A Girl's Best Friend

“Fellows,” Mrs. Brown started, addressing the class.  “We have a new arrival today.  As I told you all yesterday, things here at Altiora are changing.  Little by little, but they are changing.  May I introduce you to Mirabella Vanderpohl.”
I walked into the classroom timidly, making sure not to fall as I clomped around in the Mary Janes the obviously blind-to-fashion headmaster made me wear.  Oh yes, things at Altiora Academy and Boarding School were changing.  And the ones pulling the strings—me and Headmaster Russino.  Due to my outstanding work at the already top-of-the-line school I was going to, my parents insisted upon upgrading me to Altiora.  And, alas, my parents won.  They always do.
“Mirabella is a pretty stupid name for a guy,” I could hear a boy whisper to another.  I blushed strawberry red and brushed a stray strand of hair away from my face.  The said boy turned to me and gaped, sputtering in confusion.  “B-but… I thought… This is an all boys’ school, that girl shouldn’t be here!”  He stood, as if trying to add a little oomph to his words, and, in return, received a piercing glance from Mrs. Brown and he took his seat once more.
It was true, completely true, that Altiora was an all boys’ school, the key word being was.  All was changed, because my parents wanted to get me the best education I could get—and I’m glad they did.  I was willingly stuck in a classroom full of boys who were as much nerds as I was, with no girlfriends known to man.  Not like I was trying to score with any one of them, though.  A single boy in a secluded corner caught my eye, but I turned even redder, more like tomato red now, and looked down at my unflattering dark green plaid skirt.  “C-call me Mira please… I don’t like my full name.”
“Well then, Mira,” started the teacher, giving a sickeningly sweet welcoming smile.  “Go take a seat over by Brandon in the corner and we’ll start our lesson.”
I ambled over, a sight to see, being the only girl in the classroom, that is, having every eye on you.  Well, maybe except the teacher.  If I hadn’t known better, I would’ve thought that these boys had never seen a girl before.  By the way they gaped at me, I would’ve believed so.
“Brandon,” I whispered, acknowledging the boy who was to sit next to me.  He looked pretty smart.  Cunning, too.  I could see it in his eyes.  No wonder they say “the eyes are the portal to the soul”!  I gave a small nod and took my seat, pulling out my heavy history text and scanning the smart board for a page number.
“Bran,” he teased, smiling, “I hate my full name.”
“Are you serious?” I retorted, questioning him.  “You really want to be called the name of a breakfast cereal?”
“Are you serious?  You really want to be called the Spanish word for he looks, she looks, and it looks formal?”
“Yes,” I smiled.  “In fact, I do.”
“Then I want to be called Bran.”
“Fine, then.”  I knew I liked this boy from that moment on.
“The page is five-hundred thirty,” he commented absently.  “Near sighted?”
“Yeah,” I started, flipping to the page, “and I forgot my glasses.  Thanks.”

After class, I walked out into the hall and there, right smack dab in front of me, was Headmaster Russino.  I jumped a bit, then remembered, automatically, about when he told me about the Grand Tour.  At least, that’s what he called it.  And it was going to take the whole hour in-between out last class and supper to do it.  Good-bye free time.  Adios.
“Headmaster,” I breathed, still shocked, “you frightened me.”  It was true.  I could’ve sworn that he was seven feet tall.  And, alas, I was five feet one inch.  Not a great comparison.
“Sorry about that,” he apologized in his deep bass voice, “but there’s really no other way to come here. I don’t have anything to make me shorter.  Let’s go.”
He put a strong hand on my back and guided me down the hallway.  I could hear someone running behind us.  It was Brandon.
“So, you’re getting the grand tour,” he grinned, a mischievous glint playing in his eyes.    He held his books off to one side and whispered in my ear, “I’ll give you the real grand tour after dinner, better and less boring then the one H. R. is taking you on.  Trust me.  It’ll be better.  I’ll meet you outside your dorm.  Be there.”
