Okay. Please review this and give me help, because Ive got some major writer's block. I'm thinking I'll add a guy into the mix soon. Oh, and if anyone can catch the Song For A Raggy Boy reference, kudos to you.

“Dude, what the hell?” I freak. Who wouldn’t, in my situation? My best friend takes a deep breath and starts over.

“You got put on probation for the rest of the year.” Grace’s mom works in the admin office, so she is all knowing.

“What? Are you... No way... There has to be... But... You’re joking, right? Right?”

“No. Mr. Mitchell talked to the admin. He got your probation extended, cause he said you were a bad kid.”

“I’m a very good, sweet kid. That’s not right.” I sulk. That’s right. Grace leans over and pats my arm awkwardly.

“Well, you should have been there. He was all, ‘Aryanna Maines has been causing trouble. Extend her probation.’ “

“How the hell does he know my full name? The lurk!” I nearly fell off of my bench. Nobody knows my full name.

“Office records. They do have your real name. What’s wrong with the name Aryanna, anyway?”

“It’s like Aryan, but with an afterthought. Like, hmm. Should I be a little Nazi? Nope. Not me.”

“Okay. Got it. Who came up with Ryann?”

“Uh, Alex.”

“Wait. So your jerk of a brother came up with your awesome nickname?”

“Yes. Sadly. Gone by it ever since. But why would Mr. Mitchell want to know my real first name?”

“Teachers tend to like to know their students names.”

“I’m not his student, smart one.”

“Whatever.”

“Do you think he’s a child molester? Like Marc Warren?”

“What? The hot dude from Oliver Twist is a child molester?”

“No. In this movie he was in, he played a pedophile of a Catholic priest.”

“Right. But why do you say Mr. Mitchell is one. Did he try to feel you up?”

“No. But have you seen his sideburns?”

“Ew. You’re right.” Grace grins. Good.

“I don’t want to take political systems from him.”

“Ah, Gawd!” We both only want to take government courses in high school, aside from my history and her English.

“Sucks for us.”

“He ever flirt with you in study hall?”

“No. He ignores me, mostly.”

“Okay.” She seems relieved. I make a face and attempt to finger-comb my hair, which has blown in my face, again. My hair is disturbingly fine and no ponytail holder can restrain it. It’s rather unfortunate.

“I hate my hair! I wish I could gel it, or something!” Grace sniggers. Her hair is nice and thick.

“Borrow Alex’s.” I shake my head, grossed out.

“Alex has no respect for hygiene. One time, I had to go into his room to borrow socks, and he had left his boxers, in all their post-masturbation glory, on the ground. That was scarring.”

“What? Are you serious?”

“Yeah. Sadly.” Poor Grace turns a nasty shade of light green. She’s lucky, being an only child. I’m stuck with three brothers, one of whom is moving closer and closer to puberty by the day.

“Do your parents know?”

“Yeah. I assume they can hear him moan in his room.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ve gotta sleep-over more!” I laugh so hard I fall off the bench, straight onto my best friend. We begin to laugh.

“Ms. Maines, or should I say, Aryanna?” Mr. Mitchell looks at us. He’s on his way to the teacher’s lounge.

“Ms. Maines is fine. Sir.” I stand up, hands jammed deep into skirt pockets. For once, my emotions are on my face.

“And your friend?”

“I’m Grace Crawford.” He nods and turns to look at me.

“You’re coming to study hall for the rest of the year.”

“I know. Thanks, Mr. Mitchell.” He leaves. “For nothing!”

Two weeks later, it’s Wednesday and I’m in study hall, as usual. And, as usual, my iPod is not in my ears. I’m reading a packet on the human stomach for science, as well as trying to plot a new way to bend school rules. My newest one involves cucumbers and Vaseline. Large cucumbers and lots of Vaseline. So, I look up for a second, to check to make sure Mr. Mitchell isn’t paying attention to me. He isn’t. No. Instead, my iPod headphones appear to be in his ears and he’s tapping his hand in rhythm.

“The Clash rock, don’t they?” Mr. Mitchell looks up, shocked. Most teenaged kids don’t appreciate classic rock bands.

“Get back to work, Ms. Maines!” He’s crimson, acting like I caught him looking at porn or something.

“I don’t care if you listen to my music. Just don’t screw up my volume limit or any of that stuff.”

“Your music taste is... interesting. I’ve never met somebody who groups U2 and the Sex Pistols together as great music. Especially not a thirteen-year-old girl. Wow.” I bite my lip.

“They are both bands devoted to God, just in different ways. And they rock. That’s why they are in the great music playlist.”

“Really?” His voice is challenging.

“Yeah. Only good bands make that playlist.”

“Like who?”

“Well, obviously U2 and the Sex Pistols, and the Clash. And, I mean, you can’t forget Green Day and Rupa and the Stones. Oh, and there’s My Chemical Romance, with the amazing and talented Frerard.”

“I see.”

“Yeah. It’s nice to shuffle them around, so you can get a good mix. You know, a bit of the oldies, with a good bit of emo, followed up by international stuff.”

“Have you ever heard of the Decemberists?”

“Yeah. I like them. They’re also on the playlist.”

“Those bands, they’re good. For a kid, you’ve got amazing taste. Where’d you hear of these bands?”

“I’ve liked Green Day since I was a little kid, like five. My dad played U2 a lot, so I got to know them pretty well. Then, with my big brother, I got introduced to the Sex Pistols and Rolling Stones. I found the Decemberists and Rupa on my own, at about eleven. And then there’s My Chem. Not much more to say.”

“Impressive.”

“Thanks. Just the humble efforts of one girl trying to conform the world.”

“Really?” There’s doubt his voice.

“Yeah. The world needs help.”

“How come? What makes you say that?” He leans forward, suddenly interested. Great. A debate, just the thing I need.

“Look at this school. Morton claims to be prepping girls for life beyond school. But really, most of the girls here are plastics who have daddies that can pay school fees, not actual intelligent human beings.”

“What about you, then?”

“Scholarship student. I got a perfect score on the I.S.E.E.”

“Okay. But 100 of the girls here graduate from a four-year college. Explain that to me.”

“Most of the girls are spoon-fed the vital information they need in order to graduate into a college. How many girls are in your political systems class?”

“About twenty.”

“What grades are they from?”

“Eleven and twelfth grade. That’s all it open to.”

“Two hundred girls. Only twenty take political systems. See something?”

“Yes.”

“Exactly. Can I have my iPod back? ‘Cause I’m not pleasuring you or anything.” Much to my joy, Mr. Mitchell turns pink.

“Get out. It’s five.” He throws my iPod at me. I catch it and am out of the room so fast I nearly fall. My bike is parked by my locker. My bike’s awesome. So, my dads friend, Ben, built it for me. It’s got a basic mountain bike body, with all the gears, but there’s an awesome bell on it, two folding mesh boxes in the back for my stuff, and a huge basket in front, just right for somebody to sit on. Within fifteen minutes, I’m walking my bike up the driveway of my house.