I stay in bed long enough to avoid my parents the next morning, which means I’m in a hurry to get to the first class of the day. I’m hastily packing my lunch as Jamie barges into the kitchen.

“So, you’re a thief now?”

“Apparently.” I deadpan, without looking up, continuing to stuff the sandwiches into my bag.

“Why, man?”

I shrug. “What do you care?”

“My crazy little brother got in trouble with the law. Why shouldn’t I care?”

I hate that he calls me crazy. Crazy Ravi. I haven’t been to the shrink in years, and I still carry that stamp. A reminder that I’m not normal. Not like them. That I don’t belong.   

“I’ve got to go to school.” I say, brushing past him to get my bike.

“Ravi… If you ever want to talk…”

“You wouldn’t understand anyway.” I interrupt him, slamming the door behind me. If I ever want to talk. Right. How would that even go? He’d probably ridicule me. And if not, if any part of this was somehow sincere, he'd probably tell me that I should just go play football with my friends, and that will magically make everything better.

Right.

As I get to the school, I already hear the bell sound for the first lesson. I jump off my bike and ditch it in the hedges in one fluent move, turn the lock and start running. I stop, run back, and apply the pepper oil. Then I run back inside. The classroom I need to be in isn’t that far, I can probably still manage to make it in before the door closes.

I can’t. The door is closed when I get there, so I barge in anyway and take my seat.

“You’re late.” Mr. Eisman remarks. The physics teacher shoots me a stern look over his wired glasses.

“I’m sorry.” I say, taking my seat. “I was held up at home.”

He nods at me, then starts his lesson.

I’m happy with Mr. Eisman. He knows I skip classes and parts of the homework, but this man is clearly partial to the philosophy: if it works, it works. And whatever I’ve been doing, my grades are fine, so he’s considering it a success. He never even reports my no-shows. If only all teachers were like that…

I try my best to focus on the lesson. I’m aware that it’s interesting, as the young teacher vivaciously conveys the unravelling of nature in formula. This man just loves science, and it shows. It helps me keep my mind from spiralling.

I’m hoping he’ll go on for the entire lesson. But as per usual, he stops his lecture after not even ten minutes, and instructs us to go through the exercises I already made. Way ahead of you there Mr. Eisman.

As I summon my utmost dedication to work even further ahead, or even do some of the sums I’ve skipped, my mind slips. Back to my parents’ infinite disappointment. Back to Abby.

She hasn’t responded to anything I sent her. And I wish to think it’s her parents doing. But the messages have been left on read. So she knows. She knows how I feel and doesn’t respond, even though I’ve profusely apologised. How can I help that I’m not attracted to her? Is our ten-year friendship suddenly not enough? And if so, she should fucking tell me. Not leave me staring at those fucking blue marks.

And suddenly I’m so angry. Yes I was in the wrong, but damnit Abs, you can’t just blame me for being gay! Can’t you see you’re the only one I’ve got? Don’t you understand that I need you?  

I get out my phone to send her another message, but Mr. Eisman calls me out. Not about the phone, but about an exercise he wants to discuss. I see from the way he looks at me that he noticed the phone, but isn’t saying anything about it. I put it away and answer the question curtly.

It’s enough. I force myself to listen to my classmates answering his questions, and to him answering theirs. Oh my God some of my classmates are idiots. If you don’t get simple math, why on earth did you choose one of the nature profiles?

I clench my teeth and sit though it all until the bell rings. My inner rage has reached peak level by the time we leave the classroom. I get out my phone and start typing as we move like a meek herd towards Mr. Hamers' classroom.

[Abby, please reply. I can’t help it if I’m not into you like that, and I already apologised for not telling you. You can’t throw away ten years of being best friends over a stupid crush.]

I look at the text as I head up the stairs. My anger starts to dissipate. Maybe I’m being unreasonable. Maybe it’s my fault. Maybe…

I slam face-first into someone’s back, dropping my phone on impact as I scramble to find the railing to prevent me from tumbling back down the stairs.

“Watch where you’re going, dickhead.” Jax growls at me as he turns around, his arm steadying Victor whose normally perfect appearance is slightly rumpled after the collision.

“The creep does it on purpose, wants to feel up Vic’s ass.” Justin laughs.

Victor himself doesn’t respond. I know I’m not even worthy of his steely gaze, but Jax’ eyes shoot daggers at me. Homophobes, the lot of them.

