I got into an accident two years ago.

It was stupid, but hear me out.

I was riding my bike on the way to school when a cat darted across the road. I swerved to avoid it and ended up falling into a ditch, breaking both my arm and leg. It’s the kind of scenario you only see in comedy skits, but it happened to me for real. And nothing about it was funny.

Five months in the hospital. A year and a half of physical therapy. All those precious youthful days wasted. I didn’t even have friends to cheer me on because, just my luck, that accident happened on the very first day of high school. I was supposed to be a freshman. And now, two years later, guess what…

I’m still a freshman.

“Oh my gosh, we’re in the same class!” a girl squealed as I walked past the lockers with her friends.

Ashthorne High School was packed. It was the first day of school, and everyone was buzzing. What class are you in? Who are your classmates? Who’s going to be our homeroom teacher? The whole place was filled with excitement, which, to me, felt pointless.

I turned sixteen a couple of months ago. I didn’t care what class I’d land in because I already knew I’d be the oldest one there. Being surrounded by fourteen and fifteen-year-olds wasn’t exciting, as some weirdos might think. It was a nightmare. None of this would’ve been my problem if it weren’t for that stupid cat.

But there was a time… a time when I was beaming with the same excitement. I was ready to make friends, join a club, and finally be a high school student. Walking through these halls used to be my dream. 

Now, every step was torture. Now all I want is to be invisible. To be the opposite of what my younger self wanted to become.

“The bell’s about to ring!” someone shouted, racing past me with two of his friends. One of them slammed into my shoulder, knocking my bag out of my hand. He didn’t even glance back.

Great.

“Not even a sorry?” I muttered, crouching to grab my bag.

When I straightened, I noticed a boy at the end of the hallway, reaching up toward the overhead shelf above the trophy case. He looked like those smart kids with the stereotypical glasses, tucked shirt, and perfectly waxed hair. I didn't know what he was trying to reach from that shelf, but I wasn't going to stick my nose in his business.

I wanted to ignore him, really. So I averted my eyes and tried to slip by. But the guy looked straight at me and called out, forcing me to stop.

“Hey, give me a hand,” he said.

“What?”

“Give me a hand. A friend of mine threw something up there as a prank, and I can’t reach it.”

I looked at him with my eyes narrowed, and all I could think was: Am I really about to help a loser on my first day? A loser who’s clearly getting bullied by his so-called friends? Of course not. I didn’t have a high school death wish. But, like the day I swerved for that cat, I chose the dangerous route. I stopped on my heel. Then I walked toward him.

“What do you need?”

“Can you lift me?” he asked.

Mind you, this guy looked about as old as me. We were nearly the same height—he might’ve even been a little taller. If this fool thought I could lift him with my busted leg, he had another thing coming.

“No,” I said flatly. “Nu-uh. Not doing that.”

“Then how am I supposed to get the thing?” he argued.

What thing?

“Don’t they have a ladder somewhere? Or maybe there’s something we can—” I started, but he suddenly grinned at me, and my stomach dropped.

He had an idea. And I already knew I wasn’t going to like it.

“If you won’t lift me, then hop on my back. I’ll lift you instead.”

I stared at him. He wasn’t joking. He looked completely convinced this was a brilliant plan.

“Hell no.”

“Do it.”

“No!”

“Why are you embarrassed? Just get on my back and grab the thing already!”

I was speechless at the sudden bossiness.

"Was he serious?" I asked myself. But when he crouched down and motioned for me to climb on, I realized I had no choice. It felt like peer pressure at its worst. Sighing, I dropped my bag and reluctantly got onto this stranger’s back. His hands locked around my thighs, and suddenly I was lifted off the ground, praying no one saw me.

“Do you see it?” he asked.

I glanced up at the shelf, dust tickling my nose. I expected to see something normal, like a notebook or maybe a pencil case. But instead, there was only one object on top of the shelf.

A mop.

“It’s just a mop. What am I supposed to grab?” I asked, covering my nose.

“That’s it!” he exclaimed.

“What’s it?”

“The mop!”

I froze, staring at him in disbelief.

“You wanted me to grab a mop?!” I shouted. He just laughed, like this was all perfectly normal.

“Can you reach it?”

“W-What…why did I...you know what, hold on.” I leaned over, stretched my arm, and snagged the mop. The second I had it, he set me down, took the mop from me, and—no joke—hugged it.

Okay, this was too weird. I needed to leave.

“Well, glad you’re reunited with your… mop. But I gotta go,” I said, scooping my bag off the floor. But just as I turned to make my escape, his voice stopped me again.

“Hey,” he said. I turned back. “My name’s Renzo. Are you a transferee?”

“Uh…no. I’m a freshman.”

He looked at me weirdly, probably an expression I'm going to get used to when I meet my classmates. Renzo, though, didn't comment about it. Instead, he told me, “Well, freshman, I’m the president of a club. First-year students can choose any club they want, but the popular ones tend to get crowded. If you’re interested, check out Room 213.”

“The president? What kind of club are you a president of?” I asked, unsure why someone hugging a mop would have such a high position.

Renzo was already walking away, mop dragging along the floor behind him.

“It’s a surprise,” he called back. “But I have a feeling you’ll fit right in.”

I furrowed my brows, baffled, as he vanished into another hallway. I barely had time to process before the bell shrieked through the halls.

Great. Late on the first day.

Freshman year, take two. Thanks, stupid cat.