Prologue—Perhaps A Monologue

You might be puzzled.

Do I look like the pretty girls in Hollywood movies? Is my high school life in America really that exciting? Am I the most popular girl in school? Could I be that snobbish cheerleader with a disdainful look?

Oh, wishful thinking.

If forced to describe myself, pay attention: Beside every portrait of beauty, there's always a girl with curly red hair, a goofy smile, and a face brimming with naivety. A mere wallflower. That's precisely me—an ordinary high school girl to the core.

Whenever guests visit, their curiosity often lands on a group photo resting by my bedside. To my right in the picture is my cousin, Elisa, the archetype of conventional beauty. Her summer visits to our home were a routine, though now she's ventured off to college in California. The epitome of cool, she outshone everyone at Seayers High, every boy's dream and every girl's idol, the quintessential "Regina George" of Seayers Town. Gracing gossip magazine covers was her norm, and a future on a fashion magazine wouldn't surprise anyone.

On the photo's far right is my sister, Raven, appearing slightly chubby with freckles that lend her more of a goofy look than cuteness. Hence, her disdain for how she appears in this photograph, which only intensified after mastering the art of makeup, wishing to erase all traces of her makeup-free existence.

She, alongside Aunt Gigi, moved to Seattle a month ago, preferring the allure of city life—or rather, its extravagant parties, to be exact. Thus, our conversations dwindled to rare occasions, our relationship resembling more of a kinship between strangers.

The blame isn't solely mine. Honestly, the incessant DJing, not exactly my idea of a good time, knew no bounds. On the bright side, at least those reggae tunes of yesteryears vanished along with her departure.

Seayers defines my high school experience—an experience best encapsulated in a single, perfect verb, according to Raven. She deemed it a pure embodiment of American countryside flair: vintage constructions, a worn exterior, mundane amenities, and a horde of boisterous country kids. Yet, Seayers High bore no significant differences from any other American high school. If it captures your heart, it's a love affair destined to last, complete with head-spinning parties and dazzling beauties and hunks, true to the essence captured in American campus films.

In every school, a cheerleader queen reigns supreme, flanked by two minions adept in the art of pretense, her arm candy either a current or former heartthrob. Her existence necessitates a rival, be it the new girl or the school's outsider. And me? My best friend ascended to the throne of cheerleader queen—Brooklyn Davis.

Beauty and allure defined her, evoking envy for her enchanting blond locks, despite knowing their artificiality. Post-transformation, Brooklyn's charm was undeniable, her presence in our humble high school akin to Marilyn Monroe's radiance. Neighbors and best friends from the earliest memories, our bond remained unshaken, even as she emerged as the cheerleader queen of Seayers High in our sophomore year, her life undergoing a whirlwind of change.

Skyler Thompson, our football prince, pursued her, sparking envy and longing among girls wishing for even a sliver of her newfound glory.

As for me? I existed as an "invisible," lost in the crowd, unrecognized even by those who shared my summer classes. My name remained unknown to the majority at Seayers High, some even mistaking me for a transfer student last year. On tenth grade i skipped gym class seven times, seeking refuge in the storeroom beneath the stairs with a novel in hand, evading Mrs. Dingle's detection—or rather, her recollection of my existence.

Pathetic, isn't it? Each year, as the new school term approaches, I pray for a semblance of improvement in my life, clinging to hope that things won't spiral further. But this year, who could possibly predict what's in store?