At first I found it cute.

Then I found it terrifying - How the hell should he know my last name, you know?

But then again, I remembered it's my official name. It's the name I go by as part of the MJR team. Acronym being short for Media, Journalism And Reports team. It honestly is just the media team, but I think the head of Journalists and/or Reporters, felt the need to be different and 'independent', so went on to printing in gold platings, MJR on the main door leading to the computer-swarmed room we work in - because printing that makes it official.

It kinda has, in my opinion. Of recent times no one calls it the media team anymore. It's now, 'MJR'.

Funny.

I like it and I hate it. I mean, I like the team and I.. sometimes hate it as well. For the same reason.

I like how 'official' it is. It's always a hustle and bussle when we get together. All the assigning of different projects, suggesting new ideas, all of that. Sort of helps you forget you're in Junior year in high school. Or you're even in high school at all.

But then I also hate it, and yes because of how 'official' it is too. The heads of the team choose it as priority to make every subordinate feel, well, subordinate. Like last semester when I submitted a report and George couldn't help but point out every wrong thing I did. The dots on your I's aren't visible enough. You didn't explain the players' movement in good detail. You should have underlined the title or better yet, made it bold.

So, alright, that last one was valid, I could admit. Though he could've been nicer about it. He's always so uptight, irritated and... un-nice. He's not like Tyler.

Okay, i'm not certain it's right to certify Tyler as nice yet, but the way he said my last name last night, looked so cute. Nice.

Perhaps because I know he wouldn't know the name if he hadn't viewed any of the previous reports I've written on the football team, and assumed, well correctly, that the printed in all tiny block letters at the bottom of each page - Martinez - was my last name.

I mean, I am aware it's not that much of hard work. He didn't exactly have to go over all the way to mount Everest, North pole or even break into the principal's office to see one of the many reports. They're on basically every wall in the hallways, third floor to first.

Yet still I find it cute. All mushy on the inside, though I try to keep a straight face as I wriggle a little in my hot seat on the bleachers. Which isn't hard - keeping up the straight face - because with the sun burning down on me it's not that hard to fight a smile. Rather it's hard to hold one. From time to time, I attempt fixing my face a bit just incase I've got on the look of a frustrated nun.

Not that anyone would notice. Or care. The heatwave has everyone focused on themselves, straining their eyes under the light - like me, and without they're blazers. Again, like me. This, actually, is the first time I've gone ahead with dumping my blazer in the locker for the day. And that's to say a lot because I'm usually what Pamela would call, meticulous. Though I'd prefer going with 'normal'.

The only happy people I see are the boys on the field. They're all game. I guess that's how it ought to be? Come rain, come shine.

My free period leads straight into closing and if my best friend can wait - which I know she will... hopefully, she said something about staying late for Student Council Meeting earlier - I can stay even after. They always play till long after school. Sometimes past 4pm too.

Well, I'm just trying to get more info on my work so there's no George breathing down my neck at the end of the day. I don't mean that literally of course, he doesn't- he doesn't do that. He'll more like have his slender, outrageously long fingers point out a million of the things I did wrong, and ask me to fix them.

And sorry, he's fingers aren't really outrageously long too, i'm just a bit more pissed at him today.

Coach Tanner blows out his whistle, indicating an interval so the boys can rest for a bit. A fifteen minute bit, that's usually boring to me.

With that, they out of breath unite in one big swoop and begin running off somewhere down the field to go sit and drink water, or just sit.

Coach Tanner gives me a friendly smile and wave from the bottom of the bleachers and, despite myself, I try to eagerly respond with a smile of my own.

For a while, I watch the boys. Talking, arguing, ruffling each other's hair and all. Their backs are to me so right now, I can't see who's who. That's until they, one after the other, begin lifting themselves up from the grass. Right at the same time I stand.

As if I couldn't be frozen enough, Tyler just had to turn around and like last night, our eyes connect instantly. Even under the bright light of the sun and the long distance. He knows or should know I'll be here, so there's no need for this to appear dramatic or anything.

But I lose my tongue.

Why'd I stand up in the first place?

Oh yeah, to go ask Pamela if she's really having a meeting after school or I'd only misheard.

My walk down the bleachers consists of a lot of tripping on air and bumping into nothing as Tyler starts coming my way.

He might just be heading for the center of the field, I think.

He should just be heading for the center of the field because Eastwood High's a nosy school. News spreads fast.

Surely, it'll be a pleasure to have a star like Tyler talk to me here, out in the open, but that's only going to put me on the radar. Put us under the radar. Whatever that radar might be. I'd most likely have to deal with random questions and snarky comments, and that's why I've never found it odd that he and I only hold a 'conversation' in the confines of the spot down my street or the shallow pathway to it.