I nodded slyly and felt secretive, like an agent for the president undercover.  Like a spy.  Only not.
He walked with us until we reached the dorms, and he turned into a small room numbered 103, with only one bed in it, unlike the others which had two.
“Why does Brandon get his own room?” I questioned, a bit puzzled.
“Ah,” Russino smiled in spite of himself.  “He is quite a lucky one.  His parents insisted that he had his own room.  He comes from a powerful family, and we simply couldn’t turn his father down.  I suppose it was because of personal reasons.
“But, enough about that, we have reached your chambers.”  He fumbled around in his pockets for a moment then drew out an oddly pink key and turned the lock, opening the door.  I, still puzzled with the pink coat of paint on the metal, turned the rigid lock-opener over in my hand after the Headmaster dropped it there.  Apparently noticing my confused expression, he explained, “We already have an M. V. here at Altiora, and normally we put the initials of the owner on the key, but, for lack of a better way, we skipped the initials and painted it pink, seeing as you’re the only girl here.  All girls love pink, don’t they?”
I shrugged, and, even though I detested pink, I accepted the key and clenched my fist around it.  Remembering the open door to my dorm room, I peered inside, and, to my surprise, it actually seemed like home.  The bed spread, the pictures on the wall, everything was just… wonderful.  Perfect.  Absolutely picturesque.
“Wow,” I breathed, and stepped into the small room.  I threw myself onto the bed, my satin comforter clenched in my hands, giggling with glee.  My mom, wanting a chance to decorate a room like she did when we bought our house first, hadn’t let me check my very own dorm room out yet.  Flipping over ad staring ay the corkboard covered with pictures, my heel hit something directly underneath my bed.  Curious, I jumped down to find a large rolling plastic bin, covered with a lid so I couldn’t see what was inside.  I pulled it out quickly and threw the lid off, gaping at the Tupperware’s contents.  So no wonder why mum bought all of that junk food at the store and didn’t let me eat any, I thought, drawing out the items with happy fingers, she gave it all to me!  I giggled and sifted through the snacks, happy with my mom for giving it to me.
“Well, we don’t have much time, do I suggest we get a move on so we can see everything.  Look through your goodies later,” Mr. Russino commented, startling me yet again.  
I collected myself and smiled weakly, biting my lip and saying, “Well, I suppose so, let’s go then.”
Jumping to my feet, I followed Russino out and closed the door behind me, turning the lock with my lightened red key.  No, not pink.  Pink was out of style.  Now it was lightened red.  Much more chic.
“Where next?” I asked after I had locked my door.  I was eager to get the tour over with and get to the “real” tour Bran was going to give me.  Butterflies crept up my stomach at the very thought of my crush, and the boy who I hoped would be more than a friend to me.  One day, at least.
“Well, around the school, of course,” Russino’s deep voice commented, smiling.  Again he put a strong hand on my back as if I would get attacked if it wasn’t there.  Granted, it was a bit uncomfortable, but I dealt with it.  I really couldn’t go “Hey Headmaster, could you get your big hand offa my back and gimme a bit of space?  You’re in my bubble, homie.”
He explained everything as we passed, but we didn’t go in anywhere.  Darn it, I thought.  All look but no touch.
I was amazed at the amount of rooms shown to me.  There was an auditorium, a cafeteria, and classrooms, like the regular school, but then there were extra rooms, like a lounge, a study room, a lab to be used for homework and projects, and an alternate computer room, with PCs to your heart’s content, even though there was wi-fi all around the school and grounds and most students had lap tops.  To my amazement, there was a theater, where boy-cast only productions and awards ceremonies and recognition assemblies were held.  All I could say was, “Whoa, this place is big.”

After the hour was through, Headmaster Russino ushered me into the cafeteria, assured me that I was on a meal plan and could get anything I pleased, and departed from me.  I was happy to see all of the boys in their uniforms—it was dress code during meals—and smiled, not feeling as out-of-place as I was.
