The War Between Us : Chapter 9

Chapter 9:

High School.

Where differences matter – from whom you hang out with, to which table you sit at in lunch.

High school.

Made up of Punk rockers, hippies, skaters and the rest of those insanely-made subcultures.

High school.

Where a new kid is watched upon by all members of the hierarchy and is inspected thoroughly to see which part of the ‘great-circle-of-high-school’ she belongs to.

Yep, that’s high school.

You’ve got to bear with it.
You’ve got to deal with it.
You’ve got to live with it.

But I hate it.

It just bugs me. That social hierarchy.

That thing- showing who belongs to which group.
I mean, can’t we all just unite and be one big family?

Wait, on second thought- forget the ‘big family’ part.
I definitely wouldn’t want myself to be identified with a druggie or a computer nerd.
Ew.

But, back to the point- why should we all be divided, into these little groups?
And why should the ‘in-crowd’ always be ruling over us- like we’re in some kind of medieval time, and we’re the peasants, they’re the kings and queens- and the teachers-
Oh, wait, don’t get me started on the teachers.

I’ll probably end up saying Mr. Simon’s a nobleman (which he most certainly isn’t!) and Ms. Cathie’s a duchess.
But that’d mean they’d be lower classed to the ‘in-crowd’, too, right?

Oh, whatever.

The point is, that I can clearly see the mile of distance between the ‘nerd’ table and the ‘cool’ table – which definitely, way on the north side of the cafeteria.

And- will Jerry and Olivie just quit with the playful bantering already?!

I guess it’s a good thing that they’re focusing on each other.
I’m clearly learning the social hierarchy of this school.

And boy, you would’ve thought that the hierarchy here – this, being Chelsea Heights in Atlantic City and all that – would be totally different from the hierarchy of Stuyvesant High School. More subtle, that is.
After all, it’s a school of New York City I’m talking about – it’d probably have more subcultures than any other school’s subcultures put together.

But I never expected this school to be as divided as much as my old school.

There’s a table for the emo kids.
There’s a table for the Goths.
There’s a table for the steeks.
There’s a table for the drama kids.
There was a table for the rejects –
Oh, ‘nuff said.

It’s disappointing as it is to see all these people grouped separately – it’s much worse describing the situation.
I’ve always been annoyed with Stuyvesant High’s hierarchy, of course.
This is not the first time I’ve been feeling ill towards this, let me tell you.

My green eyes leaving the ‘metalhead’ table, drifts onto the NEDs.

Okay, to me, they’re always freakily scary. Well, not exactly as scary as the druggies, of course.
But still. Pretty scary.
Not that I’m afraid or anything.

I watch as a blond ned pulls on a baseball cap, pushing it in a slightly upward angle.
They always wear it like that- I notice- maybe it’s some sort of status symbol or something.
It doesn’t really matter, of course.
It’s not like I’m gonna meet them, or anything.

Shrugging to myself, I glance at the ‘cool’ table.
Oh, no.
Don’t get me started on the Populars table.

It’s where the most evil cheerleader of all who walked the halls of Chelsea Heights sits – yes, you’re right.
Candice Quinto.

And not to mention her group of ever-following posse.

Y’see, ever since that first encounter with Candice, Liv has told me a lot about her.
She’s evil, torturous and of course – has a practice of crushing every girl’s spirit.

She sure isn’t gonna crush mine, though.

Twirling a strand of her bleached blond hair, she giggles at something a jock nearby says.
Her band of clones giggles along with her.

Please.
Could they be more predictive than that?

My eyes flicker over to the jock.
And I realize- I know him.

I know him.

Could it be more obvious?
It was Mark Wilcox.
The-blond-boy-with-the-blue-eyes-that-I’ve-seen-somewhere-before-but-can’t-seem-to-remember-on-whose-face.
The dude who ruined my first day of school causing me to release a frog into the depths of Candice Quinto’s clothing in biology period.

Grr.
He makes me mad.

No- he makes me really mad.

I can’t wait to get back at him for causing me to lose my temper (though, that is, partly my fault, I agree, since I should learn to control my emotions more – but still – he shouldn’t have provoked me!)

As I glare at him (without knowing it myself), his eyes suddenly meets me and he narrows them at me.

I narrow mine.

This is WAR.