. But I want you to put them to shame with a smile on your face and witty remarks that make people drawn to you. I want to see,” she paused and lifted her hand to my chin so I could meet her sparkling eyes, “A spark.”
The room is dead silent since everyone in the bustling hallway is in their next class. I nod and wait for her to tell me my grade.
“So I’m going to give you a B. The highest one.”
My throat tightens and I try not to explode at the woman in front of me.
“A…B? Not even an A-? Please, please just give me an A-!”
She shakes her head and looks down at my poster board again.
“Mrs. Schneider, with all due respect, I swear, I worked on that project for more than 4 hours almost every day this week, and 2 every day last week. I don’t think I’ve ever put more effort into another project. You don’t understand how important this is to me to have an A in your class. I need that scholarship. I…,”
“What you need is to love what you do. And not just love the A’s that are marked on everything you accomplish, but love the process. Love the feeling you get when you write about it and talk about it and explain it. Love it. You show me you absolutely love physics, and I will give you that A. But for now, you have a B, and no argument will change that.”
I sigh and feel my eyebrows crumple on my forehead. I realize she is right and I don’t show that I love what I do; I simply muddle through everything. But I know I have always done this, so I ask myself silently why I should change now.
“You won’t regret changing a little,” Mrs. Schneider says, resting her hand on my shoulder and smiling.
I sigh. “I hope you’re right.”
“Aren’t I always?”
I laugh. “You have a point.”
She lets go of my shoulder and points to the door. “Ok, go to class, Shilah. Don’t you have a calculus test?”
I groan. “Unfortunately.”
“Go ace it.”
I grin over my shoulder as I leave the classroom. “Yeah, yeah.”
