Prologue
Before
The moment I walk through the double doors, I feel like I’m drowning in a sea of noise and confidence. Students are everywhere, greeting each other after a long summer apart.
Cheerleaders talk at each other in excited voices, and football players shout without a care in the world, towering over me in a way that makes me feel even smaller than I already am.
Why don’t they tell you everyone in high school is so tall?
I pull my schedule out of my backpack and scan the page for my assigned locker number, counting them down, as I try to stay out of the way.
I release a breath when I find the right one, but the relief I feel is short-lived.
Because where it should be, between lockers 27 and 29, stands a giant in a football jacket.
He’s big enough to qualify as an actual grown man with strong arms wrapped around a blonde cheerleader, kissing her againstmylocker.
“Um, excuse me?”
They don’t acknowledge me.
I clear my throat and try again, louder this time.
Nothing.
Does kissing stop up your ears?
With no other option, I tap the girl on the shoulder.
She jerks back, her eyebrows shooting up when she sees me. “What? Can’t you see I’m busy?”
She says it likeI’mthe one inconveniencingher.
“Y-yes, sorry.” Both of them are looking at me now, but the guy’s eyes dance with amusement as he leans against my locker. “It’s just—” I point behind them, my voice trembling.
“You’re sort of blocking my locker.”
The cheerleader huffs, but she steps aside, muttering something under her breath that I probably don’t want to hear, while the football player seems to be somewhat apologetic.
“My bad, little man,” he says. “We didn’t see you there.”
I nod, feeling my face burn.
Little man.
My stomach twists at the name, but I grip the strap of my backpack and take a deep breath.
The couple is already walking into the crowd, oblivious to anyone around them.
This is going to be a long year.
I don’t talk much during my classes.
Some of my teachers try to get me to open up, to call on me and ask me questions, but they don’t get that being noticed isn’t always a good thing.
I hate having attention on me. Being perceived.
I know that’s weird, that there must be something wrong with me, but I don’t have the words for what.
