Nobody understood her. Some tried, some didn’t, but when you got right down to it, there was absolutely no one in the world who could understand Pixie Parker.

This was the first thought rushing through her mind as she sat herself down on the floor of Simons High, leaning her back up against her locker. She strummed her guitar with her black-nailed fingers, ands he noted that the polish was chipping. She smiled; just the way she liked it.

Pixie closed her eyes and continued to play, a sad, slow song that she had written herself. She played straight through the warning bell, and was only silenced when the teacher in the room next to her locker tapped her on the shoulder and informed her that, unless she left right away, she was going to end up late for class. Pixie didn’t argue. She had to look for Sam, anyway.

Samuel J. Clark, “Sam,” was the closest thing to a best friend that Pixie had ever had. Ever since middle school, she had never really had anyone to be close with. After leaving the comfort and closeness of elementary, sixth grade had introduced her to the cold reality that was teenagers. All the girls were obsessed with clothes and boys, and al the boys were obsessed with cars and boys. For three long years, she feared that she would never find anyone she could even remotely relate to.

Then came high school. Her ninth, tenth and eleventh grade years were much like middle school had been, only bigger. She found some “friends” here and there, but none that felt enough for her to stick around when things got tough. No one who loved her.

Then there was twelfth grade. Pixie looked at it as the very last year of her torture. The end of her suffering. The final months of her imprisonment, after which she could finally get out and find someone with whom she could connect.

That was when she met Sam. Lost, confused and newly out of rehab, she had noticed him on his very first day there. It was two months into the school year, and Pixie could tell just by looking at him that she could get to know the boy. That maybe, just maybe, if they tried hard enough, they’d be able to begin to understand each other.

She walked up to him that first day, introduced herself, and suggested that they eat lunch together. They both knew there was a connection right away. Sam, a usually very closed-down person, opened up to her at that lunch as he’d never opened up to anyone before. It was then that she found out about his past. His desperate attempt at suicide, his failure, and his painful realization that he did not want to die. Pixie, drawn in by his honesty and deep, dark eyes, also shared with him things that she hadn’t told anyone else. Her past. Her alcoholic mother, her try-too-hard father, the tragic death of her three year old sister when Pixie was just a child. The trust she felt in him was overwhelming. She had never felt anything like that before.

That was October. Now, six months later, Pixie felt closer to him than anyone she’d ever met. She walked across the school, and met him exactly halfway from where she’s been sitting. His guitar was strapped across his back and his long, full head of black hair was hanging in his eyes, as always. Black and red rubber bracelets covered the fait pink scars that still lingered on his left wrist, only painful memories now.

“Hey Sam!” she greeted him, slapping him a high five. He smiled her, and adjusted his guitar. They turned and began to walk the way he had come. Both of them had English first period, the only class that Pixie didn’t totally hate. Her teacher, Mr. Thompson, was one of the “Triers.” He was young enough to think that he could understand her, that he could become her friend. His attempts always failed, and most of the time made her laugh, but she appreciated the effort. That, and he critiqued her poetry with the eye of a true writer, which she also appreciated.

“Anybody say anything today?” Pixie inquired of Sam, breaking their comfortable silence. Silences, for them, were always comfortable.

Sam shook his head. “Nah. I had my eyes closed, though. I think people suspected I’d bite ‘em if they interrupted me. It was pretty intense.” Pixie laughed.

“Me, too. The eyes part, I mea. I could just…feel the music today, you know?” Sam nodded his agreement. A love of music was something they passionately shared, allowing him to understand that part of her perfectly.

About a week after they first met, Sam had proposed an idea which had formed into a personal project for both of them. After realizing that they both played guitar, and that their lockers were on the opposite sides of the school, Sam suggested that they sit outside their lockers every morning, and just play. It was their way of spreading music across the school. At first, they had gotten strange looks from many students who would never have had the self-assurance to do that. But they kept on, and eventually people had gotten used to, and even looked forward to seeing Sam and Pixie with their guitars every morning.

“You wanna come over after school?” Pixie asked as they settled into their seats, just as the announcements were starting.

“Uh, maybe. I don’t know. I’m tired, I might just go home and sleep.” Pixie nodded, not worried. He had been sleeping a lot lately, but Pixie had chalked it up to stress. Though finals were still two months away, he had already started working himself hard studying. She admired Sam for that, and she believed that he earned any extra sleep he could get during the day.