So here's my story. Do you like the names? Does it fit her? Or is it sort of awkward since my name and the character both start with J? Does it resemble Pretty Little Liars too much? But the plot is different....thanks. no critism please, comments and advice always appreciated. 
A lot of places aren’t what they seem. A bank seems perfectly still and calm when suddenly a robber charges in; a party’s been fine and exhilarating until a fire starts.
But what about an art museum? It’s been pictured soft and silent, artwork, photography and statues everywhere, nothing but the truth. The most harm that could happen there was a child got bored and slept on a Michelangelo statue. Right?
But that weren’t the terms in Marbelle, California, a picture-perfect, quaint city thirty miles from Los Angeles. Everywhere were Ferraris and Porsches, tall buildings with sparkling lights, malls, stores, galleries, and cafés; everywhere and everyone were where they were supposed to be. But it just so happened that in the more crowded part of Marbelle, in the famous Marbelle Art Museum of thirty-four floors, a girl had disappeared. In fact-possibly murdered.
Who had murdered this girl? Someone so innocent, just so being in the wrong place at the wrong time-was it a random choosing, or, out of revenge?
Four girls are going to find out the truth about what happened to Jordon Laurentell. But, as they say-the truth is blurry but the lies are getting clearer.
1 perfectly horrible
There are a lot of things people in Marbelle admired. Cheesy vampire books. Gum. Ferraris. Soccer. But one thing that Marbelle Day Official High really admired, was Jordon Laurentell.
Who could say more-her perfectly honey blonde hair, wild and wavy over her shoulders, to her sylph-thin figure, and her long legs. She ruled Marbelle Day’s hallways, walking in an intimidating three-girl line, with Alex and Kate, her followers. She knew how to flip hair, flirt, dish, and be successful at even soccer captain. It was so easy to fall in love with someone like Jordon-but so easy to hate someone like her, too.
The summer before high school began, Jordon had been at a friend’s house. Since so many people adored her and nobody-supposedly nobody-would harm her, her parents agreed absentmindedly without asking who the friend even was. Or if there even was a friend.
If the neighbors could look back, or the group of kids around the corner could just rethink the memory, they would’ve spotted a flash of honey blonde hair across the street, where Jordon lived. How she walked out on the stone pathway, sashaying her hips like she always did, her hair swaying behind her. But if they could look even closer, they would see the panic in her ocean-blue eyes. How she glanced right and left, as if expecting a bullet to come out of nowhere. How inside her bulky Gucci bag was a big Polaroid camera, a pair of Prada aviators, and the threatening note she’d received a week ago.
But of course, no one could see that.
She walked out of Marbelle, careful to zip her bag very, very tightly. Despite her acute efforts, though-she didn’t notice the small hole in her bag, of which the note fluttered out innocently. And despite her acute efforts, someone picked it up as soon as she disappeared down the block.
If someone was watching, then they would’ve watched her pace quickly down Fifth Avenue, sit down on a bench, and pull out her sunglasses, hurriedly putting them on. Guys passing her gave her appreciative whistles. She didn’t have time to waggle her fingers, or flip her hair, or give a tight smile. All she could do was stay paralyzed and stay where she was.
By chance, Alex and Kate had been walking past. Hurriedly ducking her head, Jordon hoped they wouldn’t notice her. But as they passed suspiciously, she heard Kate whisper, “Hey, that girl has the same hair has Jordon!” She let out a breath of air when they passed, Alex ushering Kate along.
When her Gucci wristwatch ticked five o’ clock, she stuck her perfect, small hand out and hailed a cab. One pulled up immediately at the sight of her pristine figure. “Marbelle Art Museum,” she told the driver. Hurriedly she rummaged through her bag until she found her camera and then took out the memory card. She took a deep breath, holding it in for a long time until she was sure her cheeks were turning blue. Finally, she turned the card over in her fingers, examining the code and date. Then, staring at the memory card’s code, she jotted it down in a stray piece of paper she found in the cab’s seat. Then, in a flourish, wrote: Jordonelle Cameron Laurentell under it. She rarely wrote her full name, with such a masculine name, or her middle name, either. People would have to wonder what it really meant, but she knew all too well what it insisted. She slipped the paper into the crack of the old leather seat. She sighed quietly. The driver peered into his mirror, saw that someone weird was going on in the backseat, a
A lot of places aren’t what they seem. A bank seems perfectly still and calm when suddenly a robber charges in; a party’s been fine and exhilarating until a fire starts.
