name: Zoe Lawry
age: 18
astrological sign: Cancer
style: Knit /everything./ Schoolgirl meets street fashion. Simple colors with small details to keep it from getting too boring. Boots with shorts or miniskirts. I repeat: KNIT EVERYTHING.
bio: Name any place around the globe, and Zoe's probably been there. Her father's job in international affairs means that her family has never stayed in one place for very long. While other girls her age were having sleepovers and trying out for the school play, she was napping on eighteen hour flights and seeing the opera in Paris. London is looking to be the most permanent home that she can remember - she's been here two months, and her mother is considering having her and her sister live here full-time now that they've got college on their horizons. Even though she's been at Newsby a while, Zoe still feels like the new kid - she doesn't have a designated place where she fits in, or a group of friends to help her feel at home. Hell, when people come talk to her about buying a gram or a pack of smokes, they still refer to her as "new girl." Zoe was hoping to market herself to her new classmates as the worldly, chain-smoking, cultured, mysterious babe, but so far, it's not winning her any friends. She's just kind of - there. Alone. And that's not how she planned to spend her last year of high school at all.
likes: The rain, big fluffy dogs, photography, making playlists to suit every mood, coffee, films (not movies, FILMS), flower shops, poetry, smoking, the idea of Britain - not so much the reality, journaling, friends
dislikes: Being lonely - which is very different than being alone, fast food, not being liked, unnecessary extravagance, alcohol, Physical Education, crass or rude humor, rudeness, jam, oranges/anything orange flavored.
model: Rumi Neely
taken by: open 

When you can't find the perfect song to soundtrack your morning walk to school, you know it's going to be an awful day.

I was already running behind - "behind" for me meaning "20 minutes ahead of most everyone else instead of a half hour," since I usually made sure to get to school early enough for a cigarette outside the gates and to sell a pack or two to any early birds - because I'd had a minor moment of panic over a run in my tights, and lingering by the door while I scrolled, annoyed, through my ipod, had only delayed me further. And no music had seemed to fit well enough.

I'd finally decided on some good gray-rainy-morning music (Broken Social Scene, an old standby of mine) - if it didn't match my mood, which was foul, at least it would fit the weather. Generally, I adored the rain. Not so much the drizzle. Thinking about awful London weather had previously seemed romantic; the actuality of it was just depressing.

A block from school, my suspicions that today would be terrible were confirmed, in the form of a passing car skidding through a puddle, oh-so-conveniently in the right place to splash me. And it was no light splatter of water, either; my skirt was soaked through and filthy.

"Really?" I called after the sedan angrily, wringing water out of the wool. Ugh, it had been a brand new skirt, too. "F.ucking really?!"

And maybe it was a little bit immature of me to flip the bird at its retreating bumper, but so help me, I couldn't resist.

"Tough luck, new girl."

I looked over my shoulder. Oh, the icing on the cake of horribleness that was this morning. A group of boys were watching me with amused expressions. The one who'd commented quirked an eyebrow at me, arms folded across his chest. "Shame it wasn't your chest that got wet, eh?"

My blouse was dry but for a few stray drops, but I still pulled my coat around me a bit tighter at that, eyes narrowing. "Shame your mother didn't have you aborted."

Well. That was unlike me. I'd always tried to avoid being so outright rude. Maybe it was from an adolescence of reading Jane Austen on planes or while bored at my father's meetings. I'd picked up a habit of being underhanded and seemingly polite with my insults, which was probably worse than just saying straight-out what I thought, but my twelve year old self had so desperately wanted to be Lizzie Bennet that it had kind of stuck.

The other boys laughed, a chorus of chuckles and "oooh, burn"s. Even their leader cracked a smile. "Ouch. Remind me not to objectify you again, new girl." He cocked his head at his friends, a silent signal for 'come on, we're done here.'

"I'm not really that new any more," I muttered at their retreating backs, as if they could hear me. Or cared. Whatever. Sighing, I pulled a cigarette out of my bag and a lighter from my pocket, lit up and took a drag. Even with that little incident, I'd probably still have a time to smoke this before the bell rang for classes. Maybe some nicotine would improve my mood - or this morning as a whole. God knew it needed improvement.
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