So whatever the hell's going on had better stop. I really better not be his destination.

Once I get to the bottom of the stairs and he's way past the center of the field, I decide he might want to come rest on the bleachers instead, has nothing to do with me. The break's not over and sitting here's not a crime, till-

"Melissa,"

I freeze at the voice. Then try my best to unfreeze.

The voice didn't come from Tyler though, I'd thought it did to be honest, but even he had to search for where it came from, till he found it past me. Over my head. Probably someone at his eye-level.

Turning around, It's Nathan, strolling down to me but with his eyes on Tyler. Everything seems insanely tense as Tyler swaps stares with both Nathan and myself, before giving Nathan? Me? a small nod, deciding going back to where he came from.

Phew.

From where Nathan's coming from, it shows he's just arriving, so hasn't been one of the boys playing on the field and I-

What have I even been writing in my reports then? Am I even doing my job right? Was George truly right when he said I hadn't explained the players' movements in good detail?

"You talk to him?" He asks randomly once he gets to me. Okay, maybe it's not so random, Tyler did look pretty close to me.

Still, I opt for being oblivious, "Talk to who?"

"Jones."

"Who?"

Figuring this must be getting old and annoying, I stop already, "You mean- what, no. He was going to get up the bleachers, i'm sure of it."

"Didn't look that way to me."

"Or ask on how the reports are going." I finish. My mind flashing back to last night has me saying my next words icily. "What do you want?"

He twists his lips to the side in response, puppy eyes - those puppy eyes - searching the entirety of my face. Nathan always does this when we have a fallout, but last night was much more than a fallout. Or maybe it's not all that bad.

"To give you this." He finally responds.

We're only inches away from the bleachers, so there are small pavements around here that lead up to it. The pavements aren't meant for sitting but Nathan lowers himself on it anyway, while I keep standing opposite him.

Done skipping through the pages of the crime-themed book he just handed to me, I put it atop the jotter held in my left arm.

"Just thought you'd like it since you're into all of that."

His dark-blonde hair has grown longer than it was, and that's something typical with him. It appears to have grown even more from the past night. Logically impossible, I know. The long locks fall forwards, almost touching his jaw as he moves his gaze to the ground for a slight second.

Enough time for me to chirp out a, "Thank, you."

His head shoots up immediately. Then he sighs, "Melissa, i'm so sorry."

"I told you it's fine." My eyes stay fixed on the open field than on him.

As I force myself to not feel triggered, I spot an approaching familiar silhouette nearer the towering school building. Though the closer it gets, the more of a 'she' it becomes. I let out an inaudible groan once it becomes clearer who the 'she' is.

"Melissa,"

"Nathan, I said it's fine. I hope you are too?"

"Melissa!" Oh goodness.

This time it's not Nathan who says my name but rather his 'girlfriend'. "Been searching all round for you."

"You have?" I hear myself automatically ask.

"Mhm." She hums back with a smile.

Why does her smile look more like a warning and a threat?

Oh wait, I know why. As much as I'd love to clarify to her that Nathan and I are friends and nothing more, the last time I did, she gave me a cold once over that matched her words perfectly. Quote,

"You're not a threat to me, Melissa. Don't flatter yourself."

Her smile while ingenuine, is pretty. Really pretty, yes. Her teeth must be the whitest kind I've ever seen too, so much that i'm almost waiting for a star to glint on them. I've always been waiting.

Her usually let-down blonde hair is in a messy bun atop her head. So, I can guess what class she's having. Plus she's in gym clothes, and well, it just has to be tiny yoga pants and a tank top. Not to judge but since meeting her, I've noticed she's not very... conversant with the idea of modesty, you know.

Though if i'm to be direct and snarky about it, I'd say she rather shows more skin than genuine love for anyone. The only person she probably truly loves is herself.

And sure, Nathan, who she pretends just to see when we both know the only reason she came over here is for, well, him.

"Oh, hi. You're here."

Nathan's words come out stressed and almost uncertain as he stands up from his sitting position, dusting the back of his pants with both hands. "Hello, Amy."

She bats her eyelashes in a way that i'm certain most guys would find attractive. And I just stand there being an audience to their encounter.

Then out of nowhere, a smooth arm wraps round my shoulders in a... hug? I look to her in surprise but her flirty eyes are on Nathan instead. Next thing, her whole body's on him too, leaping from mine in such a swift mode that's humanly impossible. Only Amy. She leans up close to his ears and attempts whispering, even though a person six feet away could still hear if they tried.

