BIG IMPORTANT NOTICE RIGHT HERE!!

School has started. I won't be able to update quite as often as I'd like. I won't get the chance to write as much as I'd like. So, if updates (this includes all my stories) are not as often as you wish, you may express it in a review, and I will reply saying how crazy the school hours at my school are and how crazy homework is and it's school. School's just bleah and puts you in a bad mood.

Well. Now that that's over with. On with the story.

Disclaimer: Because I'm definitely Anthony Horowitz.

LLLLL

I let It Girl do everything.

If you call today 'doing' anything. We listened to the teacher talk. He said we were going to study neurons and that if anyone acted out he would send us to our head's office and then we wouldn't go to university because we got sent to the head's office so much.

I'm not going to uni anyway, so I wondered what the point of me not acting out was.

That's right. Too much attention.

I imagined him letting out an evil laugh after that, and tying all the students in class down and then not killing them (congrats, Alex. You didn't break a rule. Whoopee).

The bell rang, which was a happy sound for everyone else in the room. It Girl's stuff hadn't ever been unpacked and she was in the halls before anyone else. Which was weird, because we were sitting across the room from the door.

Maybe she has magical powers that transport her from her seat into the halls whenever the bell rings. (I'm using sarcasm, genius. I'm not crazy. Really.)

Pretty sucky power. I'd rather have invisibility.

I'm walking down the hall toward English. Kids by their lockers are glancing at me and kinda backing away. Except I don't see them backing away. I'm looking down, which might not be good for my reputation (because it was bursting with rainbows already), but screw it. The floors are clean, so you can see the speckled design and silver lines separating tiles.

I look up to get my surroundings. A couple more steps to the English room.

"Rider."

Crap, then.

A few guys are standing in front of me, blocking my route to English. They look like they want a fight. I don't.

This time, instead of someone random I don't know, it's a guy I haven't liked since I met him in Year Seven. Named Daniel Poltuck. Black hair, brown eyes, really, really pale. Bulging muscles, on the rugby team. He's got a different girlfriend each week, if that says anything about anything.

Back in Year Seven, he kept framing me for things I didn't do, like spray-painting the gym walls and whatnot. I never got blamed (they couldn't actually say it was me), but the administrators were wary of me after that. I provoked him into trying—key word is try—to punch me in the cafeteria one day while a teacher was looking on. For some reason, I don't think he ever forgave me.

"Move," I tell him. Neither of us has time for fake pleasantries. The bell's going to ring in about thirty seconds.

"No," he says back. He raises his eyebrows and smirks mockingly.

I tilt my head at him and don't say anything.

He lowers his eyebrows and says, "You couldn't take me." It's deadpanned.

I blink. "I'm sure," I say sarcastically. Not much venom is put into it, though.

Poltuck laughs at me. That starts his cronies laughing at me, too. No one else in the hallway laughs, though. It's always a serious fight when I'm involved.

It sucks. I ignore it.

Poltuck and his cronies move aside, and he gestures at me. "Go on through," he mocks.

I hate him.

.".".".

Everything in English is relearned. Every. Single. Year. Nothing changes. You're just reminded of how confusing the language is.

I don't know why we have to take it.

.".".".

I look up at the white board. It says that we're going to write an essay about what we did over the summer.

"Oh, all I did was stop everyone who used Kleenex from dying because of lethal insecticide fumes crawling up their nose and then killing them."

I don't think I should write that down.

"Summer is a very interesting thing. You can save the world, stay up all night, sleep all day, or just laze around and watch reruns and old movies on television.

"Me, I lazed around all summer."

What an excellent start.

.".".".

English ended after 50 minutes that felt more like 50 years. I didn't get very far on my essay. I didn't write anything after "Me, I lazed around all summer."

I tore through the hallways to get to the class I'm in now, Geometry, so I wouldn't run into anyone who would give me trouble.

The trouble makers saw me, though, so they'll give me grief later.

.".".".

It's not that I'm afraid of the kids here. I am not fucking afraid of them.

It's something else entirely.

.".".".

Well.

I ran through the hallways, not fast enough so that the lockers were a blur, but fast enough so that I got to Geo with three and a half minutes left before the bell rang. The teacher, Mr. Newman (I remembered his name—someone get me a Nobel Prize) talked about angles and cross-sections and lots of basic stuff.

