True, it doesn't have any Fall Out Boy in the first chapter. But it's a good story as it works through my mind. I needed a break from "Put Your Ear to the Speaker" since it was giving me a headache...
Well, that was me.
Enter Michelle Ann Smith, the girl who spent time in libraries reading self-help books and getting over the fact that she was never going to have a boyfriend before the end of senior year. The girl who wore the glasses with lenses as thick as Plexi-Glass (and not the cool kind, ones with pink wide rims that were uggggly); the girl who never went to any parties without adult supervision (or that was her excuse; basically, she just didn't like alcohol); the girl who didn't come out to support the school because she was too busy with her calculus homework, or go to the prom for the same reason; et cetera, et cetera, et cetera and so forth, we get the point.
But, true to the Promise (see first paragraph, if you dozed off), there was one. Me (see paragraph again). But, untrue to the Promise, I hadn't found true love, and it had been two months since June first, to my dismay.
I lived in Florida. Orlando. Where, supposedly, "all the action is in in Florida." According to my parents, who had me shipped off there about two seconds after I graduated. I was going to attend college in September. And until then, I was living in an average-looking (and priced) apartment complex in the heart of the city (unfortunately). I went to a few places to apply for jobs. And spent some money I shouldn't have on a few concerts (local and non). Mistake on my part.
A "good" job came knocking one day. Let me explain.
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"OW! Moron!" I yelled at the bicyclist whizzing by me. I pulled my black Paramore hoodie closer to my body and kicked a stone at the wheel.
"Oh my God!"
I slapped my hands over my mouth and watched in shock as the bicyclist fell off the bike, hitting the pavement. The rock couldn't have been that big, I wondered as I ran over to him, my eyes frozen in fear.
"Are you okay?"
The guy looked up at me. His hair was brown and hanging into his face, and as he swept it away I melted a little. He was beautiful. Pure beauty in my eyes, anyway. But as his mouth formed words, I could tell he was angry.
He was speechless for a few seconds as he stared at me. I stared back.
"Can I help you?" I asked slowly. Maybe he didn't speak English. That would be a huge bummer.
He looked at me as if I was mental. His eyebrows furrowed together and he pulled himself to his feet. I noticed a scarf, bandana type thing tied around his knee. Weird. I shrugged to myself and he spoke.
"Actually, you can," he answered, looking me up and down. I started to get worried. I was in Orlando, in a somewhat dark alleyway, with no friends. I checked my cell phone quickly. It was also 11:11. One minute to make a wish. I hope this guy doesn't kill me. And I get a job soon.
"How?" I asked carefully. My eyes blinked from behind their black lined selves. True, I was a little prettier than usual; yes, the red hair I tamed normally with a flatiron was laying okay. And these jeans fit really well. And my eyes looked prettier than normal. But that wasn't any factor in this situation. Was it?
"Are you looking for a job, by any chance?" he asked, grinning.
Oh, God, take me now.
"It depends," I said. "If I can knock people over on bikes, maybe there's a deal involved."
He laughed. "It's nothing like you think," he assured me. He dug into his tight jeans pocket and pulled out a little business card, handed it to me. I took out my cell phone and read by the tiny light:
"Mr. William Beckett, Co-Manager of Generation Mod."
And that's when it began.