Young Writers Society

I sighed and looked up from my book to take another sip of my frappachino. I couldn't concentrate on studying for my history test; I was too annoyed by the popular, preppy girls who occupied the table next to mine.

Sure, they were nice enough, if you enjoyed conversing with that type of girl. Personally, their bubbly chatter irked me and held no interest of mine. I'd rather discuss something intellectual than the latest episode of some MTV show. I smirked to myself as I put the book in my bag and stood up.

"Hey, Melissa," one girl called to me. I smiled in return and told them I had to go. They said goodbye and returned to their giggly conversation, which was most likely centered around Aaron Sandford, the captain of the football team.

Now, I know what you're thinking: Oh, this is another cliche story about how a witty, brilliant girl- as I like to think of myself- gets the most popular, cutest jock in school. Let me assure you, that most definitely will not happen. I'm not attracted to Aaron in the least. In my opinion, he's an un-intelligent, sexist pig. So don't fret.

I drove my mom's minivan back to the house and found my dad hard at work on his latest photography project. This week's theme was roof shingles. Intriguing, right?

After greeting my father- who was seated at the top of our roof, pointing his camera downwards- I entered my home and headed to my room. I crept into my bed, wrapping myself in my soft blanket, and cracked open another book; Trig this time.

My cell phone vibrated. It was probably a text from Sara or Chelsey. I didn't have many friends. My town seemed to attract a lot of people like Aaron or those girls I saw in Starbucks today, much to my dismay. Luckily, there were a couple people who were actually, well, interesting. Among them were my best friends, Sara and Chelsey.

Sara dreamed of being a published author, while Chelsey was bound to have her paintings hung in galleries across the nation. As for my career plans, I wasn't really sure. Perhaps I'd take up photography, like my father, or be a doctor, like my mother. Or maybe I'd teach. At a university of course; somewhere like Princeton, Harvard, or Yale.

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I awoke to the sound of my alarm clock buzzing loudly. I looked at the clock. 6:30. I groaned and rolled out of bed; then I proceeded to follow my school-morning routine: shower, get dressed, dry my hair, and eat breakfast. My dad had gone on his daily jog, and my mother was already at work; I had the house to myself.

Not for long, though. The doorbell rang promptly at 7:30, as it did every morning.

I answered it and greeted Chelsey, who happened to be my next door neighbor. Besides being an artist, she was really big on conserving energy, so she forced us to carpool together and pick up Sara, too.

"Hey, Mel," she acknowledged me casually, peering out of her favorite black-framed "nerd-glasses", as they were called. She was sporting her usual sleek, dark brown bob of hair and a graphic T-shirt with skinny jeans and a pair of Converse.

"Hi," I responded. "Let me grab my bag, and I'll be ready to go."

We took Chelsey's car to pick up Sara, whose wavy, dirty blonde hair was perfectly messy and clothes soft, light, and not without a few ruffles, as usual.

"You guys! I've got it! I've really got it! The perfect story idea," she said excitedly on our way to school. "You see, this girl is a social outcast- an exile-"

Chelsey and I groaned in unison. "Come on, Sara, you've pitched that to us a thousand times and dumped it a thousand and one times! Why don't you just sit down and write it already?" I complained.

"Yeah, it's not that hard to put some words together," Chelsey chimed in.

"Not that hard? It's called writers' block, Chels," Sara argued.

"Oh, there's too many ideas floating around in this world to prevent one person from writing. But painting. That takes inspiration," Chelsey replied.

"Come on. It can't be that challenging to paint a few squiggly lines," Sara told her.

"Squiggly lines?" Chelsey repeated. "My art always represents a meaning, thank you very much!"

"All right, guys; cut it. We have reached the school building," I broke up the debate, imitating our principal's low voice with a laugh. This was how it was every morning: a meaningless argument (we were teenage girls, after all) between Chelsey and Sara while I served as moderator, or, in some cases, just as a spectator.

"So we have," Sara commented as we got out of Chelsey's Hybrid.

It was a pretty normal morning: homeroom, Trig (I think I aced the test), and then Biology. In Biology, we got a new student. This happened fairly often; we lived in a popular town. The new guy was pretty attractive and receiving heaps of attention- there was no doubt about it. Immediately, the preppy girls were welcoming, to say the least.

After about five minutes full of eager "Hi! I'm ..."'s, Mr. Crawson, the Biology teacher, instructed the boy to sit next to me. This was customary, too. Being valedictorian (or the only one close to achieving it, anyway) I was always assigned the task of catching up the new students about what we were doing in class.

He took his seat and introduced himself with a friendly smile. "Hi. I'm Ben."

"I'm Melissa. Nice to meet you. Where did Crawson say you were from?"

"New York," he said.

"That's funny; you don't have an accent."

"I move a lot, so no dialogue really sticks," he laughed. "My dad's in the military."

"Oh, I see. So, those preps sure are welcoming, aren't they?

"I usually don't label people," he chuckled, "but if the Jimmy Choo fits..."

"So, I was supposed to catch you up on our class. We're on the eukaryote right now. It's-"

"Oh, I already know what that is."

Hmm. Maybe they were on a different curriculum schedule than us.

"Have you done dissection yet? We're about to do that after the test on mitosis."

"Yeah, I have. I was kind of in an advanced class in New York."

"Oh, okay." So he was cute and smart.

"Yup. My dad's been bugging me to beat out whatever bozo is up for valedictorian this year," he laughed.

"That would be me."

"Well, bozo, good luck to you."

"The same to you...bozo. Who says bozo, anyway?"

"My father, apparently."

"Apparently. Well, after today- which it would take me to catch up any normal new kid-" I smirked, "you can pick your own seat, so you won't have to sit by the bozo. I wouldn't want you to feel compelled to cheat off of my paper."

"Hmm. I may have to stay here. That way, you can copy off of my paper, in order to have a slight chance of beating me," Ben grinned.

"Sure."

The bell echoed throughout the school, signaling that it was time for lunch.

"So, Ben, do you want to sit by me at lunch so I can cheat off of your lunch tray, too? I mean, I need to know how to answer the fake meat," I laughed.

"Of course," he replied.

We walked into the school cafeteria together, he attracting stares of admiration while I received jealous glares.

"Ahh, the main headquarters of a stereotypical world," Ben sighed.

"Mmm-hmm," I hummed in response. Sara and Chelsey were smiling at me approvingly. The idiots; I hope Ben didn't see them.

After making our way through the line, we sat down at Sara, Chelsey, and I's usual table with our lunches.

"Chels, Sara, this is Ben. He transferred from New York. Ben, this is Chelsey and Sara, my best friends," I said.

"Hi, Ben," Sara smiled.

"Hey! So, New York, huh? Why would you leave such a place?" Chelsey asked. She'd always dreamed of living in New York.

"My dad got transferred. He's in the military," Ben explained. "Nice to meet you two."

"Nice to meet you, too, Ben. That's a great name! I think I'll use it in my next story..." Sara mused.

"Sara here's a writer," I laughed.

"I could tell," Ben chuckled.

"So, when do you think you'll be moving again? Your dad in the military and all..." Chelsey inquired. Wonderful. I finally meet a good, intellectual, sweet guy, and he'll be running off before I know it.

"I don't know... Maybe I'll convince him to say this time," Ben answered, smiling at me.

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I'd just like to add that:

A) I want this ripped to shreds.

B) I think the main problem with this piece is the dialogue. I think it can get too over-the-top, apparent-that-I'm-trying-to-make-them-witty at times. Any help on that? Any comments at all are greatly appreciated!

Love,

Music