Nice Girls Finish First

1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Sloane

August 1992

M y stomach twists with a combination of anxiety and excitement as I pull my car into my assigned parking space on the side of Dunwoody High School. Senior year; thank God I'm almost done with high school and all the exclusive cliques here at DHS. I turn up the volume on my stereo as the organ notes from R.E.M.'s "Stand" sound. I made a mixtape, "Sloane's Senior Songs Vol. 1," to pump me up for school and this upbeat tune from one of my favorite bands was a must.

As I tap my fingers on my steering wheel, gathering the courage to start my day, I watch students filing into school and note how distinct all the groups are. I’m sure every school has the jocks, cheerleaders, brainiacs, artsy kids, stoners, metalheads, the girls who probably go through cases of Aqua Net hairspray getting their huge hair just so, but I wonder if all schools have the invisible kids. The kids who don’t feel like they belong anywhere, who just exist on the outskirts of all these other groups. I am one of those kids and with this being my senior year, I’d really like to feel included for a change.

I read an interview with R.E.M.'s singer, Michael Stipe, where he talked about the meaning of this song and it made me like it even more. He said, "It's about making decisions and actually living your life rather than letting it happen."

Man, that really hit me. I feel like I've just let life happen to me. Like I'm a boat just floating around wherever the water takes me, not sailing in the direction I want to go. Don't even ask me where I want to go to college because I'm not sure yet. That's something I have to figure out. One thing I would love is a boyfriend, or heck, a date to prom. I've never been asked to a school dance and I've never had a boyfriend, so that should tell you something about me. While I don't want to be picky, I'd love to date an athlete; a football or baseball player, someone tall. I've daydreamed about it and had crushes, but no one has ever been interested. I think there are a couple of reasons for that:

I'm six feet tall. My options are severely limited.

I'm built like a string bean, not a lot of curves happening over here.

Let's just say I have morals and self-respect.

I think I might be considered a prude because I'm not a partier. It's hard to party when you don't get invited to parties or know where the parties are. But let's be real, I'm more likely to be the designated driver and make sure everyone gets home safely than the one puking in the bushes. Maybe that should be my selling point. Who wouldn't want a responsible friend like me? Plus, I'm super shy, like introverted times a thousand. I don't have a close friend group here, just lots of acquaintances because I'm nice to everyone.

I wipe dust off the dash of my hand-me-down car, my dad's 1984 Peugeot. My older sister, Erin, drove it until I started driving, and she got a new car. My middle sister, Bryn, is only 15 months older than me, but she almost died when she was born and has some issues related to that, so she's not driving yet. I have the car now, and I love it. It has power windows and doors, heated seats, and a sunroof, but it's inoperable and has a tennis ball stuffed into it so it doesn't leak when it rains. This car gives me freedom and that's all I care about, that and a great stereo. I turn up the volume as Michael Stipe's voice whines, encouraging us to look around.

I pick up my tape case as Stipe's voice says "Stand" one last time with emphasis on the 'd' and the song ends definitively. I turn off my car before "Alison's Starting to Happen" by The Lemonheads starts because that will be a good one to hear at the end of the day.

I shoulder my backpack when I step out of the car and take a deep breath of humid Georgia air. The parking lot is a flurry of activity with younger kids being dropped off by their parents and buses dropping kids off around front. First day of school jitters are normal for everyone but add a little (or a lot) of anxiety and introversion, plus your best friend already off to college, and those jitters are multiplied by ten—or more.

I cross the parking lot, then walk down the cement steps in my white Sam & Libby ballet flats toward the lower level of school. A flannel shirt falls from the waist of the person in front of me. “Hey!” I call out as I hop down a couple steps then lean down to pick up the blue and brown plaid shirt. As I begin to stand, my head knocks into something hard. “Ouch.” My free hand instinctively goes to my head, and I look up and see that the boy in front of me is also holding his head.

“Ow, sorry. Are you okay?” the boy asks.

I’m stunned, not because our heads hit that hard, but because I’ve just laid eyes on the most beautiful boy in the world, Tyler Finlay. I rub my head and hold out the flannel. “Uh, yeah. You dropped this.”

Tyler smiles and I think I might just melt into a puddle right here on the steps. He reaches for his shirt. “Thanks.” His eyes search me as his smile fades and concern knits in his brow. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

Get it together, Sloane , I think to myself. I blink hard and smile, tugging self-consciously on my shirt hem. “Yeah, um, sorry. I’m fine. Are you okay?”

Tyler mimics knocking his knuckles on the side of his head as students hustle past us on my left. “Oh yeah, this thing has felt worse. Thanks again!” He holds up his shirt then turns toward the doors and his smile makes my pulse race. With that, the beautiful football/baseball player with rebel vibes walks into the building and it takes me a minute to remember to which class I’m heading.