I'm good at Geometry, and I like this class. I like maths, basically. There's always a right answer and a wrong answer, with nothing between them. No gray areas ever surprisingly pop up and just change things completely, so that all of a sudden there are other colors in the mix, like red and blue and green, and everything gets turned upside down. Just black and white, right and wrong, check or slash.

The 50 minutes felt like five.

.".".".

The halls weren't bad. Nobody really looked at me or paid attention to me this time. I was here today, that was discovered in the morning. It was midmorning now, and Tommy could have asked Jill out, which was much more juicy than plain ol' me attending class.

I go to the elective I was assigned (I wasn't there the day of the electives fair. Or the day you actually choose the electives). Home Environment and Life Learning. Some schools call it Home Economics. Brookland calls it HELL.

And it is.

We're making cookies today. Our teacher is in a bipolar mood, yelling at us and then telling us how excellent we're doing. I'm put in a four person group that will make cookies with me until the end of the year, or the next day a sub comes.

There's the know-it-all, Andrea. She's got black-almost-blue dark hair and red lips.

There's Mark, the clueless guy who makes everything into a joke. He has fair hair and blue eyes.

There's Sarah. She's shy, but her wild red hair makes her stand out.

Then there's me. I don't want to talk about me.

.".".".



The cookies aren't bad. Sugar cookies with icing and sprinkles. They don't taste like the store bought kind—these are sweeter and the icing is runnier and the sprinkles aren't as generic. The cookie isn't as soft, either, but I like it better that way.

Maybe HELL is good for some things. Maybe.

The bell rings. It's time for my demise, otherwise known as lunch.

.".".".

I go through the line. The people behind me ignore me. The girls in front of me giggle, and then burst into laughter over something I'm not sure I want to know about.

The line moves too slowly.

The girls laugh harder. I take one step forward, then rethink about how close I want to be to the laughing girls, and then take a step back. The girls sound like hyenas.

I roll my shoulders and blink.

I will get through this, I will get through this.

.".".".

I didn't get through the line. I skipped lunch and went to talk to Ms. Bedfordshire. She seemed to like the company.

"Hello, Alex," she had said.

"Hello Ms. Bedfordshire," I had replied. I smiled at her with my lips. "How are you?"

"I'm okay. What about you? How's the first day going?" She smiled back at me. I adore Ms. Bedfordshire, I really do. She knows what questions to avoid and what questions to ask and how to make a student feel better.

"I'm tired. Woke up too early today. The first day is…going." It's hard to lie to her when she's being herself. Half-truths are good.

Ms. Bedfordshire laughed. "School starts too early in the morning, don't you think?"

And then the conversation had continued. The bell rang, and I had been sad to leave. She's my only ally in a school full of people who just don't understand.

.".".".

British History with Mr. Wexler. This year is not going to be fun.

The rest of the students like him well enough. He teaches history so that it's "fun". Most of the students seem to agree with his definition of fun.

I do not.

So he dislikes me.

He narrows his eyes when he calls my name for roll.

Don't think about killing him. Don't think about killing him. Don't even think about hurting him. Don't, don't, don't, don't—

"Here," I say. Some less informed students looked back and raised their eyebrows, then looked up at Mr. Wexler again.

"For once," he says. "Are you planning on being here tomorrow?" He says it jokingly, but both of us know that he is not kidding.

Oh, he's good.

"Yes sir. Do you?" I answer back as politely as I can.

"I do, Rider, I do," he says thoughtfully. Then he snaps back up, adjusts his tie, and continues the roll.

When the bell rings, we have played a name game even though we all know each other. I'm glad for the bell.

.".".".

I shouldn't have. Been happy for the bell to ring, that is. I checked my schedule as I was leaving class, and it's time for gym.

It's not that I'm not good at it. I'm very fit. I used to love gym, back when I was on the football team, back before everything went wrong, back when I used to not miss school.

Back when I could change into the gym uniform without having to go into a bathroom stall because my scars and bruises and the chest wound would freak everyone out.

But things aren't going to change back to the way they used to be, so I live with it.

