Bad Boy Lies

LYDIA

Never join Student Ambassadors.

At the time, the idea seems niche; with sweet promises of two annual meetings, an inclusion of free catering and a nice addition to our transcripts. If visitors were to appear, we would’ve picked from a barrel of names and grace ourselves as representatives. Everyone lucked out at being drawn—but I was the lucky few that has never been called.

I joined Student Ambassadors at the beginning of freshmen year; being casted as one of the members after a very competitive waitlist. While I believe those people who wishes to attend the meetings were enthusiastic about creating a better community—I was not. I just wanted an extracurricular activity to fill up my transcripts, and something that requires the least amount of efforts.

And it worked.

Casted aside during meetings, silent during the majority of our peer reviews and alone during party events. It played in my favor, however the case may be, and I liked it. I like not having to be asked to share my thoughts, I like not having to participate in icebreaker games. I like not being picked.

But for some reason—today reined a different opportunity. Instead of sucking up in the back of the class, writing down hefty notes for calculus—I’m stuck at the front office, awaiting the appearances of two newcomers.

Sweat pooling in my palms as I wipe the skin frequently against the fabric of my light-washed jeans. My stomach churning at any slight movements from my peripheral vision—but, then again, that could just be the results of skipping breakfast. I suddenly really wished I claimed sickness this morning when my mother asked me why I was looking a little green. It didn’t matter if it came from smearing the wrong makeup cream—anything would’ve been better than succumbing to involuntary social interactions.

I look down at my pamphlet in my hands, flipping through the tri-fold paper and reading the statistics of Anchor Heights High. The demographics broken down into gender, race and academic achievement. Alumnus plastered in the back, a picture-perfect photoshoot of our student body in the front. Anything and everything it could do to endorse the credibility of Anchor Heights.

“Hi!” I look up, noticing a pretty girl standing before me. She towered over my five-foot-three stature, with wavy jet-black hair and big brown eyes. Her face cuff in a delicate heart-shape, fit with thick arched brows and full lips. She was beautiful. The only thing tarnishing her smooth unblemished skin was two scars running along her face; one thick line running along the bridge of her nose through her left cheek, towards her jawline. Another separated into two slices: a small slice right above her eyebrow, and falling down her cheek, heading in the same direction as the other.

“H-hi,” I stammer back a weak reply, taken off by surprise. I guess she was awaiting a better greeting into our school, but she got stuck with me. Instead of whimpering back on my weak statement, I exhale a large breath and tried again. With a smile. “Hi.”

“Unexpected, huh?” She queries, her bright smile slowly falling downwards. She begins to spin circles around her face, “the scars and all—”

“No, no!” I quickly decline, despite the fact that it was partially the scars’ fault, it was also my lack of attentiveness for our newcomers. I’m new at this. “Okay, slightly,” I pinch my fingers, signifying the amount. “But it was more me than you. I was distracted and thinking and I’m pretty sure I’m sweating more than gym class.”

The girl nods, slowly slipping the smile back onto her lips. Before she says anything, her brown eyes darts up and down, probably reeling in my appearance. I owned nothing special compared to her; with light brown hair, and green eyes. My lips were average size and my brows were decent. I didn’t pay much attention to my looks, feeling average in every compartment. Now, I’m sort of regretting it. I’m standing in front of a practical model dress in casual attire.

“Um,” she gestures to the pamphlet in my hands, and suddenly, I realize she wasn’t trying to see what she has to compete with—though, not much—she was waiting for me to give her the welcoming card. And I was withholding it from her. God, I’m terrible at this job.

“Oh, right!” I hold the paper out for her to take, praying that it wasn’t smeared or anything. She takes it with a smile, flipping through the pages with ease and tilting her head slightly to the side as she reads. “It’s my first time doing this, I swear.”

The girl laughs, but says nothing else. I wonder what she’ll be in our classic clique system. She is beautiful, so perhaps a seat in the popular table. Or, she would sit with the student councilors. They tend to accept newcomers to a certain extent.

