Guardians:The Girl (The Guardians Series, Book 1)

By: Lola StVil

Book I:

Emmy





“I am under the influence of some tremendous attraction

which I have resisted in vain, and which overmasters me.

You could draw me to fire, you could draw me to water,

you could draw me to anything I have most avoided…”





—Charles Dickens





Chapter One:

The Boy





Okay, it’s official: I’m a coward. No one is in class today but me—and the new twin foreign exchange students from Japan. The boy’s name is Rio. He’s tall, lanky, and on the cutting edge of fashion. His hair is flaming red and falls into a shaggy bob cut that usually covers his face. His lips are plum red and he has eyebrows most girls would die for.

Rio looks like a Harajuku poster boy. This I learned from Wikipedia; it is a fashion trend in Japan where the kids dress in bold colors, patterns, and off-the-beaten-path clothing. I find him sexy in a dark, mysterious way.

His twin sister, Miku, is more bohemian. No matter the weather, she can be found in dresses that are usually soft, flowery, and flowing. She has almond-shaped gray eyes like her brother. Her hair is jet black, bone straight, and falls down to her waist. Her bangs frame her soft face beautifully. She wears a single honey blonde braid on the right side. But where Rio stands at 6’0, his sister is nearly a foot shorter.

We’ve said hello to each other in passing, but I’ve never struck up a conversation.

I wonder what it would be like if I had that kind of charm. Would I take over governments? Start wars? Or maybe, just try to get a date for senior prom?

It doesn’t surprise me that the twins are here. They never miss a day of school.

Since they arrived, I’ve been fascinated by the way they are with each other. They can be laughing quietly and joking around, but if a student enters the room looking worried or upset, it changes the mood of the twins. Suddenly they are concerned as well. Of course this is all me—having way too much time on my hands to analyze other people’s behavior.

Still, I imagine their lives are somehow filled with adventure. I wish mine was.

I’d like my life to be as exciting as Joan of Arc’s or Queen Elizabeth’s. Their existence changed the world. I daydream about being that kind of girl. But those women were brave and defiant. Me, on the other hand, I can’t even cut one lousy class.

The reason for such a low turnout in my last class period is the weather. New York City rarely has temperatures above 30 degrees in January. But here we are just two weeks in to the new year, and it’s a blissful 70 degrees outside. So everyone said a silent “Thank you” to global warming and ditched class.

My friend Sara coaxed me to join her, but at the last minute, I chickened out. I never go against the rules. Not because I don’t have a desire to, but because I am afraid of the repercussions. What if I cut class and got caught? They’d call my mom and I’d be grounded. Not that I ever really go anywhere, but still….

It isn’t just the weather that has made people skip Mr. White’s history class, it’s Mr. White himself. He rarely makes eye contact with the class, or even asks questions to see if we are following along with the lesson. It’s as if he’s talking to himself. He’s a one-man show, and we inconvenience the hell out of him by being there.

I raise my hand and get permission to go to the bathroom. I head down the hallway and encounter the Armani-Dior-McCartney parade. Fashionistas come towards me armed with posh handbags, perfect teeth, and utter disapproval.

I am the only kid at Livingston Academy that doesn’t have old money. Actually, I don’t have new money either. My grandfather was a janitor here for twenty years before he died. As a favor, the dean arranged it so I could get a partial scholarship. It’s still out of our price range, but my mom won’t hear of public school.

Standing there, I thought I’d get my stuff and make a break for it, but no, I walked right past my locker and into the girls’ bathroom. Like I said: big coward.

I look at myself in the mirror and sigh. I am so uninteresting. My face is too round, my eyes are too far apart, and my cheekbones lack the height needed to elevate me to exotic. The only thing that stands out about me is my eyes: they’re as purple as the stupid dinosaur. And, well, that’s just weird.

What’s even weirder is that they go various shades of purple depending on my mood. If I’m angry, they become such a deep shade of purple they appear black. When I’m sad, they lighten up and take on an electric, neon glow. I hate my eyes. They come from my father. He had encountered my mother on her way home from school—and raped her. She went to the police, but they never caught him. She tried to put that night behind her, but then I came along.

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