The gym uniform is boring. The shirt is red with white lettering. It says Brookland on the back. The shorts are black and generic.

The teacher, sitting in his office, calls out to us after seven minutes. "Out to the gym!"

The gym floor is waxed so much that you can see your reflection. I don't look at mine.

The girls are already gathered around the phys ed teacher when we get there, their shorts rolled up and shirts pulled tight by hair bands.

"All right! I don't care how you wear your uniform, just wear it!"

Mr. Wiseman must be teaching this year, then. He likes me. Maybe gym won't be so repulsive.

Mr. Wiseman sits us down and hands out a course syllabus, telling us to get our parents (I winced—he noticed) and guardians (he added that for my benefit. I gave him a half smile) to sign it or get an Incomplete for our first grade. He doesn't mean it, though, because he's nice and doesn't like to give out anything below a C.

When he's through handing out syllabuses, he tells us to stand up.

"We're going to go through the same routine you did last year. For anyone new, or anyone who just forgot, that's going to be ten push-ups, ten jackknives, ten jumping jacks, and running once around the gym. We're doing that every day for the rest of the year, and if it takes you longer than twenty minutes, you'll be writing me an essay on why you are the most unfit person in the class."

I look around me. Tom is in this class. Usually, that would mean we'd tie for first place in finishing, but now that things were—like they were, it would be a race for completion.

"When I say start, you will begin. First person to finish today gets a get-out-of-jail free pass for tomorrow's exercises."

I scrutinized Tom. I know that Tom knows I'm looking at him, but he doesn't turn around.

Ignoring me. It's not a good tactic. I can ignore people longer.

"One…"

I continue to stare.

"Two…"

Tom turns to look at me. His eyes are neutral. That surprises me, because usually his eyes are full of emotion and life and views.

We lock eyes for a moment before Tom turns away, suddenly, like he's seen a ghost.

"Three…"

Huh. I wonder what that was all about.

Oh. It's me.

"Start!"

I begin.

Push-ups. Take a breath every time you go up. Jackknife. Close your eyes and just keep breathing. Jumping jacks. Breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth so you don't get out of breath. And run, run, run toward the track.

And you're running, running, running, and then you look around and some people are still doing push-ups and someone is coming up behind you and it's Tom. You let him go in front of you without him or the teacher being able to tell.

He sprints forward and you finish one step behind him.

"No exercises for you tomorrow. Good job, Harris. Alex, I thought for sure you were going to beat him for a second. Good effort. Go sit on the bleachers."

We walk over. The bleachers are all the way across the gym, and only the first three rows are set up.

"Why'd you let me win?"

So he did notice.

"Because you wanted it more."

And I go sit on the bleachers. He doesn't follow.

.".".".

Last class of the day is art. We're supposed to draw an apple.

The apple is light red, almost speckled with yellow, and brand-new looking. The stem is thinner than the average apple's is, and it reminds me of the time Sabina ate an apple at Wimbledon. She took the stem of her apple and twisted it around, saying one letter of the alphabet for each twist.

.".".".

"Sab, what are you doing?"

"Checking to see what the first initial of my future husband's last name is going to be." She stopped twisting the apple for a moment, then resumed. "This stem is taking forever to go off. I've already been through the alphabet twice!"

I looked on at her, sure that my eyes looked amused. "Okay then. Continue with thou's proceedings, and I, humble Alex, shall gaze upon thou with looks of…er. With looks of stuff."

Sab smiled, but didn't say anything.

I watched her twist and twist and twist, finally stopping when the stem came off in her hands.

"Finally!" she said.

"What letter?" I asked curiously.

"'F'. Guess that means I won't be marrying you, Alex."

.".".".

Ian used to ask me every day if I learned something. Sometimes, if I didn't, I would make something up so he would be happy. He saw through the lie every time, though, and then he would teach me something new.

I imagine him asking that to me now, as I'm walking toward my locker.

"Well, Alex? What did you learn today?"

I learned that I suck at drawing apples, and that I suck at school even more.

LLLLL

What do you think? Longer than usual. I had a lot less time to get this done, as I wanted to have it up here today (or else it would be put up here Saturday), so tell me. Oh, and happy Labor Day!