"Move out of my way Michael," Shane says in a mocking tone.

Shane Grey.

He hates me for no reason at all. I have a strong feeling he's the Shane from third grade. The one who hated me but loved my best friend. I have a feeling I did something to piss him off back then, but I don't remember it. Hell, I was nine, what can I say?! Well, I can say sorry. Sorry for what I did, even though I don't remember what it was. Everyday I chant to myself: "Today is the day you are going to say sorry to Shane," But I never can. He sits next to me in Science. I stare at him, trying to say it, just say it. Sorry. But I never can get the words out and he catches me staring. "What are you looking at?!" He'll screech and I'll feel… I don't know what I feel. Guilty? Sure, maybe.

Tears well in my eyes. "Don't cry Mitchie, don't cry. Don't let him get to you. He's just another one of them." I chant to myself as I shuffle away to my locker.

Why does the world hate me?

I go in and get my pass for my locker. (I'm so screwed up I can't even open a locker. Don't ask.) I give a warm smile to the teacher who I can't remember what her name is. I whisper a good morning but it sounds mute. She wouldn't have heard it either way. No one listens to Mitchie Torres.

"Good morning sweetie!" She beams.

Alright, so the whole word doesn't hate me… But it's pretty close. The teachers don't hate me. When they talk about me they say "Oh what a sweetheart" but everyone else thinks I'm a kiss-ass. But why be mean when they've done nothing wrong?

So, it goes:

The school thinks I'm a nutcase.

My Daddy thinks I'm a waste of life.

The teacher thinks I'm a sweetheart.

And my Momma thinks I'm a liar. But she's never 'round long enough to know.

And what do I think of me, you ask? Well….

RING!

The bell rings, pulling me from my thoughts.

It is the first day of high school. I don't want to go through all the welcome stuff so I weave in the wave of students. I look older than I am due to stress, so it is quite easy. I don't want to go to class, don't want to go there. I want to disappear. No one would notice, no one would care. Most certainly not Daddy or Momma.

I stumble into a classroom. Thankfully, it is empty.

It is the music room.

My sanctuary.

A/N: Hello Camp Rockatonians! This is my first story. Should I continue writing?