《Westwood School》Foreign Policy and Playboy

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I woke up early, like a child before Christmas, I was extremely excited for my first day of school. I threw my covers off my bed and went and washed my face in the bathroom. India woke up moments later, joining me.

"You're up bright and early," She said, as she put a Chanel eye mask on. I nodded solemnly to her.

"It's my first day of school, I wanna look nice," I explain while straightening my hair.

"Let me," she says and helps me with my hair.

"Dear God, you have so much hair!" India says, running her hands through it.

"Tell me about it," I mutter. My hair was definitely my best feature. That or my ass. I feel like most people, specifically girls when asked what their best feature is are like 'my eyes'. First of all, yes eyes are pretty, but come on. But not everyone had extremely striking eyes. I have dark green eyes, which I think are pretty but like, I get the most compliments on my hair. I get it, I have super thick, long, golden blonde hair. It's a lot to deal with.

"Hey play some music!" India says to me, so I hook my phone up to the Bluetooth speaker and hand it to her. She tosses her hair and flips through the songs before playing Juicy by Doja Cat. We sang together the words, over-exaggerating sexual motions and dancing to it.

I really like India, she is very confident about her sexuality and she knows she's pretty. I watched as she pouted her lips in the mirror and did her nude lipstick. She looked a bit like Madison Beer, so I don't doubt the boys were all over her. We got along super well, and I was excited to have a friend here.

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"What are you going to wear?" She abruptly asks me as I finish up my makeup.

I hesitate, "I'm not really sure, what are you wearing?" I didn't really think too much about it, but I don't wanna stand out. Maybe a uniform would have been a good thing...

"Oh nothing fancy, just this," She says as she pulls some light wash mom jeans, a black tank top with a white playboy symbol on it, white air force ones and a pink Dior saddlebag. I stare at her in awe. She must have seen me staring at her, she looked at me oddly, "What?"

"Wow, I mean damn that's quite the outfit. Also, love the playboy. Now I don't know what to wear," I say looking into my closet at the large quantity of jean shorts and 1970's band tees. She looks over my shoulder and starts pulling things out.

"This, this and this for sure," She says, and I look to what she's laid out on my bed. Super short high waisted, light wash cut-offs, a worn-out Nirvana (MTV unplugged) t-shirt and my worn-out silver Golden Goose shoes.

I put the outfit on and 'thot not it up' as I say, tying the front so it's cropped. India nods in approval of me.

"Do you think Gemma is gonna post more shit about me?" I say, referring to the post that India showed me of Gemma wearing a cowboy hat and mocking my accent.

"If she does, I'll beat her up. We are gonna rule this school, I mean, the school hasn't even started and you're hanging out with the Branded boys, all the other guys and gals will be drooling over you," She says with a wink.

We both pack our backpacks and look in the mirror at each other. She makes a show of pushing up her well-endowed chest, and I toss my hair, winking at our reflections in the mirror. We laugh and she drags me to the breakfast hall.

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Now, the breakfast hall was a shit show, to say the least. It was a beautiful dining hall, straight out of the pages of Harry Potter, but it was filled with people who looked like they walked off the pages of Vogue. I focused on being confident as I walked down the rows of tables. I wanted to sit in the back where I wouldn't be noticed, but India was not having it. I flinched as a boy literally came up to me and put their arms around me.

"Listen here, I think-" The boy started, whispering to me.

"Get off of me!" I say, pushing him off, "Ugh as if!" I exclaim in a true clueless style. I can quote the entire movie.

I noticed my boys staring at me, their table at the head of the room, where they seemed to rule over the rest of the students. I give no fucks at all, so I wave and wink at them, making a show of it as I do. I watch as Caspian chokes on his food and Rowen's face turns bright red. I smile smugly.

First period: Genetics and forensics. It went pretty well, we covered some basic Bio stuff, handing out the textbooks and going over the itinerary for the class. It went smoothly, I sat next to a super sweet girl named Mariam. She was beautiful, to say the least, with her full curves and head of tight curls. We got along well, but the class was nothing exceptional.

The second period was... wack. It was so horrible. I was wandering the halls, trying to find the Foreign policy class, when I found it, tucked up under the main staircase. When I walked in, it was filled with smartly dressed boys. The room was covered in dark wood and smelled like daddy's boys. I was already not a fan, but I was a big debater and this was as close as I could get to policy debate at Westwood School. It didn't take long for me to realize I was the only girl. I recognized some faces and sat down between Rowen and Matteo. We were all seated around a very large oval table.

When I sat down next to Rowen, he gave me a small smile before returning to his heated debate with the boy next to him. It was a China expansionist/realist debate. I rolled my eyes, not surprised in the least. Moments later, an older man walked in, He looked to be about in his 50's and introduced himself as Dr. Chadwick.

"The first topic: Arms Sales," He said as he wrote it on the board. He looked to the group, and I don't know if he was just trying to pick on me, but he pointed to me, "Stand up and propose a policy."

I heard snickers coming from around the room. These bitches don't think I know what I'm talking about, and I haven't even opened my mouth.

"The UK should cease all arms sales to the UAE and Saudi Arabia until they agree to the UN's

sanctions." I sat back down, and I saw all the boys moving around in their seats getting ready to argue with me. This was about to be my favorite class.

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