A/N: For Ailey. I presumed, since I haven’t talked to you in a while, but birthdays are birthdays, so happy wishes all around.

And stuff.

Ish.

benign blisters

On the first day of school, sophomore year, she was the only kid in class I hadn’t known for at least five years. When the teacher called attendance she corrected him, “My name isn’t Samantha, it’s Tess.”

And ‘cause her last name is like my last name, (almost) I got stuck with having the weird girl sit behind me.

Yeah. The weird girl.

That was on Monday. She came to school with pigtails, and she called me Excalibur. First day. Just leaned forward and smacked the back of my head and said, (interrupting the teacher’s rant on logarithms,) “Hey, Excalibur, give me a pencil.”

Which was when Ben, (who is my best friend because we grew up together, not because we have anything in common,) started laughing, and when Candy Summers, (everyone says she’s a whore but she’s chill, really, with eyes that make you want to love her,) smirked in that knowing way.

Let’s get something straight here; my name is not Excalibur. I am not a sword, but a dude. Got that? A dude. And my name is Ryan.

Jeez.

On Tuesday the teacher called roll for ‘Tess Jefferson,’ and she sighed like he’d made this mistake a thousand times before, “It isn’t Tess, it’s Miranda.”

Yeah.

Anyway, back to day one, Candy Summers had just smirked at me in that knowing way, the way that meant, “If we were dogs, she’d have just peed on you.”

And the stoners in the back peeled their faces away from their desks long enough to raise their eyebrows while the nerds in the front started calculating our compatibility.

And I couldn’t really do anything but sit there, stunned, in a death metal T-shirt that’s actually my older sisters’, while the entire classroom of bored suburban brats tittered.

I think…

(more importantly they think)

I just got hit on.

“Hey,” Tess said kind of impatiently, and snapped her fingers, “Seriously man, inspiration is fleeting. Give me a pencil.”

‘Why me?’ I wonder in a dazed, panicked sort of way, ‘Oh god, why me?’

The universe has a way of devirginizing the entire planet in that it screws us all over. Especially when you’re a teenager. It’s like someone stuck a ‘KICK ME PLZ’ sign on your back. One that perpetually refuses to come off.

And me, being the optimistic moron I was, actually started to think that things would get better after I’d lost the braces/acne/bad haircut.

It turns out that those things are pretty much your only defense in life. The hotter you are, the more you stand out, which means you’re a bigger target for The Man.

I’m here to tell you that being prettier than most girls isn’t what it’s cracked up to be.

For one thing, a lesbian tried to get my number last week.

(the sad thing is I was actually just relieved that she was female)

I gave her a pencil. She made a face, scrunching up the delicate freckles splattered across her nose.

“I can’t use mechanical, the lead is shit,” she complained, and then dug through her rucksack until she pulled out a used and abused rainbow-wallpapered number two pencil.

Candy Summers put a perfectly manicured hand over her mouth to keep in the giggles. It should be mentioned that I’ve been in lust with her since the fifth grade.

Not that I’d ever tell her, or anything.

“Sorry,” I muttered kind of distractedly, and turned back to the board. Mr. Pizan is glaring at me so venomously, I’m surprised he hadn’t thrown the whiteboard at me again.

Yeah, you read that right. Not the whiteboard marker, the whiteboard. Mr. Pizan hates me with the passion of a gazillion blazing suns, in case you were curious. This is probably because I kissed his daughter in third grade…Or so he says.

I think it’s just because I’m English, and he’s French. Not to be racist or whatever the right term is, but I feel pretty justified in arguing this point. Those crazy Europeans had a way of pissing each other off in Ye Olde Prehistorically Ancient Times. (Again and again and again.)

I slouched down even further into my seat and stared helplessly at my math notes, fully aware that logarithms and thumb screws were probably invented by the same guy. Mr. Pizan took his time in delicately setting down the whiteboard marker before menacing his way over to my desk.

One of the stoner kids slapped the other rudely awake. The show was about to start.

Ben turned fully around, looking almost excited, but I can’t really blame him. Or Mr. Pizan, who’s made it his life’s mission to ensure my high school experience be as hellish as humanely possible. I am English, after all.

Candy’s mouth lilted up at the corners in a way that’s part apologetic, part flirtatious.

Her legs are the color of honey, long and flared and contrasting magnificently with Mr. Pizan’s squashed-pumpkin face, and she’ll never go on a date with me.

Mr. Pizan set his hands down on either side of my desk so heavily I could feel the crystallized gum underneath it pressing into my knees.

I shrunk into my chair.

I’ll admit it, I’m kind of a wimp. It doesn’t help my already near-emaciated girl-model appearance.

“Iz zere a problem, Monsieur Jameson?” he breathed, “Or will zou let me continuah wiz my lectuah?”

I shook my head, “No.” I squeaked. Or would have squeaked. It turns out that hormones are actually occasionally useful in preserving a certain amount of dignity. Or maybe just the voice-change ones.

“Turn your head this way,” Tess said kind of impatiently, from behind me.

For a second I dared believe that she was going to come to my rescue.

I looked around to get a better look at her, and my heart stuttered.

Before you start getting romantic ideas, may I just say that it was out of terror?

You see—she was English too. Or maybe Irish. The point being, she was Northern European, and she Was Not French.

So now, I had an accomplice.

An accomplice who was drawing me.

She was…really good, actually. I wish I had something like that. Something I was really good at, I mean. I’m kind of a loser when it comes to girls, and I’m absolute trash at soccer. My grades are okay, so long as you look more at English instead of Math.

So I’m…yeah. I’m kind of lame.

I turned my head, 'cause I guess I'm just as batshit crazy as she is.

We had to clean the desks during lunch. I ended up doing all the work. She sat on Mr. Pizan's desk and sang something that sounded like Latin.

"Hey Excalibur, you hungry?" she offered me her lunch. It consisted of a jar of salsa and a spoon. I sent her the meanest glare I could muster, (it was all her fault) which probably couldn't have scared off a groundhog.

I hate groundhogs. They scare the crap out of me. I think those things have rabies.

The next day she showed up Miranda, with french braids, and speaking Spanglish.

She ate sugar for lunch. Just sugar. Raw.

She was kind of beautiful, in a really dysfunctional sort of way.