Untitled, Beginning of a Story-- Lindsay

                 Josie

                
                 If you asked me about her, I would tell you that she always smelled like frosted roses. Her scent would follow her if she walked in a room. The sickly sweet scent of powdery blossoms was both intoxicating and pleasant. Pleasantly intoxicating.
                 The curls that wound down her back like someone twirled the black locks around a wand, and her golden eyes that were sharp like the jaggedness of a blade, brought her to all of our attention. The girls were green with hissing envy, and the boys lost their balance in her presence. She was a gem that sparkled in the darkness of the coal mine that was our school.
                  Ink tattooed her arm, a design that I always though made it look like a black and white snake winding up to her shoulder. The black of the tattoo made her eyes look even more deadly, yet I dared to learn more. I, Josie, have come to the conclusion that this girl is from nowhere, lives nowhere, and does evil things. Don't be fooled. This girl is the opposite of innocent.
                 
                  She doesn't talk. Ever. She writes in a notebook that she shows only to those who she allows to see it. I have never read what's in her notebook.
                  In my own notebook, I have been observing her. How she walks, what she eats, her facial expressions. All in a secretive, non-stalkerish way, of course.
                    
                  According to my written observations, never has she smiled. Not once.
   
                  What human being has not smiled? Even if it was by accident one time, or without meaning to, a smile is physically impossible. I am quite sure of this.

                   But I'm no detective.