I grabbed a tray and filled it, pizza first, than salad, fruit, and milk to complete my evening meal, and sat down at an empty table, glad to find one in the mass of students.  I plopped the plastic tray on the table as I say, not expecting to eat with anyone on my first night.  I was the new girl, operative words being new and girl.  New meaning no one knew me, and girl meaning I was the only girl at an all-boys academy.  Not exactly a way to break the ice.
To my amazement, a tray plopped onto the section of the table for the seat in front of me.  Brandon sat down in the seat, followed by some other boys I recognized from class.
If I’m sitting at your table, I can move, just say the word,” I stammered, a look of pure embarrassment on my features.
“No,” Bran stated firmly, “our table is over there,” he pointed to another circular table near a window, “but, seeing as you were sitting all alone, my buddies and I decided to help you out.”
“Oh,” I said softly, stabbing my fork into a pear cube.  “Thanks, I guess.”
“And the tour begins,” Brandon started, smiling as he picked up a baby carrot.  “First the people.  You have to know the people before you can know anything else.  First, your adoptive group.  Jason,” he pointed to a brown haired boy with gray eyes with his carrot.
“Ah,” I commented as the brunet youth smiled and nodded, “the leader of the Argonauts in their search for the Golden Fleece.”
“Exactly,” Jason returned, and grinned even bigger.
“Mark,” Brandon pointed his carrot to a boy with unruly red hair and green eyes.
“One of the gospel writers,” I grinned, stabbing my fork into another pear cube as Mark waved absently and continued writing in a notebook.
“Charles,” the carrot pointed to a lanky boy with curly blonde hair and blue eyes.
“Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities.  It was the best of times, it was the worst of times,” I plopped the cube into my mouth and was enjoying my intelligence as the boy sighed in an annoyed manner.  He probably would’ve heard that a million times.
“Christopher,”
“Paolini, the author of Eragon and Eldest in the Inheritance Trilogy,” I winked at the boy next to me, with violet eyes, a nice tan color to his skin, freckles, and reddish brown hair.
“Is there any name you don’t know a fact about?” Bran asked, after I had been acquainted with all of the four boys.
“Yes,” I smiled, giving a reply to a seemingly rhetorical question.  “I don’t know anything about Brandon.”
“That’s oddly accurate,” Mark taunted and pushed Jason into Brandon, knocking both of them half out of their seats.  I laughed and went back to stabbing my fruit.
“Now we’re past the group, on to the cliques.” Brandon said, getting all of his rear end on the bench.  Pointing to one group of boys, he started naming off all of the groups.  “The Squibs, the Activists, the Slackers, and us.  The Geniuses.  We actually work for our title.”
“Hold up… Squibs are from—”
“Harry Potter,” the group chorused, interrupting me.  Brandon went on, “They have two smart parents, yet they aren’t the brightest crayons in the box.
“Say hello to yellow, light blue, white, lime green, and hot pink.  You don’t have a color yet.  You still have to pass the test.  Which starts now.
“What are the first four letters of the Greek alphabet?” he asked casually, as if he knew all of this by heart.
“Alpha, Beta, Gamma, Delta.” I answered.
“First four of the Spanish alphabet?”
“Ah, beh, seh, deh.”
“A bomb is dropped in a French kitchen.  What do you get?”
“It depends on if it goes off but if it does you get Napoleon Blownapart.”
“Three midgets rob a bank.  What is their getaway car?”
“A mini-van.”
“What’s twelve squared?”
“One-hundred forty four.”
“That’s square root?”
“Twelve.”
“What’s the chemical symbol for glucose?”
“C-six-H-twelve-O-six.”
“Benedict Arnold is a famous…”
“Traitor.”
“The first four letters of the Native American alphabet?”
I thought for a moment.  I actually didn’t know what that was.  Running over my mental knowledge banks, I gathered information on the subject.  “Well… I guess it depends on the tribe.”
