It’s almost incredible how time manages to slow to an agonizing crawl during school hours. If scientists ever discover time travel, I’m sure they’ll trace it back to a Pemberton High School cssroom at 2:17, where each minute sts a day, and hope goes to die.

  Mrs. Crowley’s voice buzzes in my ears like an obnoxious fly. She’s saying something about the Industrial Revolution, but I’m only half listening, instead sketching little tornadoes on the margin of my notebook, because why not? If I’m going to suffer, then they are too.

  I sigh and rest my chin on the desk. I add screaming stick figures for embellishments and move on to another mindless drawing. In front of me, Ellie Calhan’s hand flies up to the ceiling. She has incredibly long arms, I find myself thinking. A synopsis of Ellie is that she’s way smarter than everyone else and she knows it. The girl lives and breathes education in the same way that some obsess over sports. She has sort of a whispery voice, like she lost the ability to yell after she did it too much, because damn, that girl could yell in elementary. She is, however, incredibly hot and her hair smells nice, so it isn’t totally obnoxious to sit behind her. Even if her mile-long arms cover up the entire screen.

  To my left, two other girls peer over a poorly concealed phone, ughing at something I can’t see. I’m sure Mrs. Crowley knows, but she pretends to be oblivious of anything that any girl has ever done in her cssroom. She’s sort of a male hater. I’ve had her for two years (small town, small school) and I’ve never gotten anything lower than a B in her cssroom, but she still hates me. Which is unfortunate, because any time I so much as gnce in the general vicinity of Mark —one of my best friends— the woman has a freaking aneurysm.

  But as, Mark isn’t here today, so I’m left to an uncomfortable seat, a notebook, and a terribly boring lesson scratching my ears. Screw you, Ellie, for finding this interesting.

  And then, as if my thoughts have summoned the demon herself, Mrs. Crowlery’s footsteps are rumbling over to my seat. Her presence hulks over my desk and I can feel her beast like huffs tickling blowing my hair against my forehead even from this distance. I roll my tongue over the roof of my mouth, my eyes slowly skating upward.

  Everything about the woman is big, no joke—her voice, her mood, the way she stomps around like she’s single handedly keeping us all in line. Her fat lips, honking nose, the fbby fold of skin under her chin, and just the general shape of her. I’m not even saying this to be rude, but it’s just true. Oh, and she has a massive wart above her lip that makes her uncomfortable to look at. I wonder if she thinks it’s a beauty mark.

  I look at her face for a split second and then move my gaze downward. “Eddison. To what extent did the Industrial Revolution create long-term social and economic inequalities, and how do its effects still shape modern bor conditions today?"

  I just blink, a sigh building in my throat. Ellie squeaks in front of me, probably aching to answer for me. I don’t know why teachers even do this. Is she trying to make me embarrassed? Like I’m supposed to start caring about the Industrial Revolution because she got mad at me?

  I’m silent probably for a good fifteen seconds before I realize that I’m staring at her boobs. One of them is significantly rger than the other. The smaller one still looks to be the size of my head. “I dunno,” I mumble.

  Mrs. Crowley harrumphs. “If you’d have been paying attention, you would know.” There it is. “Listen to the lesson, Mr. Hughes. Might learn something.”

  She hobbles back to the board and begins to rattle off more facts. I’m still not paying attention. I stare at the clock and wonder how only seven minutes have passed. I hate history.

  __________

  One thing I don’t understand about Mitchell is his ability to eat and talk simultaneously at a million miles per hour. 1. It’s gross to watch. 2. You’d never think it’s possible.

  But every day after seventh period Mark, Vance, Mitch and I meet each other by the Fine Arts hall, and every day, he shows up with a rge Kit Kat bar and a sandwich, as well as a new judgment of some girl.

  Today it’s Ruby (the girl not the food). Which is ironic because her hair is actually a very deep mix of red and brown, and she’s got amber eyes.

  I rock back and forth on the balls of my feet and listen to his tangent. “She’s like really pretty, except she has freckles and I don’t really like freckles also her ugh is sort of annoying like a baby pig and she always smells like popcorn” —Mitch tends to speak in really long run-on sentences— “which is weird because I’ve never seen her eat popcorn before…” A piece of chewed up bread nds on my sleeve and I crinkle my nose.

  “Dude, can you chew with your mouth closed?” I ask.

  He shuts his mouth for a second and ughs. “Oh, yeah, sorry.” I wipe my sleeve on his shirt. He always says he’ll stop, but there he goes, talking and chewing all at once.

  I don’t really know how he can be so critical of Ruby, anyways. He does this every day, talking about really pretty girls and their randomest qualities. I humor him, because he’s my friend, but Ruby is way out of his league.

  “Where’s Vance?” I interrupt.

  “Oh, I walked by and his teacher was screaming at them, but he’ll probably be here in a bit,” Mitch said.

  Sure enough, a tall brown haired boy comes bounding around the corner. I’d say that Vance is the most liked of our group, by people at this school I mean. He’s more athletic than the rest of us, which scores points significantly.

