"Attar, what's that you're doing on the desk?" Asked Mrs. Tightass- er, Smith. The whole class turned to stare at the offender, who merely pressed his palm down over top of his pencil on his desk and stared blankly at Mrs. Smith's feet. "Kyle? I'm waiting for your answer."

Kyle sucked in air, and felt the stupid sputter in his throat as a grunt tumbled down his chin and landed splat on his desk in front of him, useless. Now Mrs. Smite was getting impatient, and you could tell from how high her eyebrow was going and the severeness of the wrinkles around her grimace. Her nostrils appeared more..."flarey" than usual. Everyone in class was quickly getting bored of Kyle be an ass again and mumbling began to egg on Mrs. Teacher even more.

"I expect a response or I'll have to give you a referral." Strangely Kyle took this moment to contemplate how in fact the word 'referral' in of itself was not necessarily negative sounding. In fact, it almost seemed like a good thing, as in, 'I referred you to so and so.' But in this case, he already knew all too well that it was not the case, and Mrs. Shitty was making a serious threat to the probability of Kyle passing his junior year.

"I-I..." Kyle chocked out, only having so much trouble because he was put on the spot, and his anxiety was pinching his tongue with it's sharp nails and staring him in the eye, daring him to speak up and make an idiot of himself, more so than already, or usual.

"Fucking tard." Some guy in the back muttered, received by an orchestra of, fairly unnecessary, thank you very much, snickering. Kyle cleared his throat quickly and punched his anxiety in the proverbial gut, accumulating his 'whatever' face.

"I was just marking something randomly on the desk, just because I was distracted and I absently did it, not on purpose, of course, but because I need to do something with my hands, and I just did that, stupidly, but whatever." Kyle pulled off, perfectly, in his opinion, a very satisfactory performance which he was sure would distract everyone in the classroom from his initial freeze and definitely cover up and preconceived ideas of his character or behavior, in Mrs. Smuths case.

Mrs. Smoten gestured for him to move his hand and reveal his creation. He did so with a look of very-well-hidden reproach, and shocked the world with it's quality. It was, in fact, one of Kyle's iconic depictions of a classic wood elf, complete with pointy ears, eyes, chin and nose. It was not a very good drawing. In fact, it was hardly distinguishable, and up-side down, Mrs. Smitties perceived that it was only a set of lines sometimes intersecting, and did not realize, in fact, that this awfully drawn creature was the "tag" that was completely and irrefutably, Kyle's.

So, she scolds him only and tells him to clean it off with a cleanex, followed by a far-too-long speech about keeping desks clean of pencil markings or carvings, and then going on yet another rant about how a previous, unnamed, of course, student of hers had once had the gall to carve his entire desk with a pocket knife, and the ensuing discourse of the whole situation.The woman tortures the class with her complaining until at very, thankfully, last, the bell wrung, and all the pimple-studded and hormone-ridden children rose in unison and trampled out of the room into the throe of other grouchy, mostly bitchy, teens running back and forth in a menacing Highway.

Kyle, who was much more a thoughtful thinker, and also cared so little about the instated system that he never, ever, rushed out the room, slowly assembled his things to put them away in his bag, radiating, he hoped, an aura of disinterest, so that he would, hopefully, not be approached by the horrid Mrs. Smut, who very much resembled a Popsicle stick with hair, a dress, and a past with cupcakes, that resulted in most of her skin hanging off her bones. When he was finished he captured his signature pose, shoving his hands in his pants pockets and demonstrating a perfect use of bad posture, while grimacing at the world for being unjust and, obviously, way too cruel to him. He made his way through the giraffes and mice of his peers to his cold, metal cell which he often stored things in. He cracked his knuckles, in preparation, but then also cracked his neck and back, because everyone knows once you start doing that, it is almost irresistible to stop. Finished punishing his skeleton, he rolled the lock around in his delicate fingers, which were recently manicured, and painted, rather well inside the lines, he thought, a charming shade of black.

He sighed as his pushed up on the locking mechanism and it didn't give, meaning he'd have to redo the process yet again. Little trivialities such are these are what make his days cancer year round. In the end it took him three times to get the damn thing open, and cost him a chip on his forefinger nail. He scowled bitterly into the mirror on the inside of the door, making sure that his eyeliner hadn't smudged any. He dropped his books off at the bottom of the locker, which today smelled of sweaty cheese, because on Wednesdays the guy with the locker to his right had football practice and loved to leave his gym bag there over night. Thank god for cologne. He snatched up his sketch book and slammed his locker door shut, treasuring the rattle that made a part of his brain worry if he'd broken it this time. He sighed in disappointment when it hadn't.

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

Kyle's next class was art I, and that was at the other side of the building, and he had one minute to get there. He had no trouble walking down the hall now that most of the students were in class. When he finally reached the art room, he was a minute late. Not that he cared in the slightest, though, because despite his anxiety about being on time, Mr. Jones was not the kind to catch on to the fact that a single student was late to his 5th period class every day. He was pushing on 80, or there about, and hardly noticed when he himself was in class, let alone any of his students. Today, however, was different. When Kyle walked into the room, he wasn't welcomed by the usual mind numbing chatter of the freshmen, who made up the majority of the art I class, but rather by complete, uncomfortable silence. He surveyed the black high top tables, of which there were 7 or 8 of, and saw each pair of students was sat still and all their eyes directed to the front of the room. As Kyle slow walked to the back where his desk sat, so as to avoid attention, because high-schoolers are like dinosaurs, he too found himself staring at the front of the room, where the most striking girl stood by her lonesome.

