To my readers:

Thank you for choosing to read this story. It is the first story I've written and completed on Wattpad. I'm very excited to announce that "The Hoodie Girl" has been chosen to be part of the Wattpad Paid Stories program.

Writing may be my hobby, but it is also time and energy consuming. It is very difficult to quantify a writer's work, and this program supports me, as an amateur college student still making time to write amidst assignments and tests that impact my future.

The Paid Stories program offers countless opportunities for writers like myself, and I'm grateful to be a part of it. With only a small contribution on your side, you would be supporting me for the time and effort I put into my work.

I hope you are still willing to give this story a chance!

Love,

Yuen

But there's a story behind everything. How a picture got on a wall. How a scar got on your face. Sometimes the stories are simple, and sometimes they are hard and heartbreaking. But behind all your stories is always your mother's story, because hers is where yours begin.

- Mitch Albom

● ● ●

"I won't," he states sternly, a dark edge leathering his tone.

"Promise?" I croak, and my voice is hoarse as I choke back tears. I hate this. I hate feeling so vulnerable in front of someone who is as good as a stranger.

He stares at me intensely for a while, deliberating; pondering over his response. Then he says, "I promise you, Wren."

● ● ●

involves the voluntary giving of one's word that, if and when a particular circumstance or situation comes about, one will accept to do what was promised, no matter what.

Making a promise, in other words, implies a willingness to keep it. People commit to promises but never really think about what it actually means. Many people don't keep the promises that they make.

But I believe in keeping every promise I make because I have experienced the damage of not keeping a promise and it's not a thing I ever want to experience again. Trust me.

I frown feebly at my reflection. I'm wearing skinny jet black jeans, and an oversized white tee-shirt. For some reason, I have grown quite attached to this shirt. I have absolutely zilch make-up on, except for some lip balm that I slathered on my heavily chapped lips.

I have tried, in past times, and failed miserably, might I add, to use blush. I ended up looking like I had chickenpox or malaria.

You see, unlike normal teenage girls, I can't blush. It may seem weird but I've tried everything to make myself blush, just for the heck of it. Jeez, I've slapped myself thinking that the blood would rise to my stubborn cheeks-but to no avail. Oh well.

I have other problems.

The senior year is going to go by fast, and I want to make the most of it. If I top my exams I'll definitely be a candidate for a college scholarship. I need all the financial help I could get; it would take the giant weight that is my school fees off mom's shoulders. She really overworks herself.

I run downstairs on my sneakers, grabbing my files that I needed to load in my locker. "Mom, I'm going now. Oh, and don't worry about breakfast, I'll survive. Wish me luck!" I holler. I'll need it.

"Bye honey! Love you, and good luck!" she replies chirpily, her voice sounding from the kitchen. She is probably making coffee, her 'power drink'.

Quite evidently, my mother is a morning-person while I, on the other hand, am not. The state of my hair this morning makes Albert Einstein's hairdo look five-star. It is plain painful sending a brush through my stubborn knots.

I hear her muttering something about 'they grow up so fast'. Sappy stuff, but it is, to some extent true. It seems like just a while ago I was a nervous freshman, looking up to the seniors and wondering when I would get my turn.

Then a piercing sound interrupts my somewhat sentimental thoughts. Followed by another ear-splitting honk.

Of course, my beautiful and charming friend, Mia, rolls up at my front lawn, and in the process, strangles all the flowers present. Poor carnations, I shake my head pitifully. They were just starting to bloom.

She flashes her million-dollar smile at me, before studying me from head to toe, her eyes trailing down my body. "Get in the car, I need to tell you something really important! Now, hurry!" she exclaims.

Oh Lord, what is it now? I hastily chuck my bag to the back of the car, uttering a soft R.I.P message to all those dead flowers, sliding into the front seat of her Ford. I put on my seatbelt (safety first) and turn to face her.

"What?" I ask worriedly, because I was honestly concerned about her. She was always getting herself into sticky situations and I'd have to be the one to sort things out.

