Novels by serrao

At Seayers High, the front gate serves as a flashy parking lot for the wealthy show-offs, contrasting starkly with the bike shed, which resembles a scrap heap at a recycling center. This means there's only one area for vehicle parking — the school's front, a place I'm currently determined to avoid. Seayers High's back entrance leads to the football field, not in use today since parties always seem to be scheduled around their practice times, a special privilege allowing everyone to clear out time for the popular crowd. I decide on the football field. Although it means circling around most of the school, there's a secluded path there, hidden from the affluent kids at the front. Reaching the back door, I look out at the empty field, pleased. The thought of Skyler anxiously waiting in his car at the front gate amuses me. Stepping down the stairs with a victorious smile, I hear: "I knew you'd come this way, Scarlett." I freeze for a second, then turn towards the corner behind the sta

“What did you just say to me?“ “I don't care. It's not like it's gonna be on me.” I replied aggressively, “You know, chemical fiber clothes don't even deserve to stay in the laundry.” “Pick up my clothes, bitch.” “Why? Because you're on a disability program grant?” Stella stares at me with wide eyes, itching to stretch her false eyelashes and stick them in my eyes. “You're going to regret saying that.” The three girls watching the show gather around, a mafia do-gooder, maybe a female version of the Russian mob. “Hey.” Someone laid a hand on my shoulder. "I think this is yours." I turned to see who it was. She took off the jacket slung over her back, hooking it with a finger, and extended it toward Stella's arm. "Brooklyn sent me to find her. The locker room can be quite the labyrinth for the newcomers." Stella gave a side-eye to the girl next to her, who cleverly grabbed the jacket from the newcomer's hand. "You better hurry to check in; Brooklyn is counting heads." "Girls,"

"You sure know how to pick your moments. Ready for your first show, Scarlett?" Brooklyn teased, her voice echoing down the hallway clogged by Milo Grayson's fan girls. I lingered, hoping to catch a glimpse of the chaos, but it was all in vain. "Since when are you so interested in Milo?" she prodded, a mix of curiosity and amusement in her tone. "It's not that kind of interest," I quickly clarified, feeling the need to defend my curiosity. "It's probably just admiration for famous people." Brooklyn sighed, rolling her eyes in a gesture of mock despair. "I know Milo is a hottie and he plays cool guitars. I don't want you acting like one of those crazy girls. There's a loss of decency. You're part of the cheerleading squad now, understand?" "Of course, I am, Brooklyn," I assured her, even as my mind drifted to the cool girls of high school. They wore their confidence as effortlessly as their seductive outfits, capturing the attention of everyone around them. Yet, deep down, I harbore

“But back to the matter at hand—” Stephanie leaned in, sniffing the air around me. "Even food can't mask the weed smell on you." She backed away, grimacing as if to say, "That reeks." "Is it really that noticeable?" "I'm just really sensitive to smells." "Oh! I get it!" Stephanie clapped her hands together in excitement. "Maybe he smelled the weed on your clothes and thought you were spiraling!" "And then—thought he could be the hero to save you, aiming for the 'Teacher of the Year' award." "Alright." I raised an eyebrow. "Your bias against Taylor is a bit much." "I can't help it. Do you know how annoying it is to have someone always focus on your flaws?" "Oh, right, I almost forgot about this!" Suddenly, Stephanie's "gossip radar" must have detected something "spectacular." "There's a boy who's been watching you." "What? What are you talking about?" I laughed, not taking her seriously. "Hey! I'm serious. He's been staring at you since you were in line!" "So, you're sayi

Frankly, I've never understood why they changed the name of "The Feast" to the "Nutrition Center." Over seventy percent of the food here is high-fat, high-calorie "American fast food." Given we're in one of the most remote towns in America, finding diverse and multicultural chefs is even harder than getting truant students to attend class. Vegetarians even staged a public protest at school, leading to two chaotic weeks of everyone bringing their own lunches! Can't blame them, though—other options are either atrociously bad or might as well be diet pills. Gazing at the crowded hamburger stand, I'm glad I kicked my junk food habit. For those not concerned about their weight, a cheeseburger with chicken strips is a heavenly delight. The aftermath, however, is a struggle with belts and shirts strained by fat. I made my way to the yogurt stand, scooping up a few spoonfuls into an empty bowl, then garnishing it with blueberries, raspberries, and mangoes. As expected, the checkout was swam

I walked into the room at Taylor's beckoning, him holding the door open for me to enter first. "Please, take a seat, Miss Moore," he said, still with a stern expression. He left the door and closed it with a crisp sound that echoed in the empty classroom. "Did I do something wrong?" I hadn't taken a seat yet, instead asking him uncertainly. Taylor didn't answer my question directly, his expression seeming to tease a bit of mystery. "Compared to others, you're not too bad." "What?" I was hoping for praise. Every time Miss Ewen had a private chat with me, it was to commend how well I wrote my reflections. "I can improve, Mr. Wildson." Literature was the one class where I felt confident. I didn't want to be let down by Taylor. "Patience, Miss Moore." He observed my eager, somewhat agitated demeanor and gestured for me to calm down. Leaning against the desk by the lectern, Taylor pulled a thin book from a neatly stacked pile of files. "Read this book in your free time, then write a