Zach Miller has always been a part of my life. Ever since our mothers were both in the same hospital delivery room. I guess the dads got bored waiting and decided to strike up friendship right there.

My first memory is of Zach when we were about five. He was telling me how he was going to be a football star, and I nodded wisely on, pretending to know what he was saying.

All through elementary school we discovered that Zach was some might call a 'football prodigy'. He was bumped up to 6th grade level football by the time he was 9. I, on the other hand, was worse than a wallflower, I was the wall. I couldn't help but think that it made no sense for him to be my friend, if he was that all. But all that didn't matter, all those years, all that friendship was unimportant in the face of what happened: I moved.

He forgot. Yes, he wrote a few letters that were obviously that work of his mom, but essentially he forgot...and —eventually and essentially— I did too.

Eight Years Later….

I looked up at the high school that was so much bigger than my private, old, familiar one. Laurence High School, I thought, let's get this over with…. I took a very deep breath before walking inside the building I'd have to reside in for two years—excluding the one week in which my family moved back from Massachusetts to Portland, Oregon. I was not, let us say, pleased about the move; my family hadn't lived in Portland since I was nine, Eight years of friends and sleepovers all corrupted. And for what? So that I could see this 'grandmother' who never previously wanted anything to do with us?

"Hi", I conjured a fake smile for the receptionist," My name is Cassandra Bulick, I'm new here and I need my schedule, please."

The old woman smiled, the lines around her eyes creasing as she did, "Well hello Cassandra, I'm Mrs. Rogby. Welcome to Laurence…" She went on to give me my agenda and a (much needed) map of the cavernous school. I thanked her searched for almost exactly twelve minutes to find the wing my locker was located in. Yes, that's right wing.

My locker combo, it appeared, didn't work. I let out a short, frustrated sigh, shifting my weight and flopping one hand on my hip. I bit my lip to keep from screaming. This was most definitely a bad omen, not that I really believed in those things, it just can't be good on your first day of a new high school to have a morning like mine.

I gently rapped my forehead against the cool metal of the locker and closed my eyes. I stepped back and opened my eyes wearily: the locker was open.

...

My calculus teacher had to have had some military experience to be a strict as she was, and it didn't help that she resented me for being 3.876 repeated seconds late (according to Her Mathilness's perfect calculations.)

A few of the girls that populated the school glanced at me repeatedly throughout the class, and the ones following it (History of America, Language Arts and Biology). L.A. was the only one I could stand; the teacher —Mr., Delgado— was laid back and inspiring, much better than my calculus teacher Mrs. (or Ms,) Whatshername. It was after L.A, that one of the girls sizing me up all day walked up to me.

"Hi!", she was a blonde-haired-blue-eyes stereotype, "My name—" Jessica, Jessica, " is Katelyn". Oh so close. She smiled at me before saying " My friends and I were wondering if you would want to join us for lunch?" I was genuinely surprised and caught off guard so my immediate answer was:

"Yes."

Lunch with Katelyn was a thoroughly tedious affair. It turned out all her posse that had made up the 'friends' part of her invitation, were blonde—not that I have anything against the fair-hair population, but come on, it was like a requirement.

From perhaps the exact moment I sat down I was attacked from all sides, defenseless and caught off guard (again).

"Oh my gosh! Is that purse a Kate Spade?"

"Ye—"

"Noooo waaaay! That's a RL original! Were did you get it?!"

"I—

"Eeeek! Are those Christian Dior sunglasses?! Can I try them on?!"

"Well, su—" I think you get the point.

I'm not some spoiled rich kid; I'm just a rich kid. Yeah, my parents have a lot of money on them —but they worked long and hard for it. Sure, my clothes were designer, but did I go off and brag about it? I don't think so, missy. Katelyn herself couldn't control her posse (That had transformed into a pack of designer-starved hyenas), heck she was the ringleader of it all.

"HEY LOOK!" I shouted to be heard, "I HAVE TO GO TO THE BATHROOM SO—"

"Oh, it's over there!"

"Do you want me to come with you?!"

"Can you find it O.K., because I can—!"

"NO, THANK YOU. I CAN FIND IT—BE RIGHT BACK! I, of course, had no intentions of going back.

I practically sprinted out of the cafeteria, causing some pretty freaked-out glances to come my way. Once inside the white halls again I let out a breath, seemingly my first in a few long days. I regained my composure (and my breath) then walked aimlessly out the doors of Laurence High School onto the front lawn. MY stomach growled, reminding me that I'd never gotten to eat lunch. Whatever, I'd live.

I pulled my iPod out of jeans' pocket and pushed back the 'hold' bar and flipped to a random playlist. I crossed my legs Criss-Cross-Apple-Sauce style in the grass with my eyes closed—trying to be anywhere than in the town where my 'grandma' resided, where my 'childhood' crept back at me; I'd thought I'd left this small-town life for good when we moved eight years ago but I guess it's true what they say: the past really does come back to haunt you.

I shut out my mind and tried to hear only the lyrics until they had no meaning and there was nothing in the world but me and the grass beneath my body. That is, until I felt something large and warm on my shoulder.

Zach Miller has always been a part of my life. Ever since our mothers were both in the same hospital delivery room. I guess the dads got bored waiting and decided to strike up friendship right there.

My first memory is of Zach when we were about five. He was telling me how he was going to be a football star, and I nodded wisely on, pretending to know what he was saying.

All through elementary school we discovered that Zach was some might call a 'football prodigy'. He was bumped up to 6th grade level football by the time he was 9. I, on the other hand, was worse than a wallflower, I was the wall. I couldn't help but think that it made no sense for him to be my friend, if he was that all. But all that didn't matter, all those years, all that friendship was unimportant in the face of what happened: I moved.