She leans forward slightly and quietly whispers, "Couldn't you find something better to wear?"

And then I stare at her. Yes, everyone, that is the freaking mess you call my best friend. I nearly got a heart attack. She is such a good actor, I should've known.

"I mean... look at you!" she continues, obviously unaware of the mini heart attack she had just given me. I have learnt to disregard her snarky little comments and what some people would deem offensive, is really just Mia expressing her 'love'.

"You're hardly showing any skin. It's senior year, doll. You need to relax a little, loosen up!"

I frown at her, and when I inspect at my jeans a little closer I recognize a paint stain that was from ages ago. I run my fingers over the off-green paint splatter instinctively.

Nobody's going to arrest me for being a fashion reject. I roll my eyes at Mia, who's curvy blonde hair is held back perfectly by a pair of sunglasses.

"I'm fine like this Mia, really. You look great," I admit honestly, because she did, with her champagne blond hair streaked with brown, maroon painted lips, black peplum top and denim skinnies.

"Classy and stunning. I just choose a more...mm, how do I put it? Comfortable style," I finish, running my fingers over the pair of rings over my chest-held by a single silver chain.

She smirks, looking forward at the road ahead. "I'm trying, you know. To help you. At this age, what you my girlie, need most, is a boyfriend. You're way too serious."

"There's something called priority, you know. Right now, oxygen is at the top of my list-not a boyfriend. And pretty much after oxygen, it's school for me. I need to focus on my academics; you of all people know how hard mom works. I need a scholarship," I protest, effectively cutting her off. I don't need to talk about this right now.

"Ok doll," she tuts, "Leave your essays for English. And, speaking of school-related things, we're here!" she announces, "Welcome to another year of hell at Eastview High."

I turn to face my very familiar high school building. It is actually one of the best high schools out there. (One of the reasons my mom works so hard to pay the bills). Of course, it is private. It is one of the few private schools that did not insist that their students wore uniforms. I exhale tiredly, wondering if this year is going to be the same as every year. Distastefully repetitive.

I have always been the odd one out. I don't have rich and affluent parents like the others. Nevertheless, I'm proud of who I am, because one day all my hard work is going to pay off. And that is going to be the day. Nobody cares about people who judge you for the paint stains on your skinny jeans, right?

Right.

I step out of the vehicle, taking one last glance at the outer building before walking in with Mia flanked by my side. Then it hits me. I need to go.

"Bye!" I say to Mia hurriedly, "Gotta go," I flash her a quick smile. She gives me a concerned stare, which washes away when she returns my smile.

"Fine. See you at lunch Wren!" she says, before hugging me for a brief moment.

Faye Archer walks past, with a confident gleam in her eyes, and people know better than to get in her way.

Unluckily for me, as she disappears, the pack closes in, and the hallway is bustling with teenagers yet again. If I don't move fast, I am going to get smooshed to smithereens. Okay, maybe a bit over-dramatic, but my point is still valid. I sprint towards the girls' washroom, without a second thought.

I don't make it to the ladies' as smoothly as I thought I would.

I'd barely turned when a split second later I am crushed into something hard, and the sudden force causes me to lose my composition for a bit. Realizing that I had dropped my hoodie, I bend to pick it up, and in all the euphoria, my mind had only registered a mop of dark blonde hair. That is all.

Obviously, I run.

Thankfully, I make it just in time for Math, my first subject. I pull on the sleeves of my jacket, nervously, unconsciously fiddling with the silver chain around my neck. What had just happened? Who did I bump into?

Suddenly, Asher Reed and co decide to make their entrance. I wonder why they bother to come to school, they are so well off that their parents can buy them a degree.

They are all tall, toned, and muscular. In summary, they're pretty human beings. But even then, Asher sort of stands out. He's even better looking than the rest, if that is even possible.

He has an expressionless demeanour; his tanned face is blank, his dark blonde hair jaggedly framing his defined features, with little tufts sticking out here and there, practically defying gravity.

