[[  U N E D I T E D  ]]

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o1 || of popularity && stereotypes

popular girls are the people who make you feel like you're worthless, they hang out with about a quarter of the school and always laugh/talk really loudly so everyone can see how oh so popular they are. Have tan skin and usually bleach blonde hair (natural or dyed) sometimes there's brunettes, black haired and redheads too. Most of these "popular girls" get drunk, have sex and start a lot of rumors. The majority of them are cold-hearted bitches.

( shortened form of the urban dictionary's definition )

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POPULARITY ISN'T ALL SHITTING RAINBOWS; I CAN ATTEST TO THAT.

Most of us had to fight tooth and claw for the title. We still do, every day. Popularity is extremely political; it's a business built upon lies and behind-the-scenes dirty-work. It's like a game of musical chairs; there's more-than-enough people, but only a limited amount of chairs. When every single person is vying for one of those chairs, you don't get a seat by playing fair.

It's too bad my ass is already planted firmly on one of the coveted seats. I may as well have super-glued it on, because I'm not budging. Even if I have to fight dirty; because high school is a jungle where the phrase 'survival of the strongest' takes effect.

It's kill or be killed, and I'd rather stay alive.

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I rolled over onto my side, before opening my eyes groggily. I groaned when the hammering headache and the familiar nauseous feeling hit. I found myself staring at a curtain that was an unfamiliar shade of crimson. Blinking twice, I rubbed my eyes to clear my foggy vision before my eyes refocused on the lamp that lay next to the bed.

I propped myself up onto my elbows and looked around the room. Other than the dress, the trousers and the shirt that was strewn onto the floor, it was pristine.

And then it hit me -- I was at a party yesterday with Ashley & Arizona. Slumping back onto the bed, I adjusted my bra strap, since it was digging into my shoulder like a razor. Ash probably got laid, Arizona probably went home with our ride. Her parents were especially strict about parties. They still thought that Ari was their perfect little Christian girl, which couldn't be farther from the truth. They would freak out if they found out that their 'little, pure Arizona' wasn't a virgin anymore, and actually belonged on a clip of 'Girls Gone Wild'.

"Hey Sleeping Beauty," grinned Jackson, rapping on the door with his knuckle, "did you have a nice night?" He had a cup in one hand and a sheet of painkillers -- or at least what I hoped were painkillers, because honestly? I felt like I was going to die. Hangovers were the absolute worst.

I smiled weakly at him, propping myself up slightly. "I felt better when I was asleep," I mumbled, taking the sheet of painkillers and the cup -- which turned out to be a cup of hot water -- when he offered it to me. "D-did we--?" I asked, holding the water between my hands, soaking in its warmth and being careful not to squeeze the Styrofoam cup too tightly.

Jackson stared at me for a second, before he understood what I meant. He shook his head vigorously, a blush making its way onto his face. "N-no, of course not, Felicity."

I my back slumped a bit and I re-focused my attention on the cup. I was disappointed; Jackson looked like he would've been such a good lay. Too bad he was insistent on this whole 'waiting until marriage' thing. I was hoping that he would be a bit more lenient and loose if he was drunk, but apparently that wasn't the case. To be honest, I think he was cheating on me with another girl. Taking a sip of the water, I coughed slightly before letting the liquid dribble back into the cup. "Is there ginger in this?" I accused him, narrowing my eyes.

"Yeah," he said slowly, worry slowly seeping into his tone and he took a defensive stance, "it's good for hangovers." I let out a irritated snort while flaring my nostrils. 

"You know that I hate ginger," I complained, placing the cup back down onto the bedside table. "Well, you should know that. Any good boyfriend would know that," I said in a mildly biting tone. To anyone else, it would seem like a backhanded comment. In reality, I was going for the kill. I was insanely grumpy that we hadn't fucked; what was I supposed to tell Ash & Ari tomorrow when they asked? "But then again, you aren't the best boyfriend, are you?"

"I'm only trying to help," he said quietly in a soothing tone, "they only had ginger in their kitchen -- they didn't even have coffee. I had to make-do with what I had." He took a deep breath, "it took me a while to chop up the ginger and squeeze it into the water. Felicity --," his tone slowly rose. I cut him off before he could get farther. My walls had instantly jumped up at the sign of danger. It was an instinct -- one that you had to develop if you want to survive in the world of popularity. My bitch mode was on and I was willing to put to use every single dirty secret I had learnt in the past three months. My bitch mode was unstoppable, even if I wanted to stop. It was like word vomit, it was my defense strategy. Some people shut down, some people make jokes to defend themselves. Me? I kill others with my words.

 "Well it didn't help, did it? Your best wasn't enough, was it? Everything you do isn't enough, since," I gave a humorless chuckle, "you're a failure," I snarled at him, stressing every word with triumph. Every word was like the slash of a leather whip.  I smirked triumphantly when he recoiled. Obviously, I had hit a sore spot with him.