He forgot. Yes, he wrote a few letters that were obviously that work of his mom, but essentially he forgot...and —eventually and essentially— I did too.

Eight Years Later….

I looked up at the high school that was so much bigger than my private, old, familiar one. Laurence High School, I thought, let's get this over with…. I took a very deep breath before walking inside the building I'd have to reside in for two years—excluding the one week in which my family moved back from Massachusetts to Portland, Oregon. I was not, let us say, pleased about the move; my family hadn't lived in Portland since I was nine, Eight years of friends and sleepovers all corrupted. And for what? So that I could see this 'grandmother' who never previously wanted anything to do with us?

"Hi", I conjured a fake smile for the receptionist," My name is Cassandra Bulick, I'm new here and I need my schedule, please."

The old woman smiled, the lines around her eyes creasing as she did, "Well hello Cassandra, I'm Mrs. Rogby. Welcome to Laurence…" She went on to give me my agenda and a (much needed) map of the cavernous school. I thanked her searched for almost exactly twelve minutes to find the wing my locker was located in. Yes, that's right wing.

My locker combo, it appeared, didn't work. I let out a short, frustrated sigh, shifting my weight and flopping one hand on my hip. I bit my lip to keep from screaming. This was most definitely a bad omen, not that I really believed in those things, it just can't be good on your first day of a new high school to have a morning like mine.

I gently rapped my forehead against the cool metal of the locker and closed my eyes. I stepped back and opened my eyes wearily: the locker was open.

...

My calculus teacher had to have had some military experience to be a strict as she was, and it didn't help that she resented me for being 3.876 repeated seconds late (according to Her Mathilness's perfect calculations.)

A few of the girls that populated the school glanced at me repeatedly throughout the class, and the ones following it (History of America, Language Arts and Biology). L.A. was the only one I could stand; the teacher —Mr., Delgado— was laid back and inspiring, much better than my calculus teacher Mrs. (or Ms,) Whatshername. It was after L.A, that one of the girls sizing me up all day walked up to me.

"Hi!", she was a blonde-haired-blue-eyes stereotype, "My name—" Jessica, Jessica, " is Katelyn". Oh so close. She smiled at me before saying " My friends and I were wondering if you would want to join us for lunch?" I was genuinely surprised and caught off guard so my immediate answer was:

"Yes."

Lunch with Katelyn was a thoroughly tedious affair. It turned out all her posse that had made up the 'friends' part of her invitation, were blonde—not that I have anything against the fair-hair population, but come on, it was like a requirement.

From perhaps the exact moment I sat down I was attacked from all sides, defenseless and caught off guard (again).

"Oh my gosh! Is that purse a Kate Spade?"

"Ye—"

"Noooo waaaay! That's a RL original! Were did you get it?!"

"I—

"Eeeek! Are those Christian Dior sunglasses?! Can I try them on?!"

"Well, su—" I think you get the point.

I'm not some spoiled rich kid; I'm just a rich kid. Yeah, my parents have a lot of money on them —but they worked long and hard for it. Sure, my clothes were designer, but did I go off and brag about it? I don't think so, missy. Katelyn herself couldn't control her posse (That had transformed into a pack of designer-starved hyenas), heck she was the ringleader of it all.

"HEY LOOK!" I shouted to be heard, "I HAVE TO GO TO THE BATHROOM SO—"

"Oh, it's over there!"

"Do you want me to come with you?!"

"Can you find it O.K., because I can—!"

"NO, THANK YOU. I CAN FIND IT—BE RIGHT BACK! I, of course, had no intentions of going back.

I practically sprinted out of the cafeteria, causing some pretty freaked-out glances to come my way. Once inside the white halls again I let out a breath, seemingly my first in a few long days. I regained my composure (and my breath) then walked aimlessly out the doors of Laurence High School onto the front lawn. MY stomach growled, reminding me that I'd never gotten to eat lunch. Whatever, I'd live.

I pulled my iPod out of jeans' pocket and pushed back the 'hold' bar and flipped to a random playlist. I crossed my legs Criss-Cross-Apple-Sauce style in the grass with my eyes closed—trying to be anywhere than in the town where my 'grandma' resided, where my 'childhood' crept back at me; I'd thought I'd left this small-town life for good when we moved eight years ago but I guess it's true what they say: the past really does come back to haunt you.

I shut out my mind and tried to hear only the lyrics until they had no meaning and there was nothing in the world but me and the grass beneath my body. That is, until I felt something large and warm on my shoulder.

I snapped to attention and swiveled around, causing my ear buds to fall out of my ears, the last of my sub-consciousness gone. I was about to snap a stingy comment but forgot how to speak words, let alone witty sentences, when I saw the most gorgeous blue eyes staring right through me.

"Um, Miss—"

"Cassandra"

"Cassandra, the bell rang,"

"Oh." I couldn't think of anything more to say, my speaking ability was less than sufficient right now. "Thank you." I watched him leave before standing up and hurling myself back at reality. A little hope, a little happiness, still glowed inside me like the embers of a put-out fire. Those embers were thoroughly enveloped with water when it hit me: in a school of probably 3,000 people, how was I supposed to find him without his name?

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"Um, Miss—"

"Cassandra"

"Cassandra, the bell rang,"

"Oh." I couldn't think of anything more to say, my speaking ability was less than sufficient right now. "Thank you." I watched him leave before standing up and hurling myself back at reality. A little hope, a little happiness, still glowed inside me like the embers of a put-out fire. Those embers were thoroghly enveloped with water when it hit me: in a school of probably 3,000 people, how was I supposed to find him without his name?

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