Nerd is not a word that I would use to describe myself. I am not anti-social, just a little socially awkward. Until you get to know me and I'm comfortable with talking to you- that is. I'm not one of those people that can keep conversations going, or start them successfully. I just don't need the necessary stress that's tied to relationships in general.

I've had enough of my own worries in the past few years and I don't need to become another high-school social victim. I believe that if you allow someone to be something as simple as your friend, you involuntarily give them permission to break you. I keep my head down, pull my hoodie closer to my face, and ignore them.

Luckily for me, Asher, and his little gang filter through to the back of the class, and they haven't noticed me staring in their direction. I really need to focus.

So I do. I sit there during the algebra lesson and take down notes attentively. I am actually beginning to enjoy the lesson (Yeah, you read right. Don't judge me) when a medium-sized paper ball the size of my hand hits me on the back of my head. Opening the paper and smoothing the creases out I find he words 'Hey Beautiful' scratched messily in black ink.

My heart skips a beat. Is this for me? I guess the real question is: do I want it to be for me?

I turn to come face to face with one of Asher's best friends and the class clown: Zachary Chandler.

His attractive face is flushed light pink due to the various death glares I am throwing at him. Mia had told me before that I had one of the scariest glares, but I hadn't believed her.

He gestures towards Anya, the girl sitting next to me, implying that the paper ball was meant for her. Oh, really lover-boy?

And then I do something I'm sure I would regret doing my entire life. I, Wren Martin, pick up the paper ball lying on the side of my desk, and fling it right at that nauseating girl.

And to my surprise, it hits her square on the forehead. She looks at me, blinks twice, then looks at me again, scrunching her nose and narrowing her eyes.

"From Zachary sitting over there," I gesture, pointing my thumb backward toward Zack.

All of a sudden I became aware of the fact that the rest of the class had seen my little performance and are in absolute fits of laughter. I can even hear Zack laughing. Oh my gosh! What have I done? Talk about focusing and not being noticed.

"What exactly is it that you find so amusing, Zachary?"

That was not me, it was Mr. Brakeman, our Math teacher, who hates Zack's guts. If I were a teacher, I would too, I guess.

You see, Zack has landed in the Applied Math class, not because he is a good math student, no. He is an average student and he is here only because of his father, a rich businessman who believes that his son has to be in an AP class, no matter what. And, because people who are wealthier than others always seem to get what they want, here Zack is, sitting in the higher level Math classroom.

I chew the inside of my cheek and swallow nervously, waiting for Zack to mention my name when he tries to explain why he is snickering like a hyena to Mr. Brakeman.

"Nothing sir," Zack mutters, stifling back laughter. Wow, he is actually covering for me.

"I thought so. Wouldn't be too happy myself if I had the same report card as you."

Ouch. I'm actually feeling guilty now, even though he had originally started it. I didn't have to throw that paper ball, it was an impulsive act. The fact that I acted on impulse scares me, since I usually think things through before doing something drastic.

I stop gnawing at the end of my pen, because fortunately for me, the class has settled now. I don't think anyone actually saw me because I'm shorter than the average girl my age, and I have my hoodie covering half my face. I mentally exhale. This year is going to be interesting, and to be perfectly honest, I do not know if that's a good thing or a bad thing.

After a day that drags, lunch finally rolls around. I let out a sigh of relief when I see Mia frantically waving at me from the lowest circle of the cafeteria, recognizing her by her loose blonde curls.

The shape of the huge area we eat in is a circle-a unique type of architecture consisting of raised levels shaped as rings filling the space. The levels get higher and rise as a sort of cone to meet at the highest level of the cafeteria.

On each level, there are tables and chairs, and to put it into perspective, the more popular you are, the higher you sit. It is a regulatory system that everyone in the school complied to, and it doesn't need to be explained. Quite senseless, if you ask me.

We take our usual place in the outer layer of the cafeteria. Hardly anyone walks by, and nobody really cares about what happens here, so I let down my hoodie.

"I really wish that we could be in at least one class together! I mean seriously, I feel so alone," I groan.