"Why are you acting like this?" he asked, hurt evident on his face. That was his first mistake -- and probably his last. The Golden Rule of survival: never show your emotions. Ever.

"I don't want to be tied down to a prude, fake, failure who pretends that he's everything to save his precious ego. Besides, I don't buy the whole 'wait until marriage' shit. I bet my ass that you're cheating on me with some other slut."

"You don't have to be such a bitch," he snapped, sending me a withering glare. "Honestly, I should have listened to everyone -- you are a needy, bitchy, fake slut. What, with you throwing yourself at me all the time; are you really that desperate to get laid?" he taunted. "For the record, not all of us are so desperate to get laid. And," he shot a pointed look to the sheets that were covering my lower half, "don't bet what you don't have."

"Fuck you," I snapped, flipping him the bird.

"Princess, I would, but I don't want to catch any STDs," he smirked, his tone sickeningly sweet. And with that, he spun around on his heel and walked out of the room, dodging the pillow that I chucked at his head.

When I was sure he was gone, I turned onto my stomach, buried my head into the pillow and let out a muffled scream. I hate humans so much.

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I stumbled home, my six-inch pumps in one hand, the other, pulling up my strapless black dress. My previously red face had faded to a pale pink; I had scrubbed it after I had calmed down.

I was walking the walk of shame, but I carried myself with the same confidence and dignity as always. One thing I had learned from my dad -- probably the only thing I had learnt from my old man -- was that you could get away with anything if you looked confident. So I pushed back my shoulders, raised my head and strutted along the sidewalk as if it were a catwalk.

When I finally arrived home, I stood in front the place for a while, taking a deep breath. My mom was surely going to berate me. I pushed open the door slightly, a creak emitting from the rusty hinges as they rubbed against each other. I slipped in and made my way down the hallway slowly, trying to get to my room as fast and stealthily as possible to evade my mom. Of course, I had no such luck, because she stopped me with a sharp call of my name.

"Yeah?" I groaned, staring at the wall in front of me.

"Where were you last night?" she asked angrily. "Why didn't you answer your cellphone? Ididn't give you it just to keep in touch with your friends -- I gave it to you so that I would be able to reach you at any given moment. So why didn't you answer?"

"Jesus, mom. You sound like a jealous boyfriend. Seriously, chill. It ran out of battery, alright? We both know that it's a crappy phone," I groaned loudly, rubbing my face with one hand.

"Don't talk to me like that, Felicity," mom said in a disapproving tone. "I'm your mother; treat me like one."

"Whatever," I rolled my eyes, "I have a headache. I'm going to go to bed."

"Felicity --," she started, her tone molding my name into sharp angles, before she stopped. With a defeated sigh, she walked away. I could tell by the clacking of her shoes against the floor. When I was sure she was gone, I let out a defeated sigh of my own.

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When I had changed into a pair of ratty shorts and a old tank top, I tucked myself under my covers, pulling it up to my chin. I closed my eyes and slowed my breathing down. I didn't notice that Riley was in the room until she pulled herself onto my twin-sized bed and tucked herself in beside me.

"You're stinky," she wrinkled her nose. I smiled lazily, wrapping my arms around her and pulling her closer to me. I was glad that I had already brushed the smell of alcohol out of my breath, and the smell of sweat overpowered the smell of alcohol.

"Mmm," I replied incoherently.

A couple of moments passed before she spoke again. "Where were you, Fellie?" she asked innocently, "I had a nightmare last night, but you weren't there."

"I'm sorry Ri," I mumbled into her hair, "I was at a friend's house." Technically it wasn't a lie.

"I was scared, Fellie," she mumbled back, "I dreamt that mommy died because daddy hurt her."

"It was just a nightmare, it's not real," I reassured her, playing with a strand of her pale, dirty blonde hair. Since she was only five, her hair had kept some of that newborn softness.

"It seemed real," she insisted, yawning.

"A lot of things seem like they're real," I reasoned, "but that doesn't mean they are, Ri. You just have to look carefully at the details and pick out the inconsistencies. You just have to think abstractly and out of the box that you've been placed in."

"But I haven't been placed in a box," Riley protested, rolling onto her other side in an attempt to get more comfortable.

I chuckled softly, before kissing her cheek. "Just go to sleep, Riley. Real life can wait."

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hey guys !!

if anyone is reading this, i'm entering 'skin deep' in the wattys bc i honestly have nothing to lose lol. anyways, i have no idea if this good, bad or whatever, but i'd really appreciate it if you'd comment some constructive criticism, maybe even vote.

you guys might not like Felicity right now, but i swear she gets better. i solemnly swear that she will be better. it's really killing me right now bc she's acting so heartless towards jackson.

thanks for reading, anyone who reads this!! it honestly means a lot -- especially if you guys vote/follow/comment.

i love you guys, anyone who is actually reading my story <33