A/N: I just got done watching Struck By Lightning and let me say. Chris Colfer was perfection in that movie. And it wasn't just because of him that I liked the movie, I actually sat down and enjoyed the plot and the things that happened in it. So I thought up a story idea. Hope you all enjoy it.

Disclaimer: I own nothing but the characters that you don't recognize.


"In the end it's not about what you have.
In the end it's all about where you wanna go,
and the roads you take to help you get there.
I hope you think that's fair.
'Cause you've only got one life to lead,
so don't take for granted those little things.
Those little things are all that we have."
- A Day to Remember


Chapter One

Invisibility. In some parts of life, it can be a good thing. In other parts...a bad thing. But when it comes to high school, it can be either or...I guess. My name is Angeline Corter and it's my senior year in high school at Clover High School. I've never left town, and nether has my father (and probably the same with all of my past family members). This small town, Clover, is all that we've ever really known.

Throughout my twelve years in school, I've been invisible. You might as well have called me the Invisible Girl from the Fantastic Four (minus all of the awesomeness), but the only problem was that I've never made a differencein anyone's life. It didn't come by choice. It was just the way things were for me. I never complained, there wasn't use for it, and over the years, it had become my own personal comfort...a shield, in a way.

Nobody made fun of me like they did with that Carson guy and that Malerie girl. I was fortunate. But was the times when someone accidentally bumped into me without even saying sorry or sat on me only to laugh at me that made the whole idea of being invisible something dreadful to deal with.

Aside from the invisibility, I was just one of your average teenage girls. I got average grades, I had an average attitude towards everyone around me, and I had an average lifestyle. I always had. And throughout the years, my father, who had been an A+ student himself, had accepted my "failure to ace" (so he would call it). I was only good in four of my seven classes. Drama, Creative Writing, English, and Art. Science was too difficult for me to ever comprehend and I had ended up barely making it by in my math class. History was my only average class. I did poor on tests, but the homework and in-class work had always been easy enough for me to complete and turn in on time. At least I was president of the Art Guild...until it got canceled near the end of my Sophomore year.

Maybe I should have joined the actual Drama club. Or maybe I should have joined cheerleading...or maybe even the school's newspaper editorial, but the last thing I would ever dare to do was wave pompoms around while getting checked out by perverted, parasitic football jocks whose IQ was probably too little to consider being a legit number or write something that wasn't a story.

Writing is my passion. It has been since I could even remember and I just know that it's what's going to be my future.

It's Senior year, so naturally everybody's already making plans for what they're going to do after high school. Some want to get a degree in law, some want to get some sort of sports scholarship, some want to leave Clover and go from there, and others want to become business owners. But as far as I was concerned, I was the only one who didn't know where the hell she was going after high school.

Maybe I want to be an editor in a big city, or a novelist in a small town like Clover. Maybe I even want to own a publishing company or at least work for one. Every day's thoughts towards my future was different. I wanted to be something different every day that had to deal with writing.

Lunch was almost over as I sat under one of the courtyard's trees, my back to the old bark with a half-eaten Golden Delicious apple in one hand and in the other, a half-read classic – Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice. The weather was just starting to break from winter, so I had just zipped up my grey and sapphire blue sweat jacket.

My mind kept falling back to the school assembly the other day, about that Carson Phillips guy talking about a literary magazine and everyone getting a chance for their short stories and such to be published. I couldn't stop thinking about it nor the stack of filled composition notebooks of different stories in my closet back at home.

I knew nothing that I wrote would be worth it, so I tried to push his offer from my mind. It was bad enough having to deal with all of the hounding critiques during Creative Writing whenever we did 'Peer Review'. It was something that Mr. Randel had come up with as his basic lesson plan. He gives everyone a specific thing to write, everyone writes it in either short story, script, poem, or cartoons. I never dared to venture away from the short story category. Occasionally, I would do cartoons, but that was that.

I was always making mistakes. And yes, I get that everybody makes mistakes and that it's alright, most of the time, but with me, I made more mistakes then what should be called 'normal'.

The scheduled bell echoed from the halls of the school. I looked up from my book, and tossed the remains of my apple in the nearest trashcan after I got up and attempted to stuff my book away in my backpack.

If I had been watching where I was going, or maybe looked up for a minute instead of having difficulty stuffing my book in my backpack properly, I wouldn't have bumped into someone.

