A/N: Hey guys. Let me preface this by saying that everyone who has submitted a character or characters will have their submissions featured in my story, so don't worry about that. However, I received more responses that I had originally anticipated, so I will be closing the submission window on Friday night rather than waiting the originally planned week. Anyway, sorry to disappoint you guys, but this first chapter is merely background regarding my character, and does not feature any of the reader OCs yet. I think I'll get to introducing some of them in chapter 2, however, so be on the lookout for that, and I hope you enjoy this chapter nonetheless!

…

It's the first week of May, and I've been up till two every night studying for the goddamn AP exams. When the first shots are fired, I'm so groggy I don't even understand what's happening. People around me are screaming and running out of the school cafeteria, but I'm barely moving.

"Dude, get the fuck up!" Marcus is shouting, frantically shaking my shoulders. "We have to go!"

I put down my peanut butter and jelly sandwich, crumbs still around my mouth, and clumsily get up out of my seat. "What's going on?"

"I don't know, but we have to get out of here right now," Marcus says, grabbing my arm and pulling me forward.

I'm still in a daze, but I do as he says. As soon as we begin running, though, there's a loud bang and Marcus's arm goes slack. There's a thud as his limp body hits the ground. There's a hole in the back of his neck. There's a lot of blood coming out of it.

Panicked, I look around, whirling my head rapidly from side to side. I was practically falling asleep while eating, and my thoughts are still disjointed. All I can think in that moment is: Marcus is my only black friend. Without him how am I going to prove that I'm not a racist?

Behind me, I hear footsteps and a distinctive click. I've seen enough action movies to know that that's the sound of a gun being cocked. All at once my panic dissipates and my thoughts return to normal. I slowly and calmly turn around to face the murderer.

In front of me is Frank, a hulking six foot tall linebacker, holding a loaded pistol in his bear-sized hands. On the floor behind him is a dead Lenny Hong, an Asian kid I was never really that good friends with. I only knew who he was because he was on track to win valedictorian.

"Oh," Frank booms, stepping closer to me. He sticks the gun into my abdomen. "It's you, you little rat."

Ah, Frank. Frank Frank Frank Frank Frank. Normally I'd be afraid of a kid like Frank, but Frank's a fucking retard. He's the kind of idiot who gets lost in the bathroom.

"Hey Frank," I mutter, acutely aware that we're the only two living souls in the cafeteria right now. I can't yet hear the wails of police sirens outside, but hopefully they're on their way.

"I hate you the most," Frank growls, using his characteristic simple wording. He isn't exactly a master of the English language.

Oh, the fun I've had with Frank. I try my best to grin at him, despite the gun jabbing into windpipe. "I can show you a better way to use the gun," I say, stalling for time. Frank's stupid, but he clearly knows how to use the gun. If I can't think of a way out of this quick, I'll be going home in a body bag. I supposed I did bring this on myself a bit, but more on that later. I need to focus all my attention on the problem at hand.

"Shut up," he spits, pushing the gun further in so that I can barely breathe.

Frank thrusts the gun in so hard that I can literally feel my ribs splintering under his strength. I'm suffocating. The edges of my field of vision are tinted black. Everything is swaying. I'm going to pass out.

In a last ditch effort, I kick out with my left leg and get lucky. I hit Frank's shin, and, surprised, he trips and falls. He throws his hands out to stop his fall, and drops the gun in the process.

I don't know how to use the gun, but he's already loaded it for me, so I lunge and grab it before he can get it back.

And suddenly I'm sitting on the ground, gun in hand, looking up at a very upset linebacker. The pain is unimaginable. My entire chest is on fire. Frank definitely broke my ribs, and maybe more. I have maybe thirty seconds before I lose consciousness.

Frank, thoroughly confused by what just transpired, simply blinks for a moment. He doesn't seem to understand how I got my hands on the gun. He bellows, emitting this wild, guttural call, and swings his right fist at me. I close my eyes, lift the gun, and pull the trigger.

His fist connects. I can feel my lower jaw breaking as his knuckles crack against the bone, and I see stars. My head slams down into the concrete floor, and I can't feel anything anymore.

I weakly open my eyes one last time, and see Frank standing there, swaying a bit, with a puzzled look on his face. There's a bullet hole in the middle of his forehead. I feel a sick twinge of satisfaction before losing consciousness.

…

"Hey, are you okay?" says a familiar voice from above me.

I drowsily open my eyes, and see Jen's face staring back at me, stark against the blue sky background. I vaguely wonder when she dyed her hair silver. I feel like Jen would have told me about that.

