Little Miss Brown Eyes - 1

I suppose you could say that I'm not like a lot of people in this town. At least, that's what my mother tells me. I don't quite fit in anywhere, and neither do I want to. I don't need to fit in. Fitting in is for people who are afraid to find who they really are.

Though I will admit that I'm not exactly the most desired girl in Eastview High, I won't say that I'm hated. I'm not the kid everyone takes pleasure in picking on or worse. I'm the kid you see in the halls but never bother to take a second glance at. If you're one of Braiden Matthew's friends, you'll notice me because I'm his big sister. I'm Colby Elisabeth Matthews and you won't recognize me without the blond boy with dark blue eyes walking by my side holding my hand.

You might see my friends around too. Some of them are just like me, people you walk past and hear of. The others you'll recognize, maybe you even talk to them on a regular basis. You've got the rule-abiding optimist, Caitlyn McBride. A ditzy genius, Abigail Christian. Our kind yet sarcastic smart girl, Amelia Bradley. And then there’s the short and Danish guy magnet you'll know as Hayden Marshall. Then you have me, Colby - or Cole, whichever you care to call me - a walking contradiction and a world-class bitch if you don't know me. As the daughter of two church pastors, I'm supposed to be a good girl. Warm, happy, innocent. That's what you expect, right? I mean, the Lord's supposed to be shinin' like the sun straight and clear through my being, right? I hate to repeat myself, but read again. It says world-class bitch not world-class saint.

I'm not implying that I'm a bad kid. I'm actually a good student - most of the time - with a pretty clean record. I do my best in the classes I enjoy and I respect my teachers even if they make me want to shoot my foot off. I'm only implying that I'm not who I look like at first glance, so don't place any unnecessary expectations on me.

The world is an odd place. It's full of hurt and sorrow, fake smiles and fake sympathy. And I absolutely hate it. No one takes the time to care about the important things - people being one of them. They tell you to "love each other" and "be yourself", and then scorn and mock you when you do what they tell you. You're supposed to fit in the box they made for you, and if you don't, you're suddenly an official loser with a capital LOSER. I've learned to live comfortably outside of that box, labeled a good-girl while still acting like a complete bitch and being a nerd all at the same time. I'm judged by people big time, but it's not like I care. Let them think what they think, it won't matter to me when they're living under bridges after high school due to their incompetent, sorry asses.

It's hard to find good people nowadays. Good people that aren't sorry for being themselves or being different from the world's standards. Good people that respect others but are also honest and true. So far, I haven't been able to meet an intentionally good person. I've always known my thoughts on "good people" have always been a bit too idealistic to be true. The only "good people" I've ever met are fictional, which is why I don't believe many exist.

After all, why would one want to be "good", if a perfectly comfortable box was built for them for free?

~

Candlelight Books is open 24/7, and is located only a few blocks away from my house on Benson Court. It is the sole reason why I'm as sleep deprived as I am. Books give me something to think about, a little something to put my mind on so I can stay at least somewhat sane.

The place isn't a library, but it isn't a bookstore. You can borrow books as long as you have a card, but you can buy the books if you want to as well.

The reason I walk in at 12:18 a.m. on Saturday morning is because of a book with a title that reads A Tale of Two Cities, something that left me in an emotional fit the moment I finished it, just ten minutes before.

I traipse across the blue-gray carpet of the building to the front desk, where a tall guy with black hair and glasses is organizing piles of returned books on the surface of the desk.

I set the book before him, trying to control my racing heart. I'm still furious at the ending, though I knew it was bound to happen eventually. I get really worked up about these kinds of things and it makes me irrational and unsteady, which is one reason why it's probably not safe to be driving after this kind of trauma. Whoops, my bad.

"I'd like a book that doesn't end like this one please," I tell the guy behind the desk politely. He looks up at me with a pair of ice blue irises, ones that make me wonder if I've never seen him before. He smirks at me, Colgate commercial worthy teeth gleaming in the cold light of the shop.

"Was it Charles?" He asks me, knowingly. I bite on my cheek, trying not to show any unnecessary emotion. I should say, damn right it was!, but it's after midnight and I don't know if that's all that will come out of my mouth.

"Yeah, he pissed me off." I simplify. He chuckles.

"Me too," He agrees and he turns around to face the one giant bookshelf behind the desk, where all the newly returned books sit. "I suppose you've read Sarah Dessen?"

"Why do you think so?" I ask, mostly just to amuse him.

"You're a teenage girl aren't you?" He questions and I roll my eyes. He plucks a book from the shelf and turns back to me, a grin on his face.

"Funny." I state sarcastically.

"Here's an older one of hers," he slides the book across the counter to me. I look at the cover that reads in lavender letters, This Lullaby. I can't say I've read it before, but I will say I've been meaning to. "It's one of my favorites." The guy confesses shamelessly.

I force back a rude comment, probably because this kid is actually pretty nice and I'm not always an imbecilic bitch. "Have you read What Happened to Goodbye?" I instead ask him, bringing the paperback to rest comfortably in my bag. The thing used to be my mom's, so the beige leather is scuffed up and rather old, but it works for my books and me.

"I have," The guy answers me. He expertly resumes stacking the returned books and he piles them high in his arms. "One of my other favorites. My mom has most of her books at home, I've been reading them since tenth grade." I follow him to the young adult section, where he files his tower of books one by one into their proper shelves. I should probably go soon, I don’t know why I’m being overly inquisitive.

"Have I seen you before?" I manage to blurt out, immediately regretting it. I don’t know why he seems so familiar. I’ve always been good at remembering faces, but somehow not lately. It's very unlike me to be so open and curious, but it's after midnight and my emotions have been pretty much ruined from reading that book. I need to be taking my medication more often, like I'm supposed to.

The guy smirks at me knowingly. "You have, although you never seem to," he simply says. "We're in AP Lit together in third period. Also in Honors English II last year. And Honors English I in tenth grade. And Advanced English in ninth grade," he looks away from me, continuing to put away the books. "We also had chemistry together last year. And we have trigonometry and anatomy together this year," Once the waist-high pile has been disintegrated, he looks back up at me with dully sparkling eyes. "I believe you may have seen me around." He says with a weak smile.

I press my lips together. "Anything else you care to share?" I ask him, but not in a snarky way. Just in plain curiosity.

The guy licks his lips, amused.

"I know that you read The Mortal Instruments last year during the times in English when we were supposed to be reading Shakespeare," he says, leading me back to the front desk. "I also know that people think you're a whore and a bitch but are too stupid to realize that they're only describing themselves," I bite on my lip at that. My friends have always said the same, but they're supposed to say things like that. They're my friends. And besides. I already know what people think of me. "I also know that you and my mom, Norah, are good friends and that when you guys started talking, she would come home and tell me about a 'Little Miss Brown Eyes' that came to see her every Sunday at the diner." My stomach twists into a knot at those words. The words I've only ever heard coming out of a blond boy with dark blue eyes.

"So what do you say, ‘Little Miss Brown Eyes’?" The guy asks. "Have you seen me before?"

"Don't call me that," I say, biting back a snarl. "Say it again and I swear to God I will beat your ass."

The guy only chuckles at me. I take deep breaths, feeling a headache coming on. If only he knew what an affect that name has on me. "James Maclean Thompson, my pleasure," he says, taking my hand and bowing. He kisses my knuckles lightly and causes my cheeks to redden. "Call me Mac."

I suppose this is where my story starts. In a bookstore after midnight, talking to a boy who seems to have known me all my life, while I on the other hand couldn't even remember his name.