I knew it was a school night cause Pony had said it was. But I didn't give a shit about school. I hated school.

First of all all the teachers thought I was just plain dumb. I suppose they're right. I can't remember hardly anything they say, I can barely pay attention. I stayed back last year so instead of being a junior I'm still a fucking sophomore, which sucks. And I'll stay back again, probably, cause it ain't making no more sense than it did last year.

I didn't care about sleeping outside. I did it all the time. And there were vacant lots all over, they sprung up like the weeds. Urban decay. Whatever.

I walked several blocks, out of my fucking neighborhood for once, found a vacant lot and curled up in the tall grass, went to sleep.

x………….x…………..x

"Ow! What the fuck?" I woke up cause someone fucking kicked me and my first blurry thought was that it was my old man. But I was outside, and stiff from sleeping outside.

I looked up at the bright sun and a couple of socs standing over me.

"Hey greaser," one of them said, nudging me with the toe of his shoe. I jerked away and sat up. Glared at them.

"What are you doing sleeping outside?" one said in an over sweet voice. They both had buzz cuts, different shades of light brown. I just stayed quiet, stood up, got ready to run.

"Wish we had time to teach you why it's dangerous to sleep outside," the other one said, and laughed.

"White trash," the first one muttered, and shoved me, knocked me off balance.

"Fuck you," I said.

They had been walking away but turned back.

"What?"

"You heard me, fuck you,"

They'd been on their way to school, not really wanting to bother with me. But it changed. I saw the looks on their faces.

"Get him!" one said, and I took off.

Down the street, all I could hear was those damn socs pounding after me, through an alley, down the next street. I ducked into an open doorway and heard them pound past it.

"Where's the fire?"

I was gasping, out of breath. I had hardly any wind cause of smoking. I was in a bookshop that looked like it was about a hundred years old, crazy book shelves going all the way up to the ceiling, packed with old dusty books, leather bindings with gold writing.

"I said, 'where's the fire?'" The guy that said it was a thin guy with glasses and kind of going bald. He looked like he was in his 30's or 40's.

"Huh? Nowhere. I just don't wanna get beat up," I was kinda able to breathe again, but my side still hurt, and my mouth was dry.

"Oh yeah?" The guy said calmly, like it really didn't matter to him one way or the other. I guess it didn't.

"Who's trying to beat you up?"

"Socs,"

He nodded and started organizing books, or continued it I guess. He didn't ask what a soc was like most adults would.

"Are you hungry?" he said, calmly putting the stack of books on the other counter. There were like three counters made of glass filled with books. There weren't just the leather gold engraved books here, there were kids' picture board books, worn out paperbacks, hard covers with dust jackets.

"Hungry?" I couldn't really remember when I'd eaten last, "yeah,"

"Here you go," he set a box of donuts on the counter and I took one, bit into it. It tasted good, the best fucking donut I ever had.