I try to turn my head and look around, but everything aches and I give up. "What's happening to me Jen? Why does it hurt so bad?"

She looks confused. "Who's Jen?" she asks, gazing at me quizzically.

A slightly older looking redhead pops into view. "Scooch over Corrin," she says in this half-rasp. "We need to get him to the infirmary."

I feel myself being lifted up roughly. I immediately feel a wave of dizziness and nausea and have to close my eyes.

I hear the redhead speak again. "Damn. This is like the third or fourth one we've had."

Jen's voice chimes back in. "What the hell? The fourth?"

I let out a low moan as whoever's carrying me bangs my head into the wall as they pass through a doorway. My head's swimming, and my consciousness leaves me once again.

…

"Yo ginder!" someone shouts from across the field.

I look up from "King Lear" (a real shitty play by the way; thanks Shakespeare) to see Jen running towards me. She plops her bags down and sits next to me on the bench.

"Am I gonna see you at Cole's party?" she asks, staring at me intently.

I shake my head. "Nah. I don't think so. My parents are probably gonna make me 'study' or some shit like that." I look back down at the copy of "King Lear" that I'm supposed to read Act 1 Scene 3 to 5 of for English, but I can't focus with Jen around. I'm about to turn the page, but she reaches over and slams the book shut with my hand still in it.

"Come on ginder," she says, using the customary racial distinction and giving me her signature "you're an idiot" look. It's especially effective because of her big brown eyes. "Seriously. We're second semester seniors. Fuck studying. Live a little."

I honestly don't understand why Jen pays any attention to me. There's no reason for us to hang out. I mean let's face it. She's hot. I, on the other hand, while admittedly am not the ugliest kid at school, am still pretty close to the bottom. I'd use the phrase "sub par," to describe my appearance. I'm five foot seven and three quarter inches tall. I wear glasses, and am four pounds overweight. I like most sports, but I'm not good at playing any of them. My brain is all I've got. Jen is a cheerleader, and her boyfriend is the starting shooting guard for the school's basketball team. It's a good team too. State semis last year. She, frankly, isn't even that smart either, so we really have nothing in common, without a single shared class between us during the entirety of our time at this high school. But even so, I've known her since seventh grade English, before they started making the distinction between "regular," "honors," and "AP," and we bonded over our mutual distaste for poetry. Our friendship worked back then, and it just kind of stuck.

"Sorry cracker," I respond, reciprocating her usage of the racial distinction that's become customary in our conversations. You probably feel like I'm rambling, but the racial distinction is a very important running joke for us. "I don't think so. It's a jock party. Too much testosterone for my taste."

She raises her eyebrows. "Testosterone? You're a guy!"

I grin at her. "I'm fat, Jen. I have man boobs. I've got more estrogen than you think."

She pauses. "Wait. Is that why that joke about you being a 'lesbian in a guy's body' went around last year?"

I think for a second, and shudder at the alternatives. "I sincerely hope that's why."

Jen shakes her head. "Alright whatever. We're going off on a . . . uh . . . a . . ."

"Tangent," I say, finishing her sentence.

She gives me the look again. "Why are you talking about geometry?"

"Well trig actually, but it's really not important."

"Well anyway, I'm not gonna take no for an answer, so I'll tell you what."

"What?"

"What?"

"What is it that you're gonna tell me?"

"Oh," she chuckles. "Right." She fidgets in her seat. "On Saturday, I will come by at like eight and pick you up, and if you don't like it there, I will personally see to it that you get home safely." She studies my expression, which I try my best not to change. "Is that an acceptable arrangement?"

"Ha!" I laugh. "As if my parents would ever let me go to a party with a girl." That would make them, almost impossibly, even more reluctant to let me do things. By "things," I mean anything other than study.

"Then just sneak out," Jen says with a casual shrug. "They don't need to know about it."

"Just sneak out? JUST sneak out? I'm Indian, Jen. I don't think you understand that. I have helicopter parents. They're gonna figure it out within five minutes of me leaving."

Jen knocks her fist against my head. "Come on ginder. You're smart. You'll think of something."

I frown. "Wait. How are you going to pick me up anyway? Might your unnecessarily rich father have bought his precious little girl a Mercedes?" I say the last bit jokingly to mess with her, as she's a bit sensitive about the word "rich."

To my surprise, however, Jen flips back her long blonde hair, winks, and pulls a pair of keys out of her handbag. She jangles them proudly. "That's exactly what Daddy did."

…

A/N: I think I pretty much said everything at the beginning, so I hope you enjoyed this bit of expository about our protagonist, and I'll see you guys in the next chapter!