“Whoa,” I could hear Christopher breathe, looking towards Brandon.  “She actually got it right.”
“Nice one!” Mark exclaimed, half pushing me out of my seat.  He seemed to like to do that.
“None of us ever have,” Charles commented, looking to Brandon to see what the verdict was.
“You know, we could really use her—” Jason said, also gazing at Brandon to see what would happen.  It seemed as if every eye at the table was focused on him, including mine.
“Well… we do have cornflower blue open… that is, if you want to join…” Brandon smiled, spearing his own fruit cube.
“Yeah!” Christopher chimed, giving me a soft punch in the arm.  “I knew you would, with all of those questions you answered in History!”
I smiled and blushed, taking a sip of my milk.  My fruit was all gone.  Fructose sailed away.  “I… I really did that well?”
“Heck yeah!” Mark smiled and punched me in the same place Chris had.  Man, by the end of that night, I would have a bruise the size of Alaska!
Brandon laughed, and went on to tell me, “Charles actually started naming off the tribes and their alphabets.  It was pretty impressive.  We’re all certain he has Native American blood in him, but he says he’s all German and British.”
“Hey” Charles defended, putting his palms toward us. “It’s not my fault mom forced me to read all of those books on Native American culture, okay?  So I remembered some parts—big deal.  Things like that are useful in life.”
We all laughed and continued to munch on out food, carrying on small conversation.  All through the time my eyes drifted to Brandon, with that smile of his and that mop of messy black hair and those deep, intelligent brown eyes.  What can I say?  I was in love.
“Tour time,” Brandon piped as he noticed both of our empty trays.
I laughed and said, “Fine then, but at least let me change my clothes, the waistband on this skirt is too loose and the safety pin holding it up is getting old, plus my shoes are positively killing me.”
“Fine then,” he said, grinning, “but please tell me you won’t be an hour?  My sisters take that long and it drives me crazy!”
“I’m not like that,” I started, an evil glint reflecting in my eye, “but if it annoys you so much, maybe I should.”
“NO!” he nearly shouted, looking actually frightened.
“I was joking, take a chill pill,” I said, grinning.  We got up, left the cafeteria and all in it, and made our way to the dorms.
“Remember—don’t take an hour,” Brandon warned, turning into his own room.
“I told you, I don’t do that,” I retorted, sticking my tongue out at him playfully.
Fumbling around for my key, I ran for my own room and found the pink-coated lock-opening device.  Turning the key and opening the door, I headed straight towards the dressed, bypassing my laptop, iPod, Nintendo DS, and bookshelf, knowing that they would just be distractions.  Opening one of the drawers, I found every one of my shirts nearly folded and ironed.  Not for long, I thought—definitely not for long.  I’m a clutter bug.  That’s just what happens, everything’s prim and perfect and WHAM! It’s like a hurricane hit my room, minus the water.
Okay, I wanted to look presentable, right?  But I didn’t want Bran to think I was uptight.  I didn’t mean for that to rhyme, it’s the truth.  I didn’t want to look Goth or emo, but hey, that style was in and sometimes you have to go with style.  Shuffling through my stuff, I found a black pair of pants.  But then, my mind changed.  You really don’t look all that good in black, the voices told me and I place the pants back where they were.  Okay, jeans.  Jeans were good.  Not too emo, but still gives the impression of a laid-back person.
Now to the shirt.  What to wear, what to wear?  I grabbed a white and light blue Aeropostale polo and the silky brown tank top I had stolen from my mom’s closet a while back.  
Laying the clothing on my bed, I began to wonder where my shoes were.  Going through my drawers, I finally pulled out the one with my shoes.  Figures, I thought, going through the drawer.  Damn, where’d she put my canvases?  I asked myself, frantically trying to find them.  They were about the only comfortable shoes that I had that went with my outfit, besides my ugly worn gym shoes.  
