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She was a wisp of a girl, her eyes, with the captivating quality of a potted plant, always looking down her nose. You could see all the bones in her sharp little body, and she prided herself in every last one of them. Once, I think I caught her smiling at her ribs, jabbing a finger into her stomach and sheepishly grinning, as if to say "hah. I did it." She had no respect for anyone or anything except her perfectly level knee socks and the pearly pins that kept her flat ginger hair tossed onto the side of her head. She kept her little claws [and claws they could be called, every clearly knuckled finger pointed at the tip] wrapped around a designer purse at all times, and everyone knew that it was full of pills and diet tips. We were all quite sure that certain tablets in that oversized cow of a purse were not intended to be taken together, but that didn’t seem to bother her. She almost treated as her own personal snack bar, like "today, I think ill take a two item combo, thank you." On most occasions, she would stare at you shrewdly, her eyes darting around, with what seemed to be a strange sort of self absorbed paranoia. Of course, we were all looking at her, so she had reason. She powdered her cheeks, put on cranberry lipstick, and painstakingly applied mascara in the bathrooms at lunch, and the way she put it on, you'd think she valued those dyed animal by-products more then life itself. Like in her grave, she would still be spreading rouge onto her prominent cheekbones, as if it would make her look any less dead. And dead she did look, her complexion hardly "fair", but more properly described as ghastly pale. She strut around school, pumps clacking harshly on the tile floor, skirt flipping up slightly behind her, exposing her skinny knees.  
We weren't sure what to make of her. A few of us just snubbed her like she snubbed us, perfectly manicured fingers flung out in a clear "please don’t talk to me" manner. But sometimes, I tried to talk to her. I would stumble out from behind some corner of the school that she didn’t know existed [such as the library or the drama room] and awkwardly offer up a "hello" or a "hey…uh...yeah. Hi!" in the latter of those instances, I had tried to recall her name, but failed horribly. No one ever really said her name, and we were all beginning to suspect that no one knew it. She would give me an enigmatic stare, cranberry lips molded into a perfect catwalk pout, not quite sure what to make of me. Who was this girl? She would murmur out a monotone "hello."  And speed up, her heels clicking faster, her skirt flipping up higher, and her brow becoming increasingly furrowed. "What's up?' I would bubble, grinning and speeding up as well. "What is up. Taxes are up. The sky is up." She would snap, her model's pout slowly transforming into an exasperated growl. That's usually as far as I got. She would speed up to an elegant trot, and swiftly but gracefully duck into the bathroom where it would be impolite [and dare I say creepy] to follow her. But once, while she was trying to stare me down, I glanced up at her face, trying to see into her pasty features. Her harsh eyes glanced back at me with something almost reminiscent of sadness. Sadness only for a split second, like she had let go for a moment, and before I could truly comprehend, she had her armor back up, faceplate up over her eyes once more. I stopped and fell back against the wall. She didn’t appear to care, her icy steps still ringing out in the near empty hall.