Okay, so some sick asshole is getting their kicks by flaming people using my name. I have no idea why. I'm really sorry if "I" flamed you; I would never say anything like that. If you see one, could you let me know? I want to apologize; I don't want to cause any drama or anything.


There's a new student at our school. His name is Tyler. He's in my English class and my biology class. We haven't spoken.

He's also in my lunch period. Our school doesn't like us where it can't see us, so we all have to eat lunch in the cafeteria. That used to bother me, that we are the only high school seniors in the country who can't leave campus for lunch, but I like it now. It makes it easier on new kids like Tyler, who don't know where to go for lunch, let alone anyone to go with. What could he do? He could wander aimlessly around town, go home, or tag along with some group and feel pathetic. It's just easier to sit a table in the cafeteria with someone you don't know well.

I guess staying in school for lunch makes it easier on outcasts like me, too.

It's funny, I haven't shared two words with Tyler in the week he's been here, but I've got him all figured out, and I know he's got me all figured out, too. He's been sitting with Ally Herzog, and Jake Loeman, and Nick Gorgiano—the type of people who go out of their way to befriend new people—at lunch, but he doesn't belong with them; he belongs with Maria Ivanovich and Dylan Madley and their crowd, the stoners. He'll find his way to them eventually.

I know that he knows where I belong—I don't. I've been sitting with Greg Matthews, the emo kid in skinny jeans and eye makeup—you know the type—but it's obvious that we don't belong together. In fact, it's only recently that we stopped hating each other.

Actually, I never hated him, though I know he wouldn't believe me if I told him so. I didn't like him, but I didn't hate him.

He hated me, though, and I don't blame him; I deserved to be hated. He doesn't hate me anymore, I don't think he's quite capable of hating someone as pathetic as I am now, but we're not exactly friends. I respect him and he tolerates me. That's about as far as our relationship goes.

That being, Greg Matthews is the closest thing I have to a friend. That's kind of sad. Not that Greg isn't a good guy, but he can just barely stand my company. I should probably have better friends than that.

Anyway, Tyler can tell where I belong—again, I don't—without ever speaking one word to me, but I bet he can't tell why. When he walked into my English classroom four days ago and looked around, sizing everybody up, he probably had me figured for a jock. I used to be the second string striker on the varsity soccer team, and I guess I still look the part. I'm in shape in that way that soccer players are, I wear baggy nylon shorts, I'm blandly attractive. I may have quit the team, but you wouldn't guess it if you just looked at me.

If he really wanted to know what happened to me, he could talk to Jordan Kirshenbaum, left fullback. I'm sure he'd be all too happy to tell stories about me behind my back. He was once my best friend. Yeah, I was friends with him for a long time. Maybe he wouldn't admit to that part. But we were. I had his back and he had mine. Now all I have is an emo kid whose life I tried my best to ruin not so long ago.

But Jordan doesn't know the whole story. He can't know it. He can't understand my part of the story. I would say that no one can, but Greg does. I've probably talked more to Greg in the last two weeks than I have to Jordan in the past nine years. And you know what's really sad? Greg Matthews knows me better than anyone else has in my whole life.

He's the only one besides me who knows my whole story. And now you, too, I guess. If you want. What do I have to lose?


A/N: What? Me, writing something? And not a oneshot? What is this?

Ugh. I need a new title. Help me come up with a new title.