Am I hiding in the school library? Yes. It’s the only way to get away from the bullies, I am not very popular at school because I am the “smart kid”. I mean according to all my classmates, I don’t think I am particularly very talented. I don’t draw. I have average grades. I don’t act. Don’t play an instrument. But I am also the teacher’s pet. I get my classmates in trouble. Not on purpose. They just don’t often follow the rules.

I am sure I am coming off really unlikeable right now.

Someone slams their bag onto the table. I hear some rattling in the bag. Turning around, some kid is taking a seat next to me. The library is already pretty empty, he could sit anywhere, beside next to me. What does he have in that bag anyway? It looks heavy. And uninviting. There are several patches, poorly sewn on it. An anarchy symbol. Someone has written on a black piece of fabric slapped on it; Fuck Off.

“Um?” I am not sure what to do in this situation.

He looks at me. His eyes are what I notice first. Gray or are they blue? He stares at me with such intensity. He doesn’t blink and it feels like he’s trying to intimidate me. I admit, it’s working. He looks slightly strungout, and very messy.

He just gestures to the desk, “Are you doin’ homework?” he ask rather lazily.

Looking at my history textbook, “Uh - yes.”

“Good, help me,” he barks.

What?

“The school has a tutor program,” I laugh nervously.

He just gives me an irritated look, “They can suck cocks.”

He scares me. It’s in his mannerisms. He might be shorter than me, but his body posture is very stiff. Like at any moment, he would snap and break my face onto the table. He wears clothes in layers. Despite it being mid summer, we just returned to school, he’s wearing a long sleeve black shirt, with a white t-shirt underneath. Despite being gaunt and skinny as hell, smelling of cigarettes he looks like the type of person who could win a fight.

“I know some of the student tutors,” I begin.

“Blah, blah, I don’t care,” he responds, “I asked for your help. Be a good summary person.”

“Samaritan,”

He looks irritated to be corrected, “You going to help? Or am I going to have to.” he looks at my homework, “and write Adam is a pussy all over the school.”

“We don’t know each other,” I tell him.

“Correction, I don’t know you, well that’s a fuckin’ lie,” he tells me dryly, “You’re Smart Kid 3 of 3. In our history class. Science too. Math as well. English as well. Point fuckin’ bein’ I determined you ain’t as much of a prick as Smart Kid 1 and 2.”

Who is this guy? He pushes his jet black hair out of his eyes. He looks agitated. Like he’s distracted only somewhat. I didn’t know that we shared so many classes together. He looks like trouble. Smells of cigarettes, faintly of weed, and Irish Soap. He taps his fingers on the desk. He is shaking his leg. He actually kind of sort of looks desperate for the help, but in a way that says he’ll punch me in the face if I decline.

“Am I being voluntold or?” I look at him. He looks at me back with a look that says he’s going to slap me.

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“Yeah you kinda ‘re,” he responds, “But whatever. You wanna kiss teacher ass. And act all high ‘n mighty ‘n shit, then let your fellow student sink. That’s fine. I can voluntold you or I can volunannoy you.”

“What’s volunannoy entail?” I ask.

He looks annoyed, he actually stands up so quickly. I raise my hand, but he just begins to grab his stuff, “Fuck you. I’ll just draw you suckin’ one of our teachers' penises or somethin’.”

I kind of prefer he doesn’t.

He kind of reminds me of the kid who gets himself in trouble in class. I think his name is -

-Ian,” I look at him.

I don’t know exactly what I did, but there is actual rage in his eyes right now, “I didn’t give you my fuckin’ name. You haven’t earned the fuckin’ right to call me by my name. We ain’t friends.”

Technically everyone in class and in school kind of knows who Ian is. He’s kind of a troublemaker. He’s scattered and doesn’t make a lot of sense. He acts super irrationally sometimes. One time during a test in History class, he refused to take the test and when the teacher told him to leave the class or take the test, he ripped the test into shreds and sprinkled them in the air. Calling it confetti.

“That makes literally no sense,” I tell him.

He takes a second, turning back just before he was about to flee, “Only people who use my name are the fuckin’ teachers, and the police. Sometimes.”

“Everyone at school knows who you are,”

“Yeah, but my name is like a myth when they speak ‘bout it. Like uh fuck Hercules,”

More like Lucifer.

“I was going to help,” I tell him.

“Wait, for real?” he ask me.

“Yes,” I respond, “Uh.” this is awkward, “My name is Adam. Adam Chambers.”

“I don’t need your full name,” Ian tells me, “Ian.”

Right. He sits back down.

“Pen and paper,” I look at him.

“Yeah,” Ian responds, digging in his backpack. But he’s doing it in a way that intentionally keeps me from looking. He grabs out one of those one dollar notebooks from the dollar store, and seems to lazily flick it open.

I didn’t expect him to be, he notices me looking and quickly flips to an empty page. As if I didn’t see the drawing of a whirring machine in one of the pages. He laid out of the gears. I only caught a glimpse and I can already feel his unblinking gaze, “What chapter?” he ask me.

“You draw,”

“We ain’t friends,”

“That’s how people become friends,” I mutter, “They get to know each other.”

“I didn’t say I wanted a friend,” Ian responds, “I said I needed help with homework.”

Is he always this abrasive?

“Right,” I say, “Uh, chapter 25.”

“Sure,” Ian states, he begins tapping his pen on the table again. He seems agitated.

“We’re learning about how geography shapes human population and migration patterns,” I tell him.

He scoffs.

“Pretty sure itsa lot more to do with killin’ a lot of people, than geography,” he remarks.

“We haven’t really gotten to the killing people part, yet,”

“Sure,” Ian taps his pen on the table, “Can we go outside and do this?”

Outside? I was in the library to avoid the rest of the school. Especially my classmates who think I am a high and mighty prick, actually.

“Why outside?” I ask.

“So, I can smoke,” Ian tells me, “I been in classes all day. Don’t need to spend my lunch in a building where I can’t smoke.”

“You’re not allowed to smoke on campus anyway,”

“Outside,” Ian repeats.

“But,”

Ian looks around the library, “No one's gonna bother you when I am ‘round. Don’t have to worry ‘bout that and if they do - I’ll deal with it.”

Why does that worry me and not reassure me? I cannot believe I am even going to accept going outside with him.

“Okay, I don’t smoke,”

“I don’t givea shit about whether you do or not,” Ian huffs, “People who force others to do the same shit as them are fuckin’ losers anyway. I ain’t like that. I am like a lotta other things. But I ain’t like that.”

I kind of believe him.