"Well that's original," I observe as I peer down into the empty washing machine that held my clothes not even an hour ago. On the top floor of the worst dorm of the worst school in the worst town in probably the worst state, I hold myself up by the washing machine's edges, my toes dangling an inch or two above the concrete floor.

But, since the washer's apparently no use to me anymore, I let myself drop down. Then I notice the graffiti on the front of the washing machine. Written plain as day, clearly meant for me even if it doesn't have my name on it.

DEAR DORK, WE FOUND TRASH IN THE MACHINES AND THREW IT DOWN THE CHUTE. IF YOU WANT IT, DIVE FOR IT.

"Is this what normal high school bitches do?" I wonder. "At least the island school was creative."

I look over my shoulder, at the trash chute. Do I really want to go diving down there for my clothes? Then again, I'd waited until the last minute to do my laundry and the only other clothes I have are the ones that I'm wearing. So I guess I don't have much of a choice.

So I grab my drawstring bag, throwing it over one shoulder, and start the trek back down the stairs, headed towards the basement. I don't make it all the way down there though, of course. That would just be way too easy.

"Well, look who it is," a familiar haughty voice says. On a landing in between two half sets of stairs, in between the first floor and the dorms floor. I stop, drop my bag from my shoulder, and slowly turn around, looking up to see Monica Morrell, the clothes thief and note writer, standing at the top of the stairs. "The Dumpster Diver," she dubs me, a ridiculously arrogant smirk on her full, glossed lips. She's flanked by her worker bees, the girls who hang on to her popularity like their lives depend on it.

"Shouldn't you be in first period at the junior high now?" she asks mockingly. "Or at least getting your first period!" I don't answer. So many come-backs pop into mind. At least half of them pretty good. But I keep my mouth shut, too cowardly to actually say anything.

"Maybe she's looking for the clothes she left lying around," one of the minions says. I've never bothered to remember their names. "Litterbug!"

"Clothes? You mean, those rags we threw away? The ones she left cluttering up the washer?"

"Yeah, those."

"I wouldn't wear those to sweat in."

"I wouldn't wear them to scrub out the boy's toilet!" the second minion blurts. I just raise an eyebrow at her.

Monica turns on that minion and snaps, "Yeah, you know all about the boys' toilet, don't you? Didn't you do Steve Gillespie in ninth grade in there?" Now I glance away, feeling my cheeks heat up. That's more information than I needed to know. Way more.

All three of the girls laugh, but the minion that just got snapped at does it a little nervously.

"Go get your stupid clothes already," the mocked minion turns her anger on me, since she's too scared to turn it on who really deserves it. "I'm sick of looking at you, with your pasty skin—"

"Yeah, junior high, ever heard of sunshine?" the other minion adds.

Not all of us feel the need to spend hundreds to have their bodies spray painted, I think. I look down, trying to hide the smirk that I know will get me in trouble if they see it.

They see it. And it does get me in trouble.

"What are you laughing at, freak?" Monica snaps furiously, lunging towards me. I don't know how she closes the distance so fast, but she does it before I can react. She throws me down the rest of the stairs, and I tumble down the concrete steps until my back and the back of my head slam against the wall at the bottom. And then I black out.