“Not gonna lie, your school sounds like a prison,” she flips to the front, pointing to Anchor Heights High written in bold. “I swear I heard it before.”

I offer a smile, but couldn’t be tempted to laugh. I was supposed to be professional, welcoming and friendly. Trading jokes and telling how our school’s name resembles a prison system is not the way to go. I suddenly remember something. “Where’s the other person?” I ask, pointing to the empty space beside her.

“Who? Westley?” She queries, and I shrug, not being informed of their names. “Oh, he always skips out on introductions. He hates it. You’ll probably find him around the school later, he makes an appearance when he wants to.”

Doubtful, I thought, but I didn’t tell her that.

"I, on the other hand, love introductions. It’s a nice way to see the school and know where you’re going without looking like a lost idiot. I don’t know how West does it, I swear he has photographic memory or something,” she laughs, quietly to herself. I don’t know who Westley or West was, but he seems an important figure to her. “Oh, before I forget, I’m Willa.”

She holds out her hand, offering. I look at it, before hesitantly holding out to shake. It’s not like she has a disease or something—it’s just I’ve never been offered a hand before. No one cares enough to put their name before me. I was a nobody.

“Lydia,” I answer, feeling the weight of formality slowly slipping from my shoulders. “Lydia Grey.”

“That’s pretty,” she responds earnestly, not a trace of forgery in her tone. She’s different. “I’m a Prescott. Willa Prescott.”

“Lydia Grey—wait, shit, I already said that.” I blush, realizing my mistake. Willa laughs at my innocent mistake, and pulls her hand back.

“I like you,” she said, coming over to my side as she hooks a long arm around my shoulders. “I don’t know anybody here, so I’m guessing I’m gonna be sitting with you for a while. What’s your lunch hour?”

“Second,” I reply, “I’m a senior.”

“That’s great,” she grins, “I’m a senior too. I’m happy they didn’t pair me with a freshman. Last school I was at, this boy couldn’t stop looking at my ass. Safe to say, after my brother intervened, he was not looking anymore.”

I feel like there’s a double meaning to her words.

But before I get the chance to ask, Willa pushes, “alright. Come on, tell me how this prison system works. And please go slow, I need a second or two to process some words.”

Willa talks.

A lot.

And it’s not that I don’t mind the extra companion when I’m sitting at my table trying to scruff down a pizza—but she speaks so quickly that I sometimes can't keep up to the pace of her conversation. I’m used to listening to hearing soft melodies and reading lines off a novel—not hearing another human being blabber to me about their three past schools.

“—I didn’t like my last school. I swear it was terrible. The teachers did nothing more than hand out worksheets about the most basic equations and then give the tests in the most complications things possible. Not to mention, our student body was horrible and all people cared about were their next high, their next lay and all that shit. I mean, I’m pretty sure West loved it but it wasn’t for me—”

“Wait, wait, wait,” I hold out my finger, swallowing my final bite. “Slow down. Breathe. I heard five words out of your essay, you need to talk in a normal pace.”

Willa doesn’t falter under my words. She only grins. “I know. I talk really fast. I learned that whenever I’m trying to explain something to West and he would have to record me to replay it.” Her lips slightly falter. “I’m working on it. I’m not used to being allowed a long time to explain myself. It’s a habit. I’m sorry.”

I frown, not wanting to beat her down when she’s done nothing inheritably wrong. She just talks fast. “No, it’s fine,” I hold out my hand, wiping my lips with a napkin. “I’ll get use to it. I swear. I’m just not… used to have people to talk to.”

I’m pretty sure she noticed. I’m absolutely sure she noticed. Throughout the whole tour, not once did anyone wave at me or greeted me as I pass down the halls with her. A lot of guys tried to welcome her, but once they saw the scars on her face, they slowly backed away. Not without a comment though—they mentioned her ass a lot of times.

“I don’t understand why though,” she leans closer to me. Looking me up and down. “You’re pretty. You’re sweet. I don’t get the big deal on why you aren’t friends with people.”

