You Never Know

1 CARTER

It’s just another day in Hell, right? Just another day of running around and never having time to look forward to anything.

As usual, I barely had time to get out the door and to school on time.

I rushed down the stairs pulling my jacket on, grabbed the toast my mom handed me on the fly, yelled an absent-minded thank you to her, and slammed the front door on my way out. I still looked ragged as I made it to my seat on the school bus since I ran the whole way.

Yes, I am a senior who still rides the bus to school. What do they call us?

Oh, yes. Losers.

It’s just one of many qualities I have that painted the Loser portrait. Really, I have many.

So many.

Let me count the ways.

Economically challenged? Check.-

Socially awkward pariah? Check.

Objectively ordinary-looking? Double check!

More mentally exceptional than all these imbeciles around here? Oh my dear heavens...CHECK!

I realize my lack of concealing, maybe even flaunting, my intelligence is a huge factor in why I am a social pariah. Nobody likes to be around a know-it-all who knows he knows it all.

I don’t even associate with the other losers on the bus. Somehow, they are still considered more respectable companions than myself, which is fine with me. I accepted and adhered to the school transport hierarchy too.

Believe it or not, the school bus seating expectation was just as cliquish as the cafeteria.

The front of the bus was for the little kids. This was mostly so the driver could keep a watchful eye on them, making sure that they behaved and that the upper classmen didn’t mess with or influence them.

The back of the bus was for the cool kids. And when I say “cool,” I mean as cool as the D&D group and the kids that know magic could be.

And then there’s the middle of the bus. No Man’s Land. Outcastville. My domain. I’m not even pull-a- quarter-from-behind-your-ear cool. I didn’t have a group of individuals with the same lame hobby with which to share my loneliness.

I was singular in my despair. As alone as it gets.

Again, this was the way I preferred it.

This was my last year here. This time next year, I’ll be at the university of my choice, getting my golden ticket to a life none of these small town simpletons could ever obtain.

They’ll just be blips on my story to success. Names and faces I’ll never remember.

Yes, I was that confident. I’m a loser now, but every person here will one day wish they had been nice to me.

Again, this is probably a huge reason I was not liked. I didn’t try to be liked, though. Frankly, I didn’t care.

The bus casually pulled up to our illustrious – eye roll – high school. Now was the time of day where I attempted to appear my most hurried and occupied. In a hurry to avoid attention.

I only managed two expeditious steps into my journey from the bus door toward the school.

“Hey, Caaaarterrrrr!”

Damn, it didn’t work today. Or most other days.

I didn’t let this almost daily annoyance falter my progression. But, dadgum, he’s persistent.

“Carter! I know your scrawny ass hears me!”

Dillon Day. Star quarterback and big man on campus. Of course, it’s easy to be the big fish in a small pond, but neither he nor the rest of the town saw it that way.

He lead the rest of the neanderthals in shoulder pads to victory on a fairly regular basis so he got to do what he wanted and who he wanted. Everyone bowed to his very visage. Both city officials, shop owners, and the general female population gave him whatever he wanted.

I’ve seen him get free beer, despite being underage, at the convenience store. He definitely got out of speeding tickets and was let go from busted parties because the cops turned a blind eye. He has sampled every girl in town that passed his low standards. Hell, he’s even had most of the cougars in the area, married or not.

His dad owns the largest car dealership in the county so his name carried even more credit that the pigskin alone could provide. His future won’t likely be a football career, but it is guaranteed to be as big as this limited area can provide.

And I’m the only human being within a fifty mile radius who didn’t prostrate myself in front of him. And old Dillon Day hated it. Hated it to the point where he made it his mission every time he saw me to “make an example out of me.”

So far, it hadn’t worked. He taunted me when he saw me in front of the school, like now. He pushed or tripped me when he passed me in the halls between classes. He tortured me when he happened to find me in the gym or locker room. And he teased me in the only class we shared.

Chemistry. First period. Home room.

Basically, I thought he just wanted me to acknowledge his existence since I’m the only one who didn’t. But I hardly gave anyone that courtesy, so why would I give him the satisfaction?