"Last night was amazing."

Last night?

He and I trade a look as he takes in a visible gulp.

Oh okay, I mean, that's... none of my business. He doesn't have to be all red about it.

Nathan can deny dating Amy all he wants, but i've always known they've got 'certain' things to do together.

The only problem, is that we were together last night. Unless?

So, he really pissed me off and left, just to end up in Amy's bed?

Alright.

That's no problem, but thinking deeper into it, if all he ever wanted was a fling, why the hell did he get involved with my sister in the first place?

This is probably the reason behind their split. Amy's probably the reason behind their split.

Danielle-Soledad might be crazy alright, but also might just have been right when she said Nathan deserved to have his hair shaved only in the middle for the rest of his life. I thought it was only mad ex-girlfriend talk at the time. And so did my brother, so we always stayed quiet when she ranted on about him.

But it's true. He really does deserve to have his hair shaved only in the middle for the rest of his life.

"Wait, Melissa!" Amy calls out. I don't walk back but still stop in my tracks, turn around while holding the books tight to my chest. Refraining hard from shooting Nathan an icy stare.

"It's you I came for, sorry I got distracted." She continues, walking towards me till she gets all up in my face. My mouth involuntarily opens to respond, only that no words come out. It's crazy how intimidating she can be even with being the exact replica of a real life barbie doll. Or perhaps that's why.

She looks so genuine as she continues, now motioning for us to walk together to the main building. Sometimes I wonder if she likes me indeed, only thing is she's proved the opposite, countless times.

We're now way past the field when she dismisses the quiet with, "Came to remind you about our pending project."

"Our what?"

"The history project both you and I are to finish before December, remember? Cute, that rhymed." She smiles at her own pun before continuing.

"We should get together today at my place, or no, your place maybe? Your place, perfect." We make a stop when done walking up the stairs that lead to the main door. Through the glass, though it's blurry, I can see Principal Roches heading down the near-empty hallway. And yes, her name has been purposely mistaken for Roaches.

"Oh and don't forget to invite over your friend as well." She chirps as an after thought.

Of course, the bell just had to go off as she leaves me outside, strutting past the open glass door like a runway model.

Goodness please, I'd totally forgotten about the project.

Or maybe I'd just hoped she'd forget.

"You spent way too many dollars on this."

"You spent fourteen thousand dollars on a beach-themed balcony you got tired of two days after." My best friend counters from her upside-down position at the edge of the bed. I open my mouth to object, but the blankness of my brain makes me close it instead.

We drove straight to her house after school. She did stay late for the Student Council Meeting so I guess it's instead after after school. She'd suggested rather than walking the remaining way to the next house - my house - that I stay over for a while since her parents weren't home.

Then I'd gone on about how I can't spend the rest of a hot day in my uniform, to which she solved with the brilliant idea of me changing into one of the clothes I'd forgotten at her place the day we skipped school for shopping.

Which I went along with.

Though, I ignored all her other fancy choices of outfits, and chose putting on pyjamas instead. One, 'cause it's comfy. Two, 'cause at least it's now a replacement for my previous - can't believe Tyler actually saw me in that terrible outfit combo last night.

And three, because it's beautiful. Simple but beautiful.

The pants are large red, black checkers, and baggy enough to be used as a parachute. I imagined that happening, a few minutes ago.

At least the waistband's tiny, so not falling off, and the button-down shirt to match isn't baggy. Well, not that baggy.

It's the price tag I ripped off, that's the problem. Written boldly on it was '$2500', and while on a normal day it won't bother me. Today it did. And probably Pamela now notices because she sits up from her hanging-off-the-edge-of-the-bed position, with her slim eyebrows knitted together as she gives me a look.

My best friend's room can be defined as a pink vomit. Now, that might sound disgusting, but it's actually not. I mean, it's not totally that, weird but cute, or as Pamela would call it, glamorous. And as she also would say, it 'fits her personality.'

It's cozy. Through out. Everything is, of course, pink. Pink walls, pink closet, pink wallpapers -except that one picture of Tyler from two years ago, it's... blue and green. Blue jersey, green grassland. Pink one-seater sofa, pink sheets were she's seated on, pink duvets in which she's entirely cocooned in.

And also the pink-glitter rimmed mirror i'm staring at myself in, unable to stop judging the price on the price tag I rumpled and threw somewhere in the room.

With a sigh, I turn around, walk lazily to the pink one-seater sofa opposite her bed, and drop myself like a pack of cards on it. I criss-cross my legs to get comfortable, and she does the same, across me. Before asking, "What's with you?" That sounds more like, 'What's witchu?'

