He was a whole year older than I, but was allowed to enjoy his company none the less. I'd met him in seventh year, but it is not until now that I am in ninth year that our story commences. He was not exactly in many of my classes, but sometimes during one of his free periods I'd run into him on the first floor, and he'd walk with me up to my class. I loved these walks, he was beyond compare in his satire and his skill; of which unfortunately, he was well aware. It'd be unjust to ever name him 'modest.' One conversation stood out to me profoundly, I run it through my head often. We'd been on the subject of our course schedules, and he'd said he'd been walking on his way to lunch. I'd asked; "But you haven't brought a lunch with you;" to which he did not reply, but instead pulled from his pocket a thin silver package. I read the label, which was a dull blue against the bright foil wrapper. "A Poptart?" I asked, for I was not used to them, I'd never before eaten one in my life. "Yes, but it's a strawberry one. They're no good. It's the peanut butter ones you want, they're terrific." He'd said, ripping open the wrapper and handing me a piece of what appeared to be a compressed and extremely chalky strawberry pastry. I fearlessly threw it into my mouth, not exactly sure what to expect from it. A rush of sugar flew over my tongue. It was delicious. Later that evening, when my mother was preparing to head out to the grocery store, I asked her if she'd be so kind as to pick up a parcel of peanut butter Poptarts for me. With an odd and contorted look on her face, she agreed. However, as wondrous as I found him, my peers hardly felt the same. They, all caught up in their superficial facades, failed to see the mere wonder of him; they instead saw only the flaws upon his face. The disgust in their voice when they talked of him and I spending time together overwhelmed me greatly. So it is with great regret that I must admit that when he asked me to be his, I declined. As politely as I could, mind you, but I declined all the same. He chose not to walk with me to class after that. I'd never before felt so alone whilst walking through hallways. And when my peers spoke of him to me, it was not of him and I, but of him and some foul little pest; I shall not justify it with a name. I'd thought about him many times over, and seeing him in the corridor gave me the courage to speak with him. He looked through me when I talked, and when I asked him if he'd accompany me to class, he'd answered with a definite and unexplained 'no.' All that day I was stressed and befuddled, my peers commented on my odd behavior more times than a few. Finally home, I immediately sought the consul of the pantry. I flung open the doors, and my eyes landed on an unopened box of peanut butter Poptarts.I tore the cardboard open, stripped the wrapper off one of the parcels inside. I lifted the pastry to my mouth and bit down on it, prepared for the same fantastic flood of flavor I'd felt before. The wonder never came to me, but a instead single conclusion did: Peanut Butter Poptarts taste most absolutely and undeniably horrible.