Finally!  Success!  There they were, at the absolute back of my drawer.  Mum knew they were my favorites, she just didn’t like them all too much.  It was probably because she couldn’t steal them and wear them.  She always had a larger shoe size than I.  Oh well.  Her loss for having big feet.  Those shoes were sweet.
Kicking off those stupid Mary Janes, I undressed and pulled on my trusty jeans, the tank top over my head, and, finally, the polo.  Leaving it unbuttoned, I quickly grabbed my brown sweatshirt and slipped my sleek black eighty gig iPod into the pocket, just in case I had a craving to listen to one of my favorite alternative bands.  What can I say?  Just because I have an I. Q. of one-hundred forty-two doesn’t mean I can’t listen to a good beat every so often!  Well… every so often would be an understatement… but oh well!
I stepped into my shoes quickly and I peered at the clock in the corner of my laptop screen.  Five minutes, not bad.  Not bad at all.
Tying my shoes partly with one hand, I reached for my cell phone, just in case mom would have one of her little breakdowns where she cried “My baby’s gone!” and had to call me.  Those weren’t very pretty.
Finally, stepping out of my room and closing my door, I found Brandon standing with one hand on his hip and ear buds in his ears.  “I’m finished!” I tried to tell him, and he finally noticed me.
“Oh, yah, the tour, right,” he stammered, taking off his ear buds.  I could hear a little tidbit of the song that had been playing.  “…kiss you on your neck / people will stare…”  He turned off the song before I could look t the screen to make sure what song it was, though I knew exactly what it was.
“You listen to the Red Jumpsuit Apparatus too?” I questioned eagerly.  “They’re like, my favorite band!”
“Yeah, they have a good beat.  I think, by far, alternative is my favorite type of music.”
“Wow, I thought I was the only one.”
“Yeah, me too.”
“Who’s your favorite?”
“I don’t know, hard choice.  Maybe… can I pick more than one?”
“Sure, be my guest.”
“My Chemical Romance, Red Jumpsuit Apparatus, and Skillet, I guess.”
I had met my match.
“Stealer of favorite bands!”
“It’s not my fault we have the same taste!  Maybe we should start the tour, every minute that passes could be a minute exploring.”
“Got it,” I said, “let’s go.”
We walked for a bit and talked, exchanged screen names and cell phone numbers, all of the random stuff you do when you meet a new friend.  Suddenly, we came up to a large glass sliding door, which Bran opened and gestured for me to follow.
“Are you sure we’re allowed to go out of the building?” I inquired, not wanting to get in trouble on my first day at Altiora.
“Yeah,” he commented absentmindedly.  “They always let us out on the grounds and into the city, if we’re good little boys and get back at curfew.”
“And girls.” I corrected.
“Huh?”
“And girls.  Good little boys and girls.  Well, girl, to be exact.”
“Oh.  Yeah.  That.”
It was getting dark, so he flipped open his cell to shed some light on our grass-laden pathway.  I pulled my iPod out, thinking it was my phone, then pocketed it and took out the desired object.
“Here it is,” Bran suddenly said, looking up towards the trees.  Just how it was yesterday.  And the day before.  And the day before the day before.  And…”
“I get the point,” I interrupted, annoyed, “but I don’t see how trees are so special.”
“It’s what’s inside of the trees.”
“What, squirrels?”
“No. Look up.”
I obeyed.  There it was.  A big tree house.  It was pretty impressive, too.  Not like the normal ramshackle loft you find in someone’s backyard, oh no.  This thing reached over five trees, at least.  “Wow,” I breathed, “it kind of looks like that one tree house from Spy Kids.  Minus the elevator, of course.”
“Wait until you see the inside.  It’s amazing.”
I followed him as he started climbing up the ladder nailed to a strong tree, and when I couldn’t reach the last step, he just pulled me right in though the trap door.
