"Every morning in Africa, a gazelle wakes up. It knows that it must outrun the fastest lion or it will be killed. Every morning in Africa, a lion wakes up. It knows it must run faster than the slowest gazelle, or it will starve. It doesn't matter if you are the lion or the gazelle--when the sun comes up, you'd better be running." -Christopher McDougall
|Female|17|Human|Heterosexual|5'1"|
Dialogue: #243796
Text: #000000
As soon as her eyes snapped open, she knew that she was late. There was no background noise: no alarm, no dog barking, no Kureg dispensing. Nothing. Scarlet rolled over to look at her clock and froze: ten minutes behind schedule. Just another day in Beacon Hills.
Scar quickly got out of bed, still wearing her shorts and tank-top due to the inconsistent September weather, and prodded around her closet to find something acceptable to wear. She wasn't one to be picky about style, but it was her first day back and she liked to look nice at least one day in the school year. Choosing black leggings and a knit red sweater, she changed and threw on a pair of her favorite below-the-knee gray rain boots for good measure. When Scarlet looked at her hair in the mirror, she realized that her natural waves had set in overnight. Her hair was bright blonde and shoulder-length, and for the sake of time, she decided to leave it down. Once she brushed her teeth and packed her black canvas bag, she grabbed her lanyard and left her house. She had managed to not to wake her mother and grandmother in the process.
Once Scarlet arrived at school, she parked her black Jeep in her new parking space and locked it. She had managed to get ready quickly enough so that she wasn't as late as she should have been. School hadn't started yet, but she liked to be there early anyway. Shouldering her bag, she tossed her lanyard into it and started the trudge up the steps and into Beacon Hills High School.
Every high school reeks of desperation and hormones. Today is no exception; kids already buzz around the lockers, meeting up with the friends they haven't seen in months. As she strides past classrooms, she notices the teachers holed up in their rooms, praying for another vacation even though school hasn't even started yet. The freshly waxed floors have already been trampled by at least one hundred students and it shows. The lockers that had explicit drawings and swears have been painted over, a clean slate for the artist. As Scarlet passes a group of freshmen boys, she notices they have taken advantage of this opportunity. Sometimes she hears a few greetings from groups lining the halls and calls back, but she doesn't stop to make conversation. Her eyes flit across the numbers labeling the lockers on her right side until she finally sees hers: #1776. This has been her locker for three years now, so she knows what will be there when she unlocks it and swings open the door; there's graffiti all over the inside walls. It brings a smile to her face as she shoves her bag into it and closes the door, remembering the first time she had opened her locker. What was not to love about high school?