I glare back, and clench my teeth. Then turn back to find my already dented phone. It’s not on the step where I’m standing. I look around and can’t see it anywhere. I shoot a menacing look at Justin. The asshole must have taken it. But Justin doesn’t even look my way anymore. He’s already making his way up to the classroom immediately on the right of the staircase. The whole class crowding the door to get in one by one.

I grab his arm.

“Hey shithead. Where’s my phone?” I demand.

He shakes his arm loose like I burned him. “What? How the fuck should I know?”

His reaction seems sincere, so I turn to make my way back down the stairs, hoping to find it there.

“Creep.” The dark boy hisses under his breath.

I run down the stairs, trying to find it. And indeed spot my old battered phone on the stairs a floor-and-a-half down. It must have slipped through the centre. I’m praying it still works.

The fall on the granite steps has made another crack in the screen, but it appears to still be working. My messenger app isn’t open anymore. I try and find it again, only to notice the whole class has already entered the classroom and the bell is ringing.

I run up the stairs and throw myself into the room right before Mr. Hamers can close it in my face. The old fart that teaches Dutch to the senior classes is extremely strict about timely attendance. And about assignments. And about order in the classroom. And about there being one right answer to the interpretation of meaning behind poems, namely his.

This man is the bane of my existence.

“Just in time Mr. Riemersma.” He hisses, as he closes the door behind me.

I take my seat all the way in the back and take out my phone. It doesn’t look good. The section of the screen between the old and the new crack doesn’t really respond to my touch anymore. Lucky for me it’s a small part, but it’s going to be a bitch to use the keyboard properly. Until I get my new phone back from its captivity, I’ll probably have to make do without the Z and the comma.

“Lesson has started. I strongly urge you to put your phones in your bags if you want to stay in this class.” Mr. Hamers demands. He’s looking at me, but from the corner of my eye I see multiple students swiftly putting their phones away.

I stow it down my bag, but as I rummage for my reader and notebook, I can feel it vibrate.

As I get ready for pretending to pay attention to the most boring class of all, I try not to think of what that means.

Did Abby send something? Did she respond to my earlier messages, or have I accidentally sent mine and is she responding to that? Could it be anything else? Can’t be the class group-app, that’s on silent. Can’t be any of my games. None of them have notifications. My parents wouldn’t text me in class. Would Jamie text me in class? Why though? He never texts me period.

I can feel my shin shiver under the nerves. I must know. I wait for a moment in which the grey-haired teacher is scribbling something on the smartboard and stealthily retrieve the phone from my bag.

It’s Abby. I open the app immediately, disregarding my surroundings completely as I hold my breath. My shitty message has been sent. The reply: [Leave me alone].

I stare at the screen, mortified. Blood is drawing from my face, but I can’t tear my eyes away.    

I start typing a message back, but apparently I haven’t noticed Mr. Hamers sneaking up on me before he snatches the phone out of my hand.

“I told you to put the phone in your bag, Ravi. Now it’s confiscated. You can collect it after the 8^th hour.” He starts walking away with my phone. There are ooh-noises from the rest of the class in the background, but I don’t care.

He can’t do this. Not now. I need to make this right. I need to call Abby now. Tonight isn’t good enough. Also, he can’t just confiscate my personal items!

I get up as he makes his way back to the front of the class and shove him as I rip the phone from his hand. “Hands off my property!” I yell at him.

The old teacher steadies himself against a desk and turns to me, eyes wide. I can see the wrath building below the surface, but in this moment he seems stunned with my actions.

I’m not. I’m acutely aware of what I’ve just done, and I make a run for it.

I storm down the stairs to the central hall and find no one chasing me. I call Abby. It doesn’t go through. I try to send messages, but they can’t seem to be delivered. Is her phone off? No. I’d get voicemail. I try and send a text message through SMS-service.

[Your message cannot be delivered]

Holy shit, she blocked me.

Abby blocked me.

Abby blocked me and I just assaulted my teacher.

Fuck, I need to get out of here.

I take my bike out from the hedge. Apparently, Fred hasn’t gotten to moving it yet. A waste of the pepper oil, but otherwise very convenient, since I'm holding on to a mere thread of my sanity right now.

The second I start pedalling, the tears come. Then the sobs and wheezes as I bawl my eyes out while sprinting through the city. I’m home in ten minutes, and don't stop crying all the while.

I slam my bicycle in the garage, and feel relieved that my brother's seems to be gone. I stomp inside, up the stairs and curl under my blankets fully clothed. 

Covered by the duvet, and muffled by my soaked pillow, I scream and cry until I'm completely empty.

 I wish the world would end.