Fic: Pretty

[starrika]

Fic: Norah
Fandom: Sky High
Rating: PG-13
Summary: A series of drabbles from the POV of an OC called Norah Gregory, a student at Sky High. No shipping. Companion to Salt of the Earth.

Previous drabbles here @ ff.net



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I think I might be a bitch.

When it comes to Baron Battle, I'll never forgive him for killing my mother. When it comes to Warren Peace, I have no patience for his anger. He has nothing to be angry about – his dad is still alive, for god's sake. He can go visit him every Sunday. So his little temper tantrums about Will Stronghold have gotten a little old, at least for me. Everyone else seems to love the drama they bring.

Still, even if I think Warren Peace needs to suck it up, I didn't mean to actually tell him that.

I was in the detention room following my study period trying to finish my homework when Principle Powers showed him in. Normally, if I know he'll be in the room, I'll leave before detention starts, so I guess he started another fight some time during sixth period. I'm sure I'll hear all about it from Jessica soon.

Whatever happened, Warren didn't even sit down – as soon as the door shut, he was shoving desks and being an ass. I wasn't even going to say anything, truly I wasn't, until he started muttering about the Commander and Will Stronghold again.

I thought I was being quiet when I said "Give me a break," but then he was in my face trying to shout at me, so I guess I wasn't quiet enough.

Normally when I argue with other people, even my dad, who's the most patient person on the planet, I swear, I have a hard time saying what I'm thinking. It's hard, because you're trying to sort through your own emotions and theirs, while trying to be articulate and sometimes mean, if they've made you really mad. The last time I had a fight with someone else, I ended up in my room forty minutes later thinking up really great things to say in response. Clearly, I suck at fighting.

Except, of course, in the detention room.

I think I might have let the fact I couldn't feel his emotions go to my head a little bit, because I think I was really mean. I can't believe I'm saying this, but I feel a little guilty. Actually, I started to feel guilty right around the time I stopped yelling about how immature he was and moved on to the fact that his father killed my mother, so the next time he got mad at Stronghold about his dad, he needed to shut the hell up.

Whoops.

You know in movies when two people are fighting and one person lowers the boom so the other person goes completely still? Yeah, that happened. He got this weird look on his face and sat down in his chair hard, and then he didn't look at me for the rest of the detention period. I think it was the most awkward twenty minutes of my life.

I didn't say sorry, even though I felt bad. Because honestly? I'm not sorry.

I think that does make me a bitch. I really hope no one hates me.


 

I turned fifteen today. I don't feel any different.

All my life, fifteen has been a magical number. My lucky number. I used to think that when I turned fifteen, I'd transform from boring and plain to Victoria's Secret model. I know it's silly, but a part of me still wished I'd go to high school, turn fifteen, and take a turn as the swan instead of the ugly duckling.

I did found some of this fantasy in reality. I've seen the pictures of my mother. She went to high school and whenever I look at pictures, it still surprises me how she went from being a pretty child to a glamorous woman. It was the number fifteen that did it.

She dated fifteen boys in high school, too. I know, it's completely ridiculous – and a part of me wishes I didn't care so much about how I looked. But I do.

I don't want to be a knockout, as Amanda put it. I don't want her makeup and tips to make every boy in school notice me. I don't want people to notice me. I just want Zach to like me.

According to Sean, all you have to do is be pretty. Oh, and "pretty nice." I could tell quite easily that my subtle attempts to get into the mind of boys weren't going to happen. Jessica's advice was similarly unhelpful. "Be confident." Does she not know me?

Boys should be easy. They should notice you, talk to you, and realize they think you're the prettiest girl in the world. I don't even care about the buying me stuff or taking me on expensive dates bit. (Although going to a movie once in a while would be nice). I don't even want to start thinking about Homecoming, no matter how many times Amanda keeps trying to brightly bring it up at lunch.

I just want Zach to turn around in his seat in Hero Support and have his face light up. Not literally.

 

I didn't want to go to homecoming, but Amanda talked me into it.

In truth, I felt sorry for her. While she'd taken the breakup with Sean hard, she'd summoned all her dignity and managed to be nice at lunch. Although nice generally meant not being hateful to Sean and Jessica, and spending all of lunch talking to me.

Still. It was better than I'd probably take my first breakup.

And that was how I ended up going to Homecoming. Amanda was still hurting over the whole thing with Sean, and no matter what her mother said, she wasn't going to use her powers to snag another date. And she definitely wasn't going to go with Jess, even if she wasn't interested in Sean.

Which left me.

Granted, it didn't take much to talk me into it. I knew it was important to Amanda. I don't really have anything in particular against dances, but it's tough sometimes being in big crowds. It meant a lot to her though, and roaming the mall for weeks on end to find the perfect dress helped take her mind off things. Of course, this also gave her the opportunity for her to give me the big makeover she'd been plotting.

Dad was no help, of course. Amanda just batted her eyes and he handed over his credit card. I thought he'd been had, but later he told me I needed friends. Even friends who kept trying to get me into dresses cut down to you-know-where.

So I ended up with some new clothes, a new haircut, a drawer full of makeup, and a dress for Homecoming that was prettier than anything else I'd ever seen. Somehow, Amanda had managed to figure out I had a crush on one of the boys at school – thankfully, not who – and she'd been all the more determined to make me pretty.

We spend the day doing our nails and hair, and Dad made us dinner before the dance. Amanda wouldn't let me look in the mirror when she did my makeup, but once I did get a peek, I realized why.

I was pretty. We'd found a purple dress that made my eyes greener, and Amanda had somehow made my makeup look natural – which was far better than my previous efforts. She'd pulled my hair up into a soft bun, with little pieces falling down, and it looked soft, even if it was sprayed into place with the equivalent of liquid cement.

I figured I looked good when Dad tried not to cry and took about a thousand pictures. I just knew the night was going to be memorable after that.