"Yeah. But it's also true that you need other people to go all crazy on. Because you bottle up all your craziness, and then whenever you see me, it's like you say bye-bye to sanity." She smirks.

"Ha ha very funny," I mutter, basically tasting my sarcasm.

I actually don't know why Mia doesn't have any other friends except for me. We're basically polar opposites. She with her perfect looks, clothing, and attitude. And then you have me with my olive skin, petite frame, and colourless sense of style featuring a murky green paint stain.

She, in every way possible is perfect, and I am exactly what she accused me of being: crazy. We're like puzzle pieces that just don't match, but are somehow glued together and made to stay.

We met a year ago, when Mia was new to the school. Immediately, she was noticed by many of the populars. Guys and girls who didn't know a thing about her wanted to be her 'friend'- maybe something more than that.

The first time we talked was in French class in my junior year, not so long ago. She was the most sociable and friendly girl I'd known. I despised her smooth talk, her beautiful looks, and yet I admired her grace and politeness. We sat next to each other in French and Biology, and she would inevitably end up copying my work.

Not that I minded.

At the time, a few girls had asked Mia out to a party, completely ignoring me. I was about to leave, sure that Mia was going to abandon me and that I was fine with the loneliness anyway, and convinced that I could live a happy life endorsed by books.

Surprisingly, Mia outright refused their offer, saying that she had plans on the day. After that she winked at me, and I smiled back. Maybe that was the start. In fact, come to think about it, it most definitely was the start. After that people associated Mia with me, so we both became the 'losers'.

The thing is, I respect Mia because that day she could've said yes to those girls. She could've left the weird girl who liked to paint, yet despised painting at the same time. The girl who wore a blood-red hoodie all the time. Me. She could've. But she didn't. And that is the sole reason I am sitting with her today, right now.

I'm glad we met, or, as she said, I'd have no-one to go all crazy on. I guess I do let loose when I'm with her. Can you blame me? Out of the seven billion people in the world, I have only one true friend. I give her a genuine smile, "Are you tired of me?"

"If I was tired of you, I wouldn't be sitting here," she says.

"So what's up?" I ask, staring at the delicious looking burger in front of me. Our school's cafeteria actually serves good food. Not the most healthy choices, but it all tastes amazing.

"Nothing much," she states bluntly, "Like five weirdos asked me out, no biggy," she continues, a matter-of-factly, "And you?"

I detach my hungry eyes from my food staring at Mia and contemplating whether to take a huge bite of the burger, or elaborate on the somewhat interesting event of Math. I look at Mia's pensive expression, and I crack.

"Zack Chandler threw a paper ball at me," I blurt, instantly regretting the words I just said.

Her head does a double-take, she blinks at me and then does one of those scary screams where there's no sound.

Mia's been crushing on Zack for the past two years since she saw him, which explains the silent screams. She refuses to ask him out and always shies away when he's around (which practically contradicts her whole bubbly persona).

I bet he'd be infatuated with her nonsensical chatter and perfect looks. I keep telling her that but then she mutters this stuff about destiny and fate.

"Well, technically, it wasn't really aimed at me, but-" I'm cut off by Mia's interjection.

"Why didn't you tell me earlier?!" she squeals. I swear she is on the verge of hyperventilating.

"Calm down. This is exactly why I didn't want to tell you!" I hiss.

"Okay, okay. I'll stop. Tell me everything," she cries.

"Well, it was at Math, first lesson, and I was just sitting there, when this big fat paper ball hits me on the head. I turned, and I realized: oh would you look at that? Zachary Chandler has just hit me with a crumpled-up paper ball! It was actually meant for Anya, who sits opposite me..."

"Carry on," she teeters, dramatically waving her hands, motioning for me to continue.

"So..." I hesitate. I know exactly what her reaction would be when I tell her the rest.

"I picked up the ball and chucked it at Anya," I say, rapidly.

She frowns, not replying. I know what she's thinking.

She knows that messing with any of those boys is basically social suicide. If you want high school drama, go ahead and do it. And that's exactly what I've done-me, the last person to want any of that.