Friday, February 13 2010

It started completely normal. I got up. I ate a granola bar. I drank a cup of coffee. I threw on a pair of jeans, an old Faith Hill concert T-shirt. I fought my long, wavy blond hair into a ponytail. I just made the bus. I hurriedly finished my math. I talked with my friends about the dance on Saturday. We agreed to all go single, so we could flirt with every popular guy there. When I got to first period, though, there was some kid up at the front of the class. I vaguely recognized him, but put it off as some nerdy honor student getting praised by the stupid science teacher, Mr. Sporatti. So what if everyone called him "Hottie Sporatti", he still gave way too much homework. Then I saw it. The piercing green eyes. The too-thin brown hair. The scar over his right eye. It was him. I had done this. The nerdiness. The scar. Caleb Brocwell, come to haunt me. My past mistake, staring me in the face. The look in his eyes was tortured, lonely. I had done that, too. It was my fault. And yet, I could still see it. The ghost of love in the pained eyes. And now, here I was, all happy and popular. Going to the dance single, so I could flirt with other guys. All but forgetting the love I had once known. And here he was, in this small, western town. I wondered what drew him to bland, boring South Hill Springs, Texas. But of course I knew. Me. I had somehow, someway, called him from somewhere in San Fransisco, all the way down here. I had been bullied, laughed at, ridiculed in San Fransisco. He had come out of his goth shell to help. 9th grade. I still remember it. And then, two months before I had left, I had damn near killed him. I thought that I would be more popular if I dated that idiot, Brody Sanders. I thought Caleb would be happy for me. But, as soon as Brody and I kissed, he had gotten jealous. And I had ignored him. And the day that we were driving to the basketball game, something had gone wrong with my old, beat up, bright yellow Chevy. I jumped out, not thinking about Caleb. He escaped. But he was burned, over his eye and across his back. And I was fine. That's when I had run. I ran down the highway, down the street to my house, and never talked to him again. I moved, two months later. I had become so depressed, and my mom moved me to this little town in Texas, where my grandmother lived. And now, there he was, standing there. Up front. Next to Hottie Sporatti. And So, my past was doomed to repeat itself. Because, just the day before, the most popular guy in school had asked me out. And I'd said yes. So. Here my story begins. In this little, red diary that I got for my 14th birthday. 3 years, and now it serves it's purpose.