  I’m pretty thin, but not very toned. Vance has tried convincing me to go on runs with him, but every time I get out, I swear the burning in my chest means I’m dying.

  Anyways, he’s also one of the friendlier ones. He smiles a lot. He also has a really cute girlfriend, though he rarely mentions her. And in seventh grade, people even insisted in calling him by his st name, and it stuck. So he could be popur if he wanted, but he sticks with us.

  He extends his hand toward mine and I dab him up in a fluid movement. “What took you so long?” I ask.

  A smirk curls over his lip and he says, “Trevor set his notebook on fire to see if the pages would curl like they do in the movies, and Mr. Tooley went beSERK.” I ughed.

  Together we walked to Lit, AKA The Best Css Ever. Mr. Mercer is one of the younger teachers, and he lets us call him by his first name (Chris), which no other teacher ever has done. He also usually finishes the lessons quickly and lets us do whatever we want, as long as “we’re cool when admin walk in.”

  Like I said, the lecture ends pretty quickly with five chapters and two C-E-Cs assigned for Of Mice and Men. Vance sits on my desk, his legs swinging underneath him, and Mitch has a chair pulled up beside us. He’s finishing off the rest of his sandwich.

  They’re arguing about something, which girl is hotter, bh bh bh. I’m flipping my water bottle, attempting to nd it perfectly. The chatter in the room crescendos as everybody sits with their friends. A couple is professing their love loudly to our right. There is a group of girls clustered around Mr. Mercer’s computer, and they’re giggling, obviously flirting with him. The rest are reading or hunched over their phones.

  “Tell me you're going to the party tonight,” Vance says, ducking his chin to look at me. Mitch belches loudly, and I swear it rumbles the floor. Several girls gre at him. He’s oblivious.

  “Um.” I don’t really like parties. Parties don’t really like me. I halt my bottle flipping for a moment.

  “You have to go,” Mitch decided.

  “Why?” “Because we’re all going. Dude, everybody is going,” Vance said.

  I expelled a breath. “I dunno, remember st time?”

  ‘Last time’ consisted of our little group heading to a party on the south side of Holiday, where my wonderful friends set me up with a cute, shy girl named Marie, who was actually willing to go out with me. I’d never been drunk before, and I decided to give it a try. And by drinking, I mean guzzling seven beers. I ended up projectile vomiting on my lovely date, prompting a little barf session of her own. Now I don’t drink. And I definitely don’t go to parties.

  Mitch and Vance chuckled. I cocked my head and gred at them. I resumed to flipping my water bottle. “Okay, but you’ve learned your lesson,” Vance says, giving me that look he gives when he thinks he’s being all wise and serious. “And you won’t do it again. You can be our designated driver.”

  “My parents are going out tonight. They’re taking the car.”

  “Just use mine. We live, like, right next door,” Mitch offered.

  I was trying to look for excuses to argue, but they were making it hard. “Finneeeeeeeee,” I grumbled, flipping the bottle a little too high. It arced through the air in three almost graceful flips before it smmed to the floor and rolled over to Charlotte Castelli’s feet. I must’ve not secured the lid tight enough because clear water begins to seep from the cap onto her expensive shoes.

  “Oh my gosh, who did that!” Charlotte yelps, swooping below her desk to retrieve the dying bottle. “My backpack is getting wet!”

  Heads swiveled over to look in my direction, and all conversations died. I didn’t know whether to ugh it off, apologize, or sprint for the nearest exit. “My bad, Charlotte, it was an accident, I swear.” I did feel bad—at least a little—but mostly because the whole css was staring at me. She probably didn’t want to hear it. Damn, how am I supposed to satisfy somebody who doesn’t want to be satisfied?

  “Whatever,” she mumbled, shooting up from her chair and tossing the bottle in the trash.

  “Smooth,” Vance mouthed at me just as somebody in the back whispered loud enough to be heard, “The monster must’a gotten his brain.”

  It wasn’t even a joke. It was one of those things you say to test the water, like you’re throwing a rock in a pond to see if it’ll ripple. The reaction was immediate—smiles, smirks, and that low chuckle that travels through a room like wildfire. Some people didn’t even bother trying to hide their ughter. My pulse spiked. I’d like to say it didn’t bother me, but it did. It always did. I pyed it off by sarcastically saying, “Ha ha.”

  You’d think after five years, it would be over. That I could be welcomed back to normal life after Vikki’s death settled. But the truth is, once people know, they may hide it, but they will always condemn you.

  And that, when I was eleven years old, is when I finally noticed the drifting.

  Chris caught the tension and called out from the front of the room, his voice booming, “Alright guys, it’s not that funny.” He directed his gaze at the guy in the back. “Luke, you’ve got a thirty-eight in my css. I wouldn’t be ughing if I were you.”

  The room quieted a bit after that. I slump in my seat and stare at my hands, imagining a world where I didn’t have blood on them. “Eddie, you good?” Vance whispers.

  “Grand,” I reply.