The It Girl by Katy Birchall

on Monday morning, just boring me in my regulation school uniform and Dad with his arm protectively around my shoulders. I tried to block out their cries of “Anna! How do you feel about your dad’s impending wedding?” and “Anna, are you going to be able to cope with your newfound celebrity?”
    When we got to the front of the school building on Monday morning, Dad gave me this bizarre war-film-type “inspirational” talk about character building and how Huntleys always show strength in the face of adversity blah blah blah. I wasn’t really listening. Instead I was staring at the school thinking of ways to get out of actually going in there. Dad was on to me though. He stayed by the car the whole time until I was in the building to make sure I didn’t run in the opposite direction as soon as he’d turned the corner. Which of course had been plan B, after wounding myself.
    Under his hawk-eye gaze, I slowly went up the school steps, my head down. I discovered that if I bent my head enough, my hair fell over my face. That way, people might not notice it was me; you know, I could be any old student.
    This trick didn’t quite go as planned as it was very difficult to see anything in front of me. As I went into the building, I tried to move as quickly as possible, roughly guessing the right direction to my locker. At first it worked perfectly—no one was looking in my direction as I made my way past the huddles.
    But then I walked into a pillar.
    My books went flying everywhere, and I landed unceremoniously on my butt. Everyone turned to look at the commotion, and immediately there was whispering, pointing, and, I believe, some snorts of laughter. I lay on the ground with my eyes shut, wishing I could sink into a black hole.
    Eventually I sensed someone standing over me. Please be Jess or Danny, please be Jess or Danny , I pleaded in my head, my eyes still shut tight.
    â€œYou okay?”
    It wasn’t Jess or Danny. Please don’t let it be who I thought it was.
    I blinked up into Brendan Dakers’s deep brown eyes. “Heythere, Anna, you okay?” He stretched out his hand to help me up. I closed my eyes again.
    â€œAnna?”
    I opened one eye just to check and then shut it quickly. Yep, it was definitely Brendan Dakers. “Is everyone staring?”
    â€œUm . . .” He hesitated. “Yes.”
    â€œAh.”
    â€œIt wasn’t that bad.”
    â€œYou’re lying.” I opened my eyes.
    â€œNo, really.” He grinned. “I do that all the time. That pillar is a safety hazard.”
    â€œCan you tell people to stop staring? They’ll listen to you.”
    Brendan smiled. “Come on, let me help you up.”
    I took his hand in a daze, and he pulled me to my feet. I was about to get out of his way and move on with my head down once more when he started talking to me again.
    â€œWere you heading to your locker?”
    â€œUm, yes. It’s over there. You know, with all the . . . other lockers.”
    Seriously, WHAT IS WRONG WITH MY BRAIN?
    â€œRight, cool. I’m walking that way too.” He smiled and gestured for me to walk alongside him. This was my chance to say something funny and clever. Instead I walkedbeside Brendan Dakers with my mouth open. And everyone watching.
    â€œGeez, people at this school are so unsubtle.” He sighed, shaking his head at a particularly loud-whispering huddle of girls. They immediately went bright red and dispersed. “Ignore all of them,” he warned.
    As we reached my locker, he gave a salute. “See you later, Anna.”
    I stood in shock for at least two minutes, watching him walk away down the hall, before realizing that if I didn’t stop staring I’d look like a bit of a stalker.
    Brendan Dakers had spoken to me. ME! He had even been nice to me. The whole way through class that morning I sat dazed, reflecting on the morning’s