Panicking, hoping that they wouldn't be mean about it, my eyes widened as I looked over to see Carson. He looked slightly alarmed, but unmoved by my accident. He didn't really give me much of a look, but his eyes had glanced at me for a moment, probably to make sure I wasn't one of those annoying cheerleaders or jocks.

"I'm sorry," I quickly sputtered earnestly, my cheeks heating up deeply as I put my free hand to my cheek, an apologetic look spreading across my face.

"Whatever," was all he said as he kept walking.

I was left standing there, slightly appalled that someone other than a teacher actually spoke to me today.

I turned around and watched him walk to the school's lunch entrance where everyone was filing through.

I grew up with Carson. I'm pretty sure he's never noticed me like everyone else and wouldn't even know my name, but I know him. We had the same grade school teachers. After grade school, we were always put in the same math together. He always made math class interesting. He was always outspoken...different. But even though he constantly seems so angry with the world and depressed, he's very good-looking and has always dressed well. He was like most teenage boys and wore good-fitting jeans, a tee shirt, occasionally his blue jacket, but it was just his style that had always grabbed my attention. Why didn't he have a girlfriend? Surely there was someone who thought of him romantically. Maybe he was lonely.

Like me.

This was one of those moments when I catch my thoughts and furrow my eyebrows in a new track of thoughts. Why did I care? He was just another human being, another senior teenage boy. Why can't I just wonder about any other guy or girl?

I guess it was just Carson Phillips in general. There was something about him that just made me think about him more than I thought about anyone else.

I huffed a sigh as I finally manage to stuff my book in my backpack properly. Thanks to my over-thinking, I was now late to Creative Writing.


"How was school today?" my father asked over dinner that evening.

Dinner was always quiet. We only exchanged the same old conversations. How my day went, how his day went, how much lunch money I needed for school the next day, how I did on a certain test, what drama went down at his work, and what drama went down in my school.

He tried. And for that, I had to give him credit.

My mother died giving birth to me. I guess you could say it was some sad sob story, but to be honest, it's not. To know that I never knew her may have been a sad thing to realize from time to time, but I never knew her. I didn't know what she was like or whatever, so it wasn't something I sadly pondered on.

My dad and I were once close. Once. That was until I became a teenager and things between us grew quiet, calm, and awkward. I guess, in a way, I miss him saying goodnight or whatever, but we never said we loved each other. It was more how we knew we loved each other than us never finding it something usual to say to one another.

"Fine," I answered like I always do.

He just nodded his head and poked at his chicken fried rice.

"How was work?" I asked in exchange as I reached forward for a spring roll. It was take-out night for dinner.

"Good. We got a new manager, so things should be getting settled more," he replied in a rather cheerful manner.

I just nodded my head, taking a bite from my spring roll

"Any plans for the weekend?" he asked me.

I froze, mid-chew as I looked over at him from across the table. He never asked me that before.

"Uhm," I said as I swallowed quickly. "No?"

He shrugged as he looked up at me for a moment and then back down at his food. "Just...it'd be nice for you to go out, y'know?" he asked. Was that concern I heard in his voice? "With some friends or whatever."

My father was an average middle-aged man. He had balding dark blonde hair, grey-ish blue eyes, a simple mustache that was just...him, and he carried on a few extra pounds with him. He loved the color green and always made sure he was wearing one way or another. He screamed at the tv when football played and always enjoyed a beer every once in a while.

"Well, I don't really...havefriends for that, dad. That's the thing," I murmured as I poked my chopstick at my bourbon chicken.

"Why not? You're smart and a good person. Why can't you come home past curfew on weekend nights or whatever like all the other kids your age?" He sounded as if he was a little frustrated now, and that scared me.

I just furrowed my eyebrows and kept my eyes trained on my food. "That's not me," was all I could only think of replying.

It was the end of discussion. As he opened his mouth to say something further, I got up with my plate and trash. "I'm going to go do my homework," I told him as I took my plate to the kitchen and put my trash into the bin, walking down the hall to my room where I closed my door and leaned against it.

I sighed as I looked over at my neatly-made bed that sported two stuffed sheep, three bears, three unfinished books, a notebook open to a half-written page with my Avengers pen resting on it, my sticker-cluttered laptop, and my untouched stack of homework.

I knew what my dad was trying to tell me. I wasn't normal like other teenagers my age. And I knew that worried him. What if something was wrong with me?