"So, this is it", I sighed as I checked the classroom number yet again. I really did not want to enter into the wrong room on my first day. I am odd enough for these people as it is: a foreigner with a funny accent, too tall, not blonde enough, too snarky and my teeth are definitely not brilliantly white enough. Not to mention that my clothes were (while not old or ugly) not fashionable, and also, from the few interactions I took part in in the short time that I spend in the US till now, I truly have all the wrong ideas about equality, feminism, racism, and other -isms I didn't even know existed. We don't have this kind of -isms where I come from.

I try to put on my pleasant face as I enter the room. Turns out my pleasant face does not impress the teacher: his eyes quickly drop from my face to the lower regions of my body. I wear a tight black turtleneck and skinny jeans-I thought that was a decent enough look. Mr. Roberts, the maths teacher, takes his sweet time staring at my boobs and I feel the need to cross my arms over my chest, but I resist the urge and even place my hands on my waist. "There, look all you want, you old perv", I think defiantly as the last trace of smile disappears from my face and is replaced by a pretty hostile glare. He finally notices that we are in a very unequal and very long staring match and that the class fell silent in the meantime.

"Are you the new student?", he says.

"I am", I don't bother with being too polite towards this kind of person.

"Why don't you introduce yourself?", he asks my boobs.

I turn to the class and pray to God that my voice will not betray the slight feeling of fear that is creeping up inside of me.

"Hello. My name is Sonja. I come from Croatia.", I say and my voice stays calm enough.

"Any questions for your new classmate?", Mr. Roberts sounds bored already.

"Yeah!", a boy who is apparently also the class clown has to have his minute, "Any boyfriends back in Croatia?"

"A husband, three children, and a lover", I fire back before thinking. Oh God, I hope they'll understand that I was only joking?! Everybody's looking at me now and I see they're not really sure if I'm serious or not. My resting bitch face does not help either, of course, again my inability to show emotions with my face makes me look odd and detached. Maybe I should force a smile? Better not, a forced smile is a creepy smile.

"A-okay. Don't forget to write them all letters", Mr. Roberts smiles a bit (At least the perv gets me! How depressive, though.), "Go find yourself a free seat."

There are two free seats in the entire classroom. One is in the first row. That one cannot do. I hate sitting in the first row. Any other seat will be better. The other free seat is in the last row. Winner! As I go through the classroom, I notice a few odd looks, a few eyebrows risen, and even a whisper "Why would she go there?". And as I look who else sits in the back of the classroom, I realise there is some weird connection between where you sit in class and where you are in life. Another thing we don't have back in Croatia. Back home, nerds and shameless people sit in the front. Ordinary kids like me sit somewhere in the middle. Cool kids and sometimes ordinary but bored people sit in the back (for example, in most classes I used to sit in the middle. Math class and biology I spent in the last row reading magazines-I don't care much about maths and biology. The art class was the only that I loved but sat in the last row anyway-I couldn't get a better seat and no one would change seats for the entire school year!). Anyway, in the US, or at least in this particular high school in Gotham, it seems that if you are cool/rich/pretty, you sit in the front. If you're ordinary, you're in the middle. However, if you're a future (or present!) crackhead/mass murderer/nutcase, you got yourself the last row.

There were five seats in the last row: the first three were occupied by two guys and one girl, and one could see from a mile away they were either very high or very disturbed. One had a tattoo. On his face. In Croatia, a high school kid doesn't have a tattoo, like, anywhere. The free seat was of course next to the tattoo-faced kid, and on the other side of the free seat was some blonde-haired guy. Tall, from what I could gather. Very cute, although a bit brooding. And of course, with huge scars on his face, one on each cheek.

Nobody from the last row-division spares me a look. Great. Lucky me. This is going to be one really long class. Who am I kidding? It's going to be a very long year.

For the first time of my life, I really pay attention in math class; I simply have nothing better to do. I also want to have good grades, I don't want to come back home after my one year in the US and show nothing for it. However, it turns out that the US and Croatia have at least this one thing in common: math sucks in both countries, and – as always – I find myself struggling with all the x's and y's and graphs and whatnot. Tattoo kid on my right doesn't even try-his notebook is full of drawings of Satan or some other morbid thing. Scarface on my left seems to be keeping up pretty well, he's already done all the problems we were supposed to solve today, and it seems he's made some additional notes and remarks of his own. He catches me peeking and shots me a cold glare. Again, I react too fast and wink at him. He continues to glare at me but also adds a heavy dose of disgust into the glare, so I finally do the smart thing and avert my eyes. I am sometimes so stupid, even I can't believe it.

…

And my awkwardness and slight stupidity sure do not leave me in any of the next classes. I feel a unique combination of stress and boredom, and it makes me blurt out the craziest things. For instance, after maths, I had German class. I told them my name was Sonja Albertina and I was a refugee from Kyrgyzstan. I got a few compassionate nods and a confused smile from one of the last row crackheads who had math with me just minutes ago. After that, I had history class and told them my hobbies include wrestling and crochet. I don't really know what got into me, it must be the nervousness or something. The last row is practically reserved for me.

Recess is a special kind of hell. I don't recognize half of the food so I settle for a banana, an apple and apple juice. My tray looks somewhat ridiculous. Then of course comes the question of where I should sit. It seems like my entire day revolves around that stupid question. The idea of just joining a group of people who already occupied a table is more than mortifying, so I give up on trying to meet all those groups of athletes, cool kids, pretty girls, bff's, neighbours, whoever-you know, the guys who always sit together. I need to find either an empty table or a big table occupied by only one or two people who are willing to ignore and be ignored. I spot the nutcase table (tattoo faced guy is there with his pierced girlfriend, along with other equally strange people), but it is full. Not that I am rushing towards it.

And then I see the only empty table. Well, not really empty. Scarface guy is there. He is looking at me already when I spotted him and his table. He knows I am searching for a place to sit. I mean, I stand there with this moronic lost look on my face. I meet his eyes but instantly give up the idea of trying to join him. He's shooting me this really frightening look and I resist the urge to do anything stupid, like winking at him or sticking out my tongue. I glance at my tray instead. I can eat my fruit in the hallway. Ok then.