Mr. Jones, after a minute, stirred out of his half-slumber, and resettled his spectacles at the top of his nose, where they would restart their journey to the bottom. He cleared his throat in a genteel way that always made Kyle feel like he was in the 40s, and moved to stand up, in his hunched over way. He smiled and walked over to meet the solitary figure that had somehow captured the complete attention of his classroom, which had possibly never happened for him.

"Hello!" he greeted in his shaky voice, always with a hint of mirth. "You must be the new student, Ms., uh, Lundberg, was it?" She said nothing, but stared at his face blankly. After a full second she lifted her chin ever so slightly, and in a deep feminine tenor said,

"Which seat is mine?"

Jones chuckled his grandfatherly laugh and then coughed up some phlegm, from the effort. 

"Ah, yes, yes, of course. Let's see." He said before setting his spectacles on top his nose yet again. He hummed as he scanned the room, and at that moment Kyle realized what every other person in the room must have realized. The only stool left was the empty one at his table.

'Why me?' He bemoaned in his head. As Mr. Jones pointed to his table he took a moment to observe the Lundberg girl. Her hair was the palest yellow, like wheat, and an absolute rat's nest which fell all the way down to her waist. Kyle wasn't a fan of long hair and could already see the stray hairs on her clothes. 'That'll be me soon.' He thought. Her face was caught somewhere between a sneer and an uninterested grimace, and she wore a deep plum denim jacket with studs on it and some kind of obscure band T-shirt underneath. Her jeans were torn, black and very tight. Almost too tight that Kyle had to glance away and remind himself not to objectify women, that is, until he took another peek to check out the curve of her thighs. Right before she sat down he had a sudden strike of anxiety, and imagined her making fun of his sloppy fantasy cartoons that were in his sketchbook, which was laying open on the table. With a sudden movement he slammed it shut, resounding an alarming slap. Most people turned to look, and he turned away so that the girl wouldn't be able to see his embarrassment. He heard her sit down beside him, and so he turned slightly to glance at her face. He was alarmed to make instant eye contact with her, and in the fashion that most people have when making eye contact with complete strangers, he looked away. But, unlike normal, she did not. He could feel her eyes scrutinizing his clothes and his things, which was far worse than just looking at each other. His brain panicked. 'Do I look like a boy to her?' he questioned himself. 'Was the eyeliner a bad choice today?' He dug his fingernails into his palm.

"Hey." Kyle blinked in surprise and looked over at her as she spoke to him. "Can I look through your sketchbook?" Kyle gaped and then quickly reviewed what was in it, trying to recall anything that he might not want someone to see.

"I, uh, am not very good at drawing."He responded instead. Which was true. Too true.

"That's not what I asked you."She answered, leaning forwards on her elbows. "I asked if I could look through it?"Kyle rubbed his arm anxiously and then shrugged.

"Well, uh, I guess so."And he handed it over to her. She looked mildly pleased to have it in her hands and went through each page slowly, examining each closely. The room was already back up to a dull murmur which was already crescendoing. Clearly the class had gotten their fill of the new girl, and as soon as she was out of sight, she was out of mind. But Kyle wasn't quite satisfied yet. While she was distracted with his drawings, Kyle took the chance to study her face closely. Maybe he was wrong; it wasn't a scowl on her face, but rather a lack of concern, as if she was completely comfortable with herself and doesn't worry a bit about what others think of it. It must have thrown him off, because most people feel anxious when they move to a new environment. He supposed that this girl was just different from most people.

Then a question wriggled into his mind; one that surely everyone else had already wondered. 'Why is this girl here?' It was mid-winter, so it would have had to have been because her family was transferred or something along those lines. 'Or something worse.' Kyle thought. He took in the way her bushy, unkempt eyebrows sat at a certain angle, and the slight bruising he could only now see around her right eye, as well as the dryness of her lips which might have recently been split. 'Probably something worse.' He concluded.

"These are really cool." Kyle turned to look a her completely. For some reason her eyes seemed shinier. 

"T-thanks." He laughed awkwardly. "No one has ever told me that before, actually."

"What's your name?" She asked this time.

"Oh, it's, uh, Kyle Attar. And before you ask, my family is from Iran." 

"Hm, well, I wasn't going to. I don't really care where you're from or anything." She had on this expression which both discouraged him to answer and intrigued him to ask about her. "But I do like your art. I think that stuff is pretty cool and all. Better than real life anyway."

Kyle laughed. "Well, you say that, but I bet you wouldn't if you met a Nazgul." He coughed awkwardly at his own nerdiness. "So, um, what was your name?" He asked, looking up through his black fringe.

"It's Micki." She looked up and away like there was something she could see that he couldn't. "And before you ask, I'm not going to tell you what I've done. So don't ask." Then she turned and looked him right in the eyes, revealing a bright blue. "That's a secret." Then she did something he never would have guessed she would do.

She winked.

The bell rang shortly after and Micki left without another word, only a small smirk in his direction as she walked past him, with her curtain of hair trailing behind her. He was so proud that he got her name, and intrigued by her secrets that he barely realized he knew almost nothing else about her. So his day up until that point had been cancer, but now there was something new, something interesting, and it might just be the adventure he had always been waiting to go on.