I shrug, not wanting to supply that part of my life to a total stranger. She’s new, and I’m sure one day or another, she’ll find better people to hang out with. A better crowd with more people who fits her status quo. She’ll forget about me, sadly. But it’s something I dealt with.

She picked this up.

“I’m new, I get it.” She holds both her hands up, backing up. “You don’t want to list your life story out to a someone you met just—” she glances at her phone, “—three hours ago. It’s fine. But just so you know, I think you’re cool. I think the soft little quiet attitude you got going on is nice. It’s refreshing. Sometimes, I need someone to just lay low with.”

I smile at that, but replied with nothing.

“Hello,” another voice enters into the conversation and I internally groan. I know that voice anywhere. I look up, seeing Kathleen. Blonde hair, blue eyes. She’s the epitome of perfect. She dresses in her typical cheerleading outfit; a blue, yellow and white skirt and a matching crop top. I’m surprised she doesn’t get dress-coded. But, being the most popular girl in school and three time winning cheerleading captain has its perks.

“Hi,” Willa replies, straying her attention away from me.

“I’m Kathleen Miller,” she holds out a manicured hand, “cheerleading captain.”

“I could tell,” Willa chirps, and I couldn’t detect if it was sarcasm or a genuine statement. “I like the skirt. Is that this school’s colors?”

“Yup,” she responds, “would you like to join? I’m pretty sure there’s an extra spot open on the squad. You look like you would be built for the cause.”

Jocks and cheerleaders. I could half-heartedly see Willa entering into that. She’s tall, lean and she has a bit of muscles on her. Wow, I barely had her for half a day but she’s already offered a chance to leave me.

Instead, Willa shakes her head. “Thanks for the offer, but no thanks. I don’t do cheerleading. I applaud you guys up there, but I can’t do it.”

Kathleen frowns, but nonetheless nods. You can’t force someone into a position they’re don’t want. “That’s fine,” she nods, “but since you’re new, I’ll give you time to reconsider. In the meantime, I’m having a party this weekend and the invite extends out to everyone. Drinks. Food. Alcohol. All supplied. You in?”

Willa tilts her head at this, considering. “Sure,” she perks, just as she comes beside me and snake an arm around mine. “Only if Lydia can come.”

For the first time since her entrance, she pays attention to me. Her lips pulled into a dark scowl, “I don’t know if Lydia wants to join—”

“She does,” Willa pipes, turning to me. Her big brown eyes pulled into a silent plea. “Don’t you, Lydia?”

The last time I been to a party, it was a total disaster. I was drunk out of my mind, I barely remember anything. “Erm,” I consider the thought. But seeing the denial in Kathleen’s eyes gave me everything I needed. “Sure.”

The blonde clench her jaw, “great,” she grits her teeth. “Perfect. See you there. Ten pm.”

With that, she walks away.

I turn to Willa. “I don’t like parties,” I frown, not liking the idea of this upcoming invite. “I don’t mix well with them. Lydia plus alcohol equals no.”

“That’s some math right there,” Willa huffs, unscrewing a water bottle and taking a sip. I give her a pointed look. “Alright, fine, I’m joking, I’m joking. If you don’t want to go, that’s fine. But that means I’m not going either and being my student ambassador, don’t you have to, I don’t know, welcome me into this place.”

The pointed look stays.

“A party is an outside activity. It does not relate to school.”

“Okay, sure,” Willa shrugs, taking another sip. “But it has students. It has the cheerleading captain. It involves the student body, don’t it? If school equals students and learning, and party equals students and having fun—doesn’t it cancel out? I mean, I was taught PEDMA for a reason.”

I giggle, shaking my head. “That’s so wrong in so many levels,”

“I know, I know,” she hooks her arm around mine, pulling herself against me. “So, excuse my terrible math and come with me. Please?”

I sigh, after a careful one-second thought. I hook my finger with her outstretched pinkie. “Fine.”

“Yay!”

Maybe this year won’t be too bad.