If I could describe my life currently, it would smell like bleached hallways, rusted iron hinges and Gatorade. I contemplate this as I stare out into the prestigious main hallway of Brightdale High sprawled out before me in all its glory, desecrated by 683 mouth breathing hormone raging teenagers.

BANG! Startled, a loud crash brings me out of rumination.

Brandon Myers the local head Neanderthal lifted a wiry bespectacled kid up by his flannel shirt striking him against the metal locker, his breath misting on the thick-framed glasses.

I queried my Deck and a turquoise screen shone Friday 7.18am CAT 12°C 12th January 2178. The day was still early, the morning chill not yet retreating in the face of the rising sun.

A smattering of students in sportswear sprinkled the hall, a few heads turned, but on witnessing the scene returned to their conversations with practiced nonchalance. The usual suspects were around, those with morning club activities both athletic and otherwise.

The situation looked cliched, comical even and combined with the fact that Brandon looked like a cross between Conan the Barbarian and Robert Stark only served to reinforce this notion.

There Brandon stood, easily six feet tall at the age of 17, perfectly chiseled Aryan features, sea blue eyes, a curly golden mop and rippling muscles towering over the poor kid almost a foot shorter than him. Strangely he smelled of gold, overripe grape and faintly of burnt matchsticks.

"Hey, Ernest. You know I have 5th-period math and I seem to have misplaced my homework. Now, I suspect it's somewhere in your Deck? You wouldn't want me to have to peruse it myself now, would you?" Brandon drawled.

Apparently, he was a high functioning Neanderthal capable of using multiple multisyllabic words and veiled threats which still didn’t prevent him from being too lazy to complete his damn assignment.

"nnn.. nno nneed Brandon, it's here! Right here! Sorry, I must have accidentally taken it… haha... sorry again" Ernest stammered out while erratically swiping at his Deck, still visibly shaken with his encounter with the genetic superior of his species. It's probably one of those primal instincts that convinces gazelles to crap themselves and run when they smell a lioness downwind and he smelled of it too, reeking of burnt drywood and spilt milk.

Colorful screens reflected off Ernest’s glasses as he flipped through his Deck ending with a Ding!

Confirming receipt, Brandon's eyes scanned his Deck before returning to Ernest with a smile.

“We all make mistakes, Ernest. It’s only when we learn from our mistakes can we better ourselves” Brandon preaches as he smoothes out Ernest’s collar. Homework secured, Brandon turned on his heel and departed.

Now, you might be wondering where I fit into this cliche-esque picture of a high school teen drama. See look here shadowing Brandon on both sides are Drake and Jake, looking as impressively unevolved as their names imply.

Nope, I am neither of the two.

Now the pan out happens as Brandon strolls down the hallway towards the camera. A gaggle of varsity jersey wearing athletes forms up behind him.

Look to the left, far left, see that brown kid in varsity leathers, smiling with his perfect white teeth, clearly put in this scene to fulfill some state-mandated social diversity quota. Yep, you got it right that’s me, I’m...

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"Hey Kumar, you see that shit! Four eyes totally wet himself! What a pussy!" Drake lieutenant of the left wing of Brandon’s entourage blustered; clearly, he wasn’t as literarily gifted as his superior.

"It's Rajan you bigoted oaf! He's been in the same class as you since P3, how are you still Fucking his name up?" my closest friend Ethan Roderick III slapped the back of Drake's head, his voice thickly laced with a Northumberland accent.

Despite never actually having lived in Northumbria, Ethan’s accent was a product of his parent’s tutelage in their efforts, as he calls it ‘to rise above the rabble’, forget the fact that they were living in one of the wealthiest Hex on one of the wealthiest Spheres.

"Now, now, Ethan. We really shouldn’t reprimand Drake here, but should applaud his capability to target the correct socio-geographical region when addressing me.” I reprimanded with a faux British accent, mirth playfully evident in my voice as my brown eyes twinkled.

“Ah, Yes. I do apologize, Drake, that specific feat must have been very taxing on your faculties” Ethan chimed in, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. Snickering echoed from around us.

"Yeah dude, don’t be a tight ass..." Drake furrowed brows displaying his confusion but had the decency to look ashamed as he rubbed his sore head sulking.

No longer interested in wares we were peddling he turned his attention to Jake, probably to discuss protein shake or the latest issues of Swimsuit Illustrated as they were want to do.

"While that was amusing mate, it's because you do shit like this racist pricks like him don’t learn!" Ethan’s hazel eyes admonished me before returning to preen his blue and yellow varsity jacket.

Ethan was such a prim, despite his best efforts to rail against his parent's teachings. Him joining the Varsity track was his one and only act of rebellion. They much prefered the debate club.

He stood 5 feet 7 inches with perfectly styled ginger hair into a side part with shaved sides. Striking hazel eyes and freckled cheeks were, unfortunately, the only remarkable feature of his very forgettable face. He had a lean frame but one belied his muscles rather than looking emaciated. This all came complete with a button down white bespoke shirt and pleated cream trousers held together with a brown leather belt that tapered just above a pair of dark brown custom fitted Crockett & Jones. As a whole in spite of his rather average features he looked like he just walked out of the cover of an issue of GQ.

I merely smiled at him and continued walking down the hall.

Now don't get me wrong, I'm all for racial equality and all that, but I've found really early on, from a childhood growing up with chocolate brown skin in a predominantly white community that it's much better to make fun of yourself and laugh with everybody at you, than just be made the butt of the joke.

Growing up surrounded by the Drakes of the world have taught me to survive rather than lash out and be hurt in return.

My father would be proud I thought snidely. I remembered when I was 8 and got a fat lip for socking Dennis Royer in the nose after he called me Chocolate Milk for the umpteenth time.

He sat me down in his study and sagely said ‘Engage people with what they expect. It is what they are able to discern and confirms their projections. It settles them into predictable patterns of response, occupying their minds while you wait for the extraordinary moment; that which they cannot anticipate, then you CRUSH their balls.’

I mean, what the fuck was an 8-year-old kid going to do with a doctored Sun Tzu quote, but I deified my father then and had AiirA put it up on the Holo in my room… for 9 straight years. Alright, it was a pretty awesome quote.

Suddenly, the piercing tangy smell of citrus hit me!

I turned around and saw Ernest glaring at our backs; my back specifically, with envy in his eyes. When our eyes met he looked away but the odor lingered in the air. He still stood leaning against the locker, clothes slightly ruffled from the earlier encounter but none worse for wear.

Why me specifically I couldn’t fathom. Perhaps it was due to my acceptance in Brandon’s clique despite being perceived as an outsider, perhaps it was due to me not standing up for him or maybe he was just jealous of my pearly white teeth. I couldn’t blame him after all, I take dental hygiene very seriously.

I sighed turning away from Ernest, my footsteps feeling heavier as they echo against the halls following in Brandon's steps and I silently thought ‘The grass is always greener Ernest, but you have to eat shit just the same.’