I sigh once again, realizing I don't really know what's wrong. Or how to put it in better words. "I don't know."

She patiently gives me a minute so I'm able to continue in my own time, with whatever words I can use. "It's just... I don't- You know George?"

Her eyes crinkle for a moment, then she goes, "Tall, lanky looking, orange hair, wears glasses, has braces? That George?"

I'm a bit surprised at how quick and accurate she is, that I don't reply. Yet I shouldn't be so surprised 'cause she's always been this way. Quick to study appearances and save them in her head. I remember this one time, we'd had a bad encounter with a man at an amusement park when we were kids, when her nanny asked what he looked like, I had no idea. But Pamela had every idea. In almost one breath, she said, "Ugly, short, round, bald, has a dark moustache, a gap tooth, and a nasty attitude."

"That George?" She asks again.

"Yeah... I- Actually, yes. That's him. Except he's taken off the braces now."

"Hm, okay. So, what's with him?"

"Well, he..." I begin picking at my toes for no reason as I continue, "He, well he... He called me a rich girl."

I glance over at Pamela to see her reaction, but she has none. Only there's a tiny pint of confusion. "He-"

"No, it's that.. He didn't say it in a good way, see, it was kinda in a 'spoilt brat' kinda way, you know?"

She bites her lower lip like she's thinking of what to say, or processing the information I just gave. When it appears she's gotten an answer, she stares up at me. "Well, you are a rich girl."

She laughs.

I scowl.

"Okay, okay, I'm still trying to get it. You said he called you a 'rich girl'. So?"

"So!" I exclaim, burying my face in my palms before raising it back up again, "I don't know. He said in a way that implied I walk around with my head held high and my six inch heels stepping on every single person beneath me."

She gives me an entirely blank look. "You don't even wear heels."

"It's that.. okay. I submitted some of my work, yeah?" She bids for me to continue. I just hope she finally gets it this time. "He went through it, irritatingly as usual, giving me some remarks that meant my work was bad and when I tried to explain, he just... murmured something along the lines of me being a snobby rich girl."

"Oh." She nods, looking away at her locked screen windows. "Oh, I get it."

We stay silent, while she ruminates over it again and, hopefully, again. Then she goes, "Nah, he's just salty."

"You think?"

"Melissa, you're not snobby at all, what." The bulky sparkly duvet falls off her body as she wriggles herself out, revealing her light, short sundress which I'd thought was one of those lingerie night dresses till she said it was 'not!' "You're not snobby. Know something? You actually should be one of the heads as well."

"What? Definitely not."

"Um, why the hell not?"

"I joined only a year ago, sophomore, I don't think it's long enough a time to... you know?"

"Not a good reason. You love journalism, don't you?"

"Well, yeah but-"

"No buts." She instructs, though with a smile on her lips, while her pointy finger stays up in a warning gesture. Honestly resembling a nun who asked me to join the choir a long time ago, when I told her yes, I had a voice but-

So, I did join the choir then. Thankfully, we were enough in number to mask any embarrassing sound that might've come from me. Plus, the messed up lyrics 'cause heaven knows I didn't even sing the chorus correctly.

"Okay, but how?"

"I-" She places a hand on her chest in... shock? That has me looking at her weirdly, even as she gets up and begins manually re-arranging her bedroom. "I just know you did not just 'how' me."

"Well, I... I don't know, I kinda did? Just how?"

"I have my ways okay, Melissa? I have my ways. How'd you get into the club in the first place, ever wondered?" Before I can respond she goes on, so i'm guessing it was a rhetorical question. " You do know you were to write some letter first, wait for a reply and still go under the scrutiny of a thousand interviews, right?"

"Really?"

"And did you?" I, again, don't get the chance to respond as she does so on my behalf. "That's right, you didn't."

She spins around to look me down on the sofa, "I always have my ways."

A few random giggles come from us, then the room goes silent.

Pamela going round and around her room, keeping items in their rightful places, and me just watching her. Sometimes I pick at my toes, fold my self into a feotus too.

"Amy said you've got a project together."

I inwardly groan. Though, she overhears.

"So, you still don't like her, hm?" She asks with a bit of humor in her tone.

"Not that."

"Then what?"

"Then, then.. Well, it's she who doesn't like me."

"What?" Pamela exclaims with so much horror that it makes me go over what I just said over and over again, wondering if it included anything to do with murder or death.

She sits on the edge of her bed that's across me. Horror written on her entire face, again making me wonder what the hell I'd said that was so wrong.

"How could you say such a thing?"

"What'd I say?"

