One More Day

I open the door, and it's a grumpy looking morning, the sun reluctantly coming up with a surly expression almost equal to the one on my face. School. I sit in a desk, and wonder why I'm still in school. I'm playing with a pencil until I decide I value my future, so I sit up and squint while fighting back a really vicious yawn.
I must have missed a question, because the woman at the front is looking around as if she expects something from us. She is gesturing with the marker as if it was a gauntlet, challenging us to come up and take it from her, and I assume, use it to solve whatever problem she presented.
No one moves until I hear a chair scrape in the back. If I had more engery, I would turn around and see who just got up, but I don't and I see her anyway as she comes up and takes the marker with a smug kind of look on her face. I raise an eyebrow as she sighs like she has to do everything, pops her gum, rolls her eyes, and starts writing on the board. She cleary has this memorized and well rehearsed. The girl has parrot-green eyeshadow that matches the slightly too small shirt she's wearing. She's got a very pale complexion and her hoop earings are bigger than my fist, not quite hidden under thin, dyed hair.
She proceeds to not only make us all look like idiots with a clear yet complex solution, but to do it in a tone of voice that sounds like she's a spy in an action movie rather than a overweight, acne-ridden student in a sleepy classroom.
She smiles at me as she passes me and the corners of my mouth instinctivley go up in return. As she sits down, I wonder what it would be like to be friends with a person like her. She cleary lives and breathes math, but I can tell that she's trying her hardest to fit into some unnamed clique. Her clothes are a uniform, finely tuned to the smallest detail, from the rubber braclet around her wrist and her spotless white shoes with wide pink laces. I forget about her quickly, but as I leave, my extreme lack of coordination causes me to drop a calculator and swear loudly. She picks it up and hands it to me, smiling again. I mumble a thank you and yawn out the door. As I walk to my next class, I spot her on the stairs and find myself waving, even though I don't know her. She waves back and beams, but I step into my classroom and forget about her again.
Sitting down in my next class, I make small talk with the guy next to me. He's opening his binder, and on the cover is a pencil sketch of a girl in a bikini with a suggestive expression on her face and her hands on her hips. "Did you do that?" I ask. He nods. "It's my girlfriend." He replies with a smile. I look closer while trying to remember what his girlfriend's name is...some "A" name, Anita, Alica, Anna...and realize that the girl in the picture looks nothing like her. The girl he's dating has curly hair, glasses, and braces. The facial features of the girl in the drawing look just like his girlfriend, but this one has straight hair, no braces, and noticably, no glasses.
I point it out. "Doesn't your girlfriend have curly hair and braces?"
"She straigtens it sometimes." He says. "And that's what she'll look like without braces. And with contacts."
"Uh-huh..." I say skeptically, but I don't say anything else.