He wasn’t usually alone in his Carter crucifixion. He had plenty of minions who thought my anguish was just as hysterical as Dillon did. If they weren’t actively aiding him, they were egging him on by telling him how funny or great his antics were.

It didn’t matter how lame or unoriginal it actually was, they would think it was the greatest thing ever.

One more year. One more year and I could leave these assholes behind for good.

Until then, it was the same old crap every single day. Ignore and evade.

I made it into the building without another shout out from good old Dillon. It wouldn’t last, though. It would likely compound and I would “suffer the consequences” later.

So be it.

I rushed into Chemistry class and sat at the lab table in the back corner. I quickly opened my book and started to look busy before others started shuffling in.

Students normally have a lab partner and sit with them throughout the year. This class, however, had an odd number of students. Mrs. Henson, the science teacher for this course and Biology, which I’ve already taken, knew from experience that I was the student to go solo.

She knew two things. I preferred to do projects alone anyway so nobody messed it up. And I just preferred to be alone. Period.

Okay, okay. I’m smart enough to know it had more to do with the fear of rejection. I knew I was a loser, as I’ve stated before. I also don’t have much experience making friends so I just didn’t try.

If I tried, it would likely be the only thing at which I was a failure.

Dillon and one of his football lackeys entered the room and slid into their lab seats. You would think that they would share a table, but they actually used a few brain cells in this situation. Each one found a smart girl they could manipulate to do most of the work for them.

Dillon partnered with Stacey, one of the few smart students here. Her GPA isn’t as high as mine, but it was still impressive to watch her dedication in class. It’s a damn shame Stacey was letting him take advantage of her.

From the table behind them, I watched Stacey slide a folder of homework under the tabletop to Dillon. In return, I saw his hand slide over to cover her thigh and slide her pleated skirt up. I saw pink cotton panties so I knew his fingers were doing things they shouldn’t.

This was not your standard quid pro quo.

Stacey didn’t seem to mind, though. Not. At. All.

On the contrary, she instead opened her thighs wider to give him more access and started twirling her red ringlets around her pencil. Her head tilted to the side so she could watch him through her slightly hooded eyes behind her over-sized glasses.

Dillon, however, did not look her way. He did not need to. He knew he had her wound up.

He continued looking around and talking with others. Another smart move, really. That way, nobody would be wise to the fact that he was about to make one of the most innocent girls in school have an orgasm in first period.

Disgusting, really.

As much as I tried to ignore them, I could tell things were starting to reach a fevered pitch when Mrs. Henson entered the room with what appeared to be a new student in tow. Stacey bit down on her pencil, about to bite it in half in a weak attempt to stay silent and still.

The new student, obviously female, stood profile to the class, and payed attention only to Mrs. Henson and the shuffling she was doing at her teacher station. This girl stood stiffly, squeezing her notebook to her chest, as if it was her only protection.

I couldn’t see her face because her chestnut brown hair came just past her shoulders, and, therefor, blocked her face from the side view.

It didn’t matter. No matter who she was or what she looked like, I’m annoyed already.

This means she was going to be my lab partner and sit with me. I would no longer be self-sufficient. I would have to take someone else into consideration. I did not have the patience for this.

On top of all that, I had several months of rejection to fear.

What if we didn’t get along? Likely.

What if I couldn’t even talk to her? Very Likely.

What if we started to get along and then Dillon stole all her attention, whether he tried to or not? Extremely likely!

As my morning started to spiral out of control, Mrs. Henson started to speak, drawing me back a bit from my cliff of anxiety.

“Okay, Annie.”

Annie. Her name was Annie.

“That seems to be everything,” she finished handing Annie paperwork. “Just take the last available seat back there next to Carter. He’ll be your lab partner for the remainder of the school year.”

That’s it. The moment of truth was upon me. Was I as repugnant as I’ve always been led to believe?

As I was about to jump off the anxiety cliff into the despair rapids below, Annie turned to face the class.

Dillon jerked his wandering hand away from Stacey’s mounting pleasure as soon as he spotted Annie’s stunning face. Stacey’s pencil dropped and she whined in not-so-quiet protest. She must have almost reached the finish line and felt jilted instantly.

The only other sound in the room was the collective gulp from the testosterone collective, including myself.

I didn’t stand a chance.