When I was small, I used to crawl into Jonas’ bed and beg him to tell me stories. Jonas always told the best stories. Sometimes he would just tell me stuff about his day, and other times he would make stuff up about flying elephants and crazy kidnappers in pink trench coats.

Well, not really flying elephants and crazy kidnappers, but stuff – not reality. Just whatever Jonas came up with in his head.

God, even then They were squeezing him to death – telling him to “stop lying” and “being a bad influence.”

I wonder about Jonas while I wait for the bus to come around. It’s weird – he must have taken this exact route a million times, walking the exact same path I walk every morning, maybe even sitting in the exact same seats I’ve sat on since the beginning of high school. How many people have seen Jonas, I wonder? How many people have bumped him in the halls, sat next to him on the bus, chatted with him in class?

The bus is packed like a sardine tin when it finally decides to make a show. I’m one of the last lucky few to get on – the driver passes by the next few stops without opening the doors. People I recognize from school are everywhere, but they don’t talk to me and I don’t talk to them. First days back are always the hardest – the teachers are absolutely obsessed with icebreakers. I don’t see why they can’t understand we’ve absolutely no interest in getting to know one another – we’ve been attending the same schools since pre-k, after all. How much more knowing does a person need?

I think I have a stamp on my forehead – giant red letters that say AVOID with a huge exclamation mark at the end. I used to blame Jonas for this, but now I think it’s more out of choice. It’s hard to believe that I was once just another sheep in the flock. I think it’s definitely better this way – people don’t pry if they get vibes that are too hostile. It’s the whole Darwinian thing – survival of the fittest. Nobody wants to burn themselves if they don’t have to.

Well, most people anyway.

It’s our first official full day of classes and the teachers start throwing things our way the minute we hit the seats and icebreakers are over. It’s only second period and already I’ve got the entire pre-chapter review section from math to go through, and my bio teacher looks like he’s drowning in papers right now – papers that we’ll no doubt be completing for tomorrow.

I’ve started to name my bruises. There are so many of them on my legs, I figure I might as well start keeping tabs on them so I know if I need to tweak some bad habits. For instance, there’s this one on the side of my right calve I’ve named Dino, mainly because I had a thing for dinosaurs when I was nine. Dino is the result of my very bad attempts at pop shuvits. Apparently I don’t jump enough or get the board going fast enough, so my calve always catches it. On the exact same spot. Every time.

Halfway through chemistry, my feet start twitching and tingling and I feel like I am suffocating. Of course, it’s obvious to me that I need to go and skate, but to the girl sitting next to me, I probably look like a retard. I have no doubt that this will be all over the school in by lunch, and I will start getting weird looks and hearing whispers about me being “crazy like Jonas.”

And just as I suspect, after chem. while I am smoking in the little fenced pathway behind the school, my phone vibrates in my pocket and it’s a text-message from Moizy, wanting to know if I’m okay. Orders me to call her.

I punch in ‘dial number’ against my common sense.

“Hello?”

I take a last drag from my cig and stamp it out.

“Yeah, it’s me.”

“Are you smoking again?” Moizy asks.

“What gave it away?”

“Al –

“Don’t use my name! Are you with the clones?” I ask, knowing full well that my name for her posse isn’t the most original.

“-licia, I told you to quit smoking!”

Very smooth, I think to myself.

Not.

Moizy rants at me for an eternity about the consequences of smoking. As if I haven’t heard them three thousand times already. There is quite a disgusting picture of somebody’s teeth on the box of my Belmonts.

I make a mental note to myself to cross those teeth out. They look like they belong in the Pirates of the Carribean. On somebody who doesn’t look like Johnny Depp. Not by a long shot.

When Moizy’s rant finishes up and she runs out of breath, she asks me if I’m really okay. “You know, because you only smoke when you’re stressed and all.”

I tell her I’m fine but yes, I am stressed because the stupid school doesn’t allow skateboards anywhere and I am suffering from withdrawal symptoms. Moizy sighs in half-disgust. Half, because she understands how I feel since that’s how she feels about shopping, but she doesn’t quite understand how I can feel the same way about skateboarding. I can practically hear her thinking, “what a man.”

Except Moizy isn’t mean enough to consciously think it or say it. Just on this inner-level, she’s probably trying to come up with ways to turn me into a hardcore girl.

What I don’t tell her is that I got for a pedicure as often as I can because the one thing I can’t stand besides really hairy, smelly people is gross feet. The nastiest thing in the world besides somebody who smells and looks like a sloth are feet with long, crooked yellow toenails and random bits of skin peeling off here and there.

I’ve seen it on the subway more than enough times. It’s quite disturbing. Some people are made for flip-flops and sandals. People who can’t bend over to give their feet a good wash every now and then are not one of the above.

I must have made a sound while thinking about nasty feet because Moizy asks me what’s wrong. Of course, I don’t tell her I was thinking about feet since she already thinks I’m a bit nuts at the moment as it is, so I tell her I was thinking about Sunday and the Skaters. She doesn’t say anything so I’m guessing she is confused, which means I have to elaborate.

“You know…Sunday? When we were down by Queen West? Skaters? Need I go on?”

“I know that!” she says, sounding a bit put off. “I just want to know why you made that weird noise. Like you were throwing up.”

“I was shuddering,” I inform her.

“Why?”

“Because…” think fast, think fast. “I was just thinking about how greasy they were.”

My brain congratulates me on my quick thinking.

“Urgh! Thanks for the great mental image.”

“…well, it wasn’t like you didn’t see it.”

“…”