I shook my head to clear it of such blasphemous thoughts. Psh, what's so attractive about this "Bretton", anyway? Yeah, I'll admit he has nice sandy hair and those enviable amber eyes (the ones with golden specks, lucky bastard)… but what kind of reason is that for immediate attraction. He's obnoxious and rude… has horrible taste in clothing. Ugh, I bet he likes rap. What am I thinking anyway? Let's blame it on lust. He probably has a girlfriend, the beautiful blonde with a large chest, but nothing to back it up with. How ridiculous. I bet he gets perfect grades, too. Perfect grades, perfect girlfriend, and overall spamtastic life. With him and his happy little friends, well, what could possibly bring him to my lonely corner of the cafeteria? A dare, most likely. It's disappointing, the situations in which I meet people. Mind you, it's been a long while since some one interesting has approached me. (I confess, I find him interesting.)

Somewhere amidst all this rambling, a guy has approached me and is watching as I stare at the floor, contemplating. (When I say 'contemplating' I mean something more along the lines of 'desperately convincing myself that I am not attracted in anyway to Bretton Sage.) Wow, another guy. 2 in one day. 2 in one year! Next thing you know, I'll be the prom queen. (I've always wanted to dress up in something pink and frilly, then proceed to get gang-banged by the entire football team. It's been a small aspiration of mine for years.) Slowly, I force my black-rimmed eyes to meet his, also black-rimmed, eyes. "Pardon?" I begin, not entirely sure of how to start.

His gray-blue eyes look back at me with some sort of awe. I am just loving the effect I have on guys. He nods, oh-so-debonair. "Iris," he starts, matter-of-factly, "I'm Felix Weilf."

"Congratulations," I cock my head and smile pleasantly, "Now, if you don't mind, I have a class to skip and a hallway pass to forge." That's a bluff. I never skip. I take a step away from the wall I'd been leaning on and start off. At least, that's what I attempt to do. There seems to be a pale forearm in my way. Why do I feel like I'm about to be raped, dark alley style?

"Hold on." His silvery-blue eyes bore into mine as we stare at each other. He, commanding; I, indignant and getting pretty pissed. I try to speak, but there aren't any words. I'm not used to being held back.

After the seconds of intense wanna-beat-your-ass-down eye contact, he starts up again. "So… you're Iris Matthews? You have a small following underground, you know."

2 things popped into my head.

1. I have a cult, that's funny. In addition to incredibly creepy.

2. We live in such a small town, 'underground' consists of 4 outcasts watching old episodes of Clerks in the basement.

Since I can't put those into adequately insulting/witty words, I simply say, "Gee, that's… creepy. Thanks for informing me. Now I can rest easy, knowing acne-ridden teenage boys are thinking of me while they fondle themselves at night. I'll be going now."

Once again, I find myself confronting a forearm. "You know, that's a leetle bit irritating. Kind of makes me want to amputate limbs. Won't that be fun for the ole baby maker?"

He smirked. I feel yet more uncomfortable. "Okay, let's cut through all the bullshit. Iris, I've admired you from afar"—asdfghjkl;!—"and, well, it'd be interesting to get to know you. You seem fascinating." I've been dreading these words since the middle of last summer—"want to hang out?"

It's funny. Usually "hang out" sounds so childish and not "hip" at all, but coming from Felix's cool, low voice, well… rawr. How could I resist? No; wait. You don't know how impossible it was. Felix, 6'1", 9th grade, almost as pale as me, but with better complexion. Straight dark brown hair, but looked as if it had never seen hairdye or gel. Like Stuart Townsend ala Queen of the Damned, but younger, less pale, and no Aaliyah.

He took my stunned silence as a yes, or perhaps it was how I was staring at his frayed black shirt, which advertised Atreyu, no less. Grinning, he took my hand and we walked out the front doors.

Actually skipping class was kind of exhilarating. I don't look it, but underneath all the black clothes and eyeliner, I'm a teacher's pet. I do all my work, do it well, hand it in on time. I don't skip (though I do tend to wander in late), no matter how much I bluff about it. When you have no friends, you at least have time. And good grades.