"Amy likes you, okay?"

I'm a bit shocked at her exaggerated reaction, but then again, I'm not. "You sound so sure."

"Too sure." I add, returning myself into that of a foetus. Till she gets off her bed and yanks me out of my comfort.

"Melissa."

"Yeah?"

"Amy likes you."

"Okay..?"

"She always talks nice about you."

"She does?" I ask with a raised eyebrow, adjusting to her arrival on the one-seater sofa that's meant for, well, one. "She sort of... I'm not certain you know her enough, Pamela."

"Um, I've kinda known her all my life. Since kindergarten. Why do you think she doesn't like you?" She asks the last part after seconds of me having nothing to say to her first statement.

"Because, she just... there's a way she acts with me. A bit bitchy, if I might say."

"Oh," She does me the favor of getting off the sofa. "Nah, that's probably 'cause she feels a bit threatened by your friendship with Nathan. You know she likes him, right?"

"Thought so. They're dating, yes."

"But are they really?"

I look her up in the eye, trying my best not to laugh, but I do. "You know?"

"Everybody knows." She laughs as well.

Pamela begins letting down the silk cream curtains and turning on the lights, making me realize it's already getting late.

"Everybody knows." She repeats, this time absent-mindedly, while checking out something on her phone while I'm still unable to stop laughing. I honestly thought I was the only one who knew. Somewhat thought It was some sort of heavy secret I was keeping.

"Like her now?"

When I don't reply, she repeats herself.

"Pamela, it doesn't work that way I... I still don't like her, I'm sorry."

"Hm, well then that's another thing you must have in common with your sister, I see."

I sit up. "And that is?"

Dropping her phone loudly on the dress-table, she turns to me with pursed lips. "You both hate people for no reason."

"Excuse me?"

"Yeah!" She laughs.

I get off the couch, unable to decipher if I'm mad, surprised or... both? Though, I'm smiling. "Oh my goodness, if you're talking about that, my sister does not hate you."

"Oh really? Maybe she just doesn't like me then."

"No, it's.. She just thinks you're extra-flamboyant." I say without thinking.

She half laughs.

Half waits for me to counter the statement.

But I don't.

"You're joking."

"Well, no?" Extra-flamboyant is putting it nicely, though. It's actually quoting myself 'cause Danielle-Soledad's exact words were,

"She's a bitch."

"Don't say that." I'd frowned even with a mouth full of some random tasty italian meal.

"Wait, shit sorry, language. Um, she's..."

"That's not what I meant! Besides, I'm grown."

"Please, fourteen is the opposite of grown." She'd had her hair straightened at the time, so unlike mine, it was able to look slick when she flipped it.

"Then sixteen's also the opposite of grown."

"Point is, 'cause i'm not trying to fight with a kid, I don't like her. Simple. So, be careful."

Her words broke something inside of me, and till date, i'm still not certain if it was the fact that my sister didn't like my best friend,

Or that she'd just referred to me as a kid.

I sat back down on my seat, mumbling more to myself than anyone else, "There's nothing wrong with her, she's just... she's just a bit.. extra. Extra-flamboyant."

"I can't believe she said that." Pamela says once out of her laughing fit.

"Well." I shrug. "You know."

She makes space for me on the bed so I lay next to her. Our eyes staring straight at her lighted up ceiling and ourselves, actually, because 'who doesn't want to see what they look like from a higher view?'

Her words, never mine.

There really is a mirror on her ceiling.

"Amy also said she saw Tyler talking to you? Something like that."

I'm really hoping my body's still intact and i'm still even in existence.

The mirror up there shows I am. Sadly. Why do I wish I could 'poof' somewhere else right now?

"Though, we all laughed 'cause if that were true, you'd probably not be here right now. Might've been a pillar of salt or something." She laughs, and I wonder if it's truly funny.

The truth is, if anyone had told me a few months back that I'd speak with Tyler Jones and not, you know, pass out, die, seize to exist - I would've laughed. And agreed with the pillar of salt thing.

But.

That's not the case anymore.

I tilt my head to the side to stare at her. Even her side-profile is beautiful. It's never something I've been jealous of, It's rather something i've always admired. It's just now, well, since Tyler's arrival, i've begun comparing myself with almost every single girl I know. Including my best friend.

Maybe one day I'll be over him. Enough to not feel jealous of him being in a relationship with even Pamela.

But till that day. "Yeah, I'd probably turn to a pillar of salt." I laugh too.

At least, I try to.

Yet another chapter, okay! At this point I think it's safe enough to ask your perception on the characters.

So what are your thoughts on at least 3 of the characters?