So, I have started writing fiction for pleasure, wanting dearly to have something to publish soon. I've started out with a young adult fiction story set in the present day. I really don't know where Alex will take me, but I hope somewhere fantastic. Here is just the opening. Tell me what you think!
I couldn’t quite make out what Winnie’s gestures were from the other side of the crowded gym, but I knew it couldn’t be good. Her lips were moving frantically as she glared at me and continued to point at the ground where her foot was stomping.
I had been talking to Gina about who she thought was hotter: number 7 or number 24 on the opposing team, when her eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets, and she just mouthed “Oh my god!”
I thought I had missed something exciting happen on the basketball court, like I always did. Just before halftime I decided to go to the snack stand to check out what food the moms prepared. It was just then that Keith managed to score from behind the three-point line—on the opposite end of the court—and he took his shirt off and threw it into the crowd on the bleachers, which he got reprimanded for by Principal Reich, who had to pry Keith’s jersey from a sophomore who was determined to keep it and—I’m sure—mount it on her bedroom wall. I only managed to see his abs disappear under his jersey again as he was being escorted to the locker room by Principal Reich, followed by the rest of the team and Coach Schwartz.
I whipped my head around, so I wouldn’t miss the whole thing only to see Winnie doing this weird dance by the doors next to the bleachers. The handful of people standing at the doors (because our bleachers fill up pretty quickly for the guys basketball games) were shooting her weird looks or snickering to each other, but single-minded Winnie didn’t seem to notice that she was causing such a scene. She was determined to get my attention. Once she did, of course, she started her foot-stomping-finger-pointing-thing that only meant one thing—Come here now!—which I’m pretty sure was what she was mouthing to me.
“What could she want this time?” Gina was saying. I just huffed and rolled my eyes in response as I got from my front-row seat on the stage behind the basket (perfect view of every guy on the court) and headed towards the stairs.
Unlike Winnie, I don’t like drawing attention to myself, so, ducking out of others’ views, I ran under the bleachers to the other side of the gym, coming out at the doorway where Winnie stood with her arms crossed, waiting for me to emerge. The moment my head cleared the low boards, she grabbed my wrist and pivoted, leading me out the door and into the hallway, where she suddenly dropped my wrist and stopped at the same time, causing me to trip as my hand hit my thigh. I knew that was going to leave a bruise soon.
Being the palest girl at Cedar Crest High had absolutely no pros to it, just cons. First off, I bruise easily, making it look like my parents beat me or something, which is so not true, they are the coolest parents in the world (according to my friends, who are just as much friends with my ‘rents as they are with me), but I’m scared someone’s going to see the bruises in gym class and call Child Protective Services on them. Secondly, everyone knows it’s not cool to be pale. Maybe if I lived back in the Edwardian times, I’d be highly sought after because paleness was equated with wealth, but now guys like Keith Penn or Channing Tatum go for tan, the darker the better.
This is a fact that I’ll never get, Sixteen magazine always claims that guys go for the “natural” look, but everyone knows that the girls with boyfriends are the ones who go tanning, like, daily (I know because, honestly, no one is born orange) and wear tons of make-up (without even blending it in to their necks, creating that disgusting jaw-make-up line. UGH!) and dye their hair blonde because guys like blondes. Well, I’m sorry if I’m not ready to conform to this Barbie doll look and lose my identity and uniqueness. I’d rather be the short, pale brunette that I am than a plastic doll with no personality. And, who knows? Maybe people will go back to the Edwardian view of beauty, and I’ll become the prototype for the “perfect” image. Right.
“Just what,” Winnie was saying, “do you think you’re doing?”
“What are you talking about?” Honestly, I don’t know what her problem was.
“C’mon, Alex. Do you remember anything about our conversation in homeroom this morning?”
“Yeah…” Shoot. I forgot. She made me promise to do something; I just don’t remember what.
“Oh, Winnie, I’m so sorry! I totally forgot until just now. Oh my gosh, I’m such a horrible friend.” I could tell by her nose flaring that she wasn’t happy with me, but she had to believe me. “Honestly, Winnie, I swear, I would never do that on purpose.”
I hate being such an absent-minded idiot. I always forget important things like this. My friends usually just rub it off when I forget; they make it out to be less important than it actually is because they don’t want me to feel too badly about it. But this? I don’t see how Winnie will ever forgive me for forgetting about our plan to sit on her couch all night eating pints of store brand ice cream and badmouthing Eric, who had decided last night that Winnie was too crazy to date her anymore and that they should “see other people.” Only he didn’t say crazy; he just implied it.
I saw the status update this morning as I was checking Facebook. “Winnie Shoemaker is no longer in a relationship.” Plus Eric’s completely heartless status didn’t help matters much. “Eric Wayne is glad that’s done. Now to bigger,”—I keep on insisting this is not a reference to her 34A breasts—“better things.” I un-friended him the moment I read that.
That's all I have for now, please be honest with any criticisms you may have! Thank you!