The Tales of AirAbella Düvvant

AirAbella is 16. Hot. Blonde. Tiny as a model. And the most popular girl at her school. And she knows it. She accepts that this is what life dealt her. But it isn't all that she is. She's also something much more. Much stronger, much deeper, and much more beautiful than any airbrushed magazine-cover-model. She's real. And with that, comes the problems of reality.

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1. If Pickles Could Kill

I walked down the hallway, shifting my hot pink channel purse's strap to keep it from wrinkling my cream cashmere sweater. Everyone whom I passed shouted to me, some even gave me a smile or a wink.

"Hey… AirAbella…" a male voice stuttered out behind me.

I knew that voice without even a second’s delay, "Hey Marshall." I said, spinning to face him. I know what you’re thinking, that you already know where this story’s going? But I want you to know that I love him like a brother. He's my best friend, that's the only way I’ve ever seen him… for the most part.

"Colton and I are gonna see that new movie I told you about. Wanna come with us?" His cheeks flushed a sweet shade of carnation pink, even deeper than his natural blush. His chocolate hair (the last traces of natural highlights fading with each day) swept across his forehead and slightly obscured his blue-green eyes, which watched me for an answer.

"Sure, What time?"

"Seven. And I'll pick you up." He stated. That was strange; we always just met there. We lived in a tiny town and everything was walking distance. With another quick nod and a kiss on the cheek (NOT a big deal), Marshall hopped off to catch up with Colton. Marshall and I used to have a “thing” in the fourth grade, but we’ve just been best friends ever since. A kiss on the cheek was just typical.

Anyway, I turned and continued my path, basking in the stares of every guy who wanted me and every girl who wanted to be me. I was headed to my locker. The lockers here were each as big as a door, as wide and tall as four regular lockers. Mine was painted rose pink and had rhinestones all over it.

I suddenly felt like I was in a movie (I was the star, as always), but I was at that point in the movie when everyone is staring at ‘that cool girl’ and the audience knows something bad is about to happen, but the dumb blonde star just keeps walking right into the trap. I stopped walking when it hit me. The smell of pickle juice! It wafted strongly from the slits in my locker’s door.

I pretended that I didn’t notice. But everyone who walked by sure could smell it. They wrinkled their nose, or squinted their eyes. I was surprised, but not totally shocked. I was the most popular girl in school; everyone knew it, even me. And we all know that everyone takes shots at the trendsetter, It’d happened once or twice before. But I’m never down for long, whoever had had the guts to pull the prank never had much of a social life for long after.

I reached inside and grabbed my first period book, “French I”. It reeked of the same scent. I sprayed every item inside the locker with my favorite rose scented perfume, something I’d gotten at Juicy Couture. There, that was better. I smiled as I applied a thick coat of my favorite Hot Chocolate flavored lip gloss, looking in the small mirror that clung to the inside of the large metal door. I sniffed. Mmmm. Chocolate and Roses!

At that moment I jumped as the bell rang out shrilly, the hall was empty. That was weird; at least one guy always waited to walk me to each class. I shook it off and walked quickly through the chilly air, enjoying the clicking sound my stilettos made on the expensive marble floor of my expensive private school.
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