“Welcome to our humble abode,” He greeted, bowing.  Man, the thing was perfect.  I wouldn’t have guessed, what with it being twenty or so feet up in the air.  It actually felt nice.  Better than any of the other tree houses I had seen, at least.  No wander there was a long orange extension cord, the thing had electricity.  Impressive.  Very impressive.
“Wa-ha-how,” I said, putting my hands in my hoodie pocket.  “I like it.  How was it done?”
“I’m not quite sure,” he answered softly.
“Gasp.” I held my hand to my mouth.
“Gasp what?”
“Gasp you don’t know how it was done, that’s gasp what.”
“I’m no Einstein…”
“Good!”
“Good what?”
“Einstein was stupid as a kid.  Well, everyone thought he was.  And he had bad hair.”
“Well, everyone knows that, but I’m talking about the grown Einstein, not the kid Einstein.”
“We’ll see.”
“We’ll see what?”
“So many questions!” I laughed and stood there for a minute, one hand in my hoodie pocket, the other checking my cell phone for missed calls or texts.  None.
“Are you ready for the rest?” Brandon asked, walking towards a polished wood door and touching his hand to the knob.
“I guess,” I said quietly, shrugging and flipping my cell closed, “but what’s to be ready for?  It’s a tree house.”
“It’s not only a tree house, Kyle Sampson hangs out here twenty-four seven.”
“Who’s Kyle Sampson?”  I asked, tilting my head to one side.  The school bully?  Maybe… but maybe not.  Oh well.
“He’s the guy who opposed you coming here in the first place.  Grade-A activist.  As much protesting as he can get for random pointless things.
“That’s odd… though he was the only boy who wasn’t staring in disbelief at my skirt.  Or maybe he was.  I don’t care.” I replied.
“You should.  He could drive you out of this place, just make sure that everything you do is perfect, and no one can accuse you of anything.”
“No one’s perfect.” I corrected him, narrowing my gaze a little.  I didn’t like the way he was talking, like I should actually be afraid of this guy.
“True, but you don’t have to be.  Act like it.  Lie.  No one will know.  You’re the new kid, you have a clean slate.”
“I don’t act what I’m not, at least not in real life, maybe the stage, but not real life.”
He grabbed my wrist and began examining it.  I snatched it back in an instant and glared at him suspiciously.  “What are you doing?”
“Checking for scars…” he replied, reaching for my wrist again.  I kept it out of his reach.
“You think I’m emo?” I asked bitterly, holding both of my unscarred wrists to my chest.
“Well, you listen to alternative…” he commented meekly, looking down at his own wrists.
“The kind of music I listen to has nothing to do with it!” I exclaimed fiercely, and jabbed my hands into my pocket.  The kid was annoying me.
“Geesh, sorry, I didn’t know girls were so sensitive,” he tried to cover up for his words.
And then—I did it. I did what I thought I’d never do.  Before I could stop my unconscious rage, I whipped out a hand and landed my palm square on his cheek.  Yes, I slapped him.  I thought I would never slap anyone because of an insult.  I always thought of it as a prissy girl type thing to do.  Never in my best interest, always stuck in the back of my mind for a last resort.  He called me emo.  I didn’t like that.  I slapped him. Simple as that.
“Bella!” he exclaimed in disbelief, looking up to me with hurt registering in his deep coffee eyes.  But it was too late.  I was walking towards the trap door, and already had it open.  “Bella!” he repeated, but I had one foot out the door, so to speak.
“No, I’m not going in there, if there’s just more jerks like you accusing me of being a cutter!”  I grabbed the rope of the trap door and slammed the wood shut.  I didn’t care how hard it would hurt when I landed, but I didn’t want to take the time to go down every step.  I jumped, and hoped for the best.  Landing quickly on the balls of my feet, I set off as a turtle’s pace walk, then began running, sprinting, even, as I felt tears well up in my eyes.  Why did the anger I had have to lash out on the people I liked nearly all of the time?