But what about an art museum? It’s been pictured soft and silent, artwork, photography and statues everywhere, nothing but the truth. The most harm that could happen there was a child got bored and slept on a Michelangelo statue. Right?
But that weren’t the terms in Marbelle, California, a picture-perfect, quaint city thirty miles from Los Angeles. Everywhere were Ferraris and Porsches, tall buildings with sparkling lights, malls, stores, galleries, and cafés; everywhere and everyone were where they were supposed to be. But it just so happened that in the more crowded part of Marbelle, in the famous Marbelle Art Museum of thirty-four floors, a girl had disappeared. In fact-possibly murdered.
Who had murdered this girl? Someone so innocent, just so being in the wrong place at the wrong time-was it a random choosing, or, out of revenge?
Four girls are going to find out the truth about what happened to Jordon Laurentell. But, as they say-the truth is blurry but the lies are getting clearer.
1 perfectly horrible
There are a lot of things people in Marbelle admired. Cheesy vampire books. Gum. Ferraris. Soccer. But one thing that Marbelle Day Official High really admired, was Jordon Laurentell.
Who could say more-her perfectly honey blonde hair, wild and wavy over her shoulders, to her sylph-thin figure, and her long legs. She ruled Marbelle Day’s hallways, walking in an intimidating three-girl line, with Alex and Kate, her followers. She knew how to flip hair, flirt, dish, and be successful at even soccer captain. It was so easy to fall in love with someone like Jordon-but so easy to hate someone like her, too.
The summer before high school began, Jordon had been at a friend’s house. Since so many people adored her and nobody-supposedly nobody-would harm her, her parents agreed absentmindedly without asking who the friend even was. Or if there even was a friend.
If the neighbors could look back, or the group of kids around the corner could just rethink the memory, they would’ve spotted a flash of honey blonde hair across the street, where Jordon lived. How she walked out on the stone pathway, sashaying her hips like she always did, her hair swaying behind her. But if they could look even closer, they would see the panic in her ocean-blue eyes. How she glanced right and left, as if expecting a bullet to come out of nowhere. How inside her bulky Gucci bag was a big Polaroid camera, a pair of Prada aviators, and the threatening note she’d received a week ago.
But of course, no one could see that.
She walked out of Marbelle, careful to zip her bag very, very tightly. Despite her acute efforts, though-she didn’t notice the small hole in her bag, of which the note fluttered out innocently. And despite her acute efforts, someone picked it up as soon as she disappeared down the block.
If someone was watching, then they would’ve watched her pace quickly down Fifth Avenue, sit down on a bench, and pull out her sunglasses, hurriedly putting them on. Guys passing her gave her appreciative whistles. She didn’t have time to waggle her fingers, or flip her hair, or give a tight smile. All she could do was stay paralyzed and stay where she was.
By chance, Alex and Kate had been walking past. Hurriedly ducking her head, Jordon hoped they wouldn’t notice her. But as they passed suspiciously, she heard Kate whisper, “Hey, that girl has the same hair has Jordon!” She let out a breath of air when they passed, Alex ushering Kate along.
When her Gucci wristwatch ticked five o’ clock, she stuck her perfect, small hand out and hailed a cab. One pulled up immediately at the sight of her pristine figure. “Marbelle Art Museum,” she told the driver. Hurriedly she rummaged through her bag until she found her camera and then took out the memory card. She took a deep breath, holding it in for a long time until she was sure her cheeks were turning blue. Finally, she turned the card over in her fingers, examining the code and date. Then, staring at the memory card’s code, she jotted it down in a stray piece of paper she found in the cab’s seat. Then, in a flourish, wrote: Jordonelle Cameron Laurentell under it. She rarely wrote her full name, with such a masculine name, or her middle name, either. People would have to wonder what it really meant, but she knew all too well what it insisted. She slipped the paper into the crack of the old leather seat. She sighed quietly. The driver peered into his mirror, saw that someone weird was going on in the backseat, a