I’m lying on my bed, a crumpled blue blanket covering me. When the alarm rings, I slam my hand on top of it.

“Charles!”

I whip my head around. Leora’s running down the hall, her shoes squeaking along the floor.

“Your–your hair,” I stammer. It looks like she grabbed a pair of scissors and cut every strand of hair in sight.  But, honestly, it looks good. And, by looking at her enormous grin, she likes it. If she’s happy, I’m happy. 

“I cut it,” she says, laughing. 

“It looks nice,” I tell her. 

“Really?”

“Just kidding, you still look like a donkey.”

“Shut up, fat pig,” she yells and shoves me into the locker.

We laugh.

My alarm rings. I slam my hand on top of it. 

I hate my life, I think and roll out of bed.

“Nice hoodie,” a guy with a red shirt says. He’s got his arm draped around Leora like she’s his prized possession. Like she’s his. Like they’re together. 

They will break up, I tell myself. I know they won’t last.

They say if you keep telling yourself something over and over, you’ll eventually believe it. So why do I still feel so uneasy every time I walk by them? 

“I said, “NICE HOODIE”,”  the guy shouts and the hallway goes quiet. 

I glance down at my hoodie–there’s nothing wrong. It’s dark green with a cat on the front, a really fat cat. Maybe that’s what he’s making fun of. Maybe it’s the cat. 

I flush the toilet. When I stand up, I catch the reflection of my back in the mirror. The word, “ASSHOLE”  is written in black sharpie.

My alarm rings.

I shove my head under my pillow.

My alarm keeps ringing.

I slam my hand on top of it; the table wobbles. 

“NO ONE LIKES YOU!”

A shower of spit hits my face. I feel a hand shove my head into a locker; my ears ring with gales of laughter.

My alarm rings. 

“Jesus Christ,” I gasp and throw off the covers–it’s way too hot in here. 

I run my hands through my hair, my mind racing. 

What the fuck just happened?

“Bad dream?” a voice asks. “Or, memory, rather.”

I scream as a very calm Emery says, “Hold your horses, it’s just me.”

“Why are you awake at”–I grab her phone off of the table–“three-oh-seven?”

“Same reason as you,” she replies. “Window?”

I nod. 

Emery being nice. Emery opening her window not trying to drown my voice out. Hm. I guess there really is a first time for everything. 

Emery sits back down, and I feel like she’s about to say something. She looks at me, her eyes neither sad nor happy. Wishful, maybe. 

She holds out her hand, her eyes drifting to the phone. 

“Oh,” I say and plop it into her hand.

A while later, someone knocks at our door.