Sweeter Than Fiction [Entry Book]

All Signs Point To Lauderdale [In A Crowd]

I hate this town.

School crowds are never fun, especially at the age of sixteen. No matter how large your year group is, there are always that handful of outcasts who fall into the dreaded "emo stage."

Even worse, a snippet of the handful never leave the stereotype, no matter how hard they try to escape it.

It turns out to be that I was one of those unfortunate souls.

Normally, I am one to despise school uniform; us sixth form students don't have to wear the hideous uniform thanks to the school's conflicting opinions on originality and restrictions at our age - when we did have those ugly navy blazers, it meant that we all look like dolls without personalities.

However, now that I can wear whatever I want to, it means that I can't hide who I am behind the grey slacks and crisp button ups I was forced to wear for five long years. Beanies, converse, black skinny jeans and shirts with band and tv show logos imprinted on them seems to be my style - and only a minute percentage accept that my fashion doesn't consist of "swag" snapbacks and pants that sag to the point where it looks like I'm wearing an extra large diaper.

Currently, I stand outside of the cafeteria, awaiting one thirty. Lunchtime isn't exactly a favourite of mine. Don't get me wrong: pizza, pasta and a variety of cakes isn't the factor that upsets me. The factor that does get me down can be summed up in a few words: simple minded people.

See, as an English student, I don't have to deal with the narrow minded airheads who are stuck doing a Physical Education BTEC; I enjoy my lessons a lot because if that. However, at lunchtime, that row of matching tracksuits always makes an appearance, threatening to crush my confidence under the Nike trainers each boy wears.

"Callias Olsen," a voice booms; an unwanted hand brushes my shoulder lightly before short fingernails dig into my bare shoulder; they had to miss the fabric of my tank top, didn't they? "What filth are you wearing today?"

Turning around, the recognition of Denzel Hawke was too quick. All I can do is look at my shoes - dark blue pumps with white stars and spots dotted on the indigo canvas - as he spits abuse in my face. All I want to do is be accepted for who I am; my tolerance is next to zero after being ridiculed in front of the crowd for five days a week.

"You gonna say anything?" He sneers, shoving his unclean hand against the back of my head. Instinct; my hands go up to grab the sides of the black beanie I'd chosen to wear today. If he rips the hat off, I know that I won't get it back again. He'll also attempt to do something to my ears, for he is determined to infect my healing ear; it's in the progress of stretching and adapting to an eight millimetre stretcher.

"First, I prefer to go by the name of Cal," I say, swatting his muscular arm away in the process. "Second of all, I want you and your scumbag group of friends to stop touching me." Suddenly, this confidence that I had been searching for over the last three and a half years decided that it was finally time to show up and aid me in a verbal battle for once. "Lastly, the "filth" I'm wearing is probably made with a lot more care than that rancid grey in bag that hangs off of your body."

For the first time in forever, all eyes in the corridor are on me and not the bully. As someone who spends most of their time on Tumblr, I've read my fair share of stories about outcasts who've found the balls to say how they feel towards a predator of theirs; their body was then left alone. See, it's all the same: whether you're just a noob of a bully or a serial killer, you always target those who look like they're too weak to fight back, too broken to attempt to save themselves.

"What are you gonna do?" Denzel spits, growling as he advances closer to me. I'm familiar with the position: his abnormally tall body hovers over mine; his chest brushes my collarbone, he bends slightly and presses his forehead against mine as he fights the urge to cut at me with his venomous tongue and kill me with his poisonous words.

I've seen couples in the same position as me. The only difference between friends and enemies is that when you're on the floor, friends don't tend to knock each other unconscious. However, now that I've found my confidence - essentially, found a place where I belong - I'm determined not to let this end on some sort of blackout.

"I'd say a restraining order," I say, feeling my nerdy self break through the cloak of confidence I was previously concealed under. Then, the roles reverse yet again; the fighting talk shines through. "However, I feel like a taste of your own medicine would be a better cure - or punishment - for your terminal nastiness."

He attempts to shove me backwards and onto the tainted floor beneath me; I steady myself for the first time ever and look up into his aquamarine coloured eyes - why do girls fall for such a colour? Pacing up towards him, yells of encouragement seem to break the deafening silence the physical actions had created.

Denzel skids back; the grip on his trainers mustn't be as strong as they make out on television. Then again, most things on the TV are exaggerated, dramatised to create a reaction that does nothing but cause controversy. I hate this town, I hate this world. "Look who's laughing now," I spit, feeling the crowd shuffle backwards.

The smell of pepperoni pizza and bolognese wafts under my nostrils, distracting me momentarily. For the first time since arriving at this school, I've never seen the food queue so empty; the attention is on the "emo" kid who has more scars from Denzel and his mutts than he does classmates over all of the years.

"Remember when I stuck up for you?" I say, pushing him backwards again. The truth is: I actually helped Denzel through his own bullying ordeal. Yet again, the media mutualise the minds of dimwitted people who can't tell the difference between "your" and "you're." "Remember when I was on your side, fighting for you? Not against you?"

"I couldn't give a fuck," Denzel snorts, his snapback falling off of his rectangular head and sliding against the dirtied tiles of the main corridor. Suddenly, his vulnerability shows through golden chains and sweaty track suits. I remember how he made me feel, how he made me assume that I was the problem to everything because I didn't fit in thanks to the stereotype I acquired.

"Do I ever show just what you do to me on the inside?" I question, pushing all of my weight onto his right wrist; the satisfaction I gain from his shrill yelp is so wrong, but so right at the same time. "You're no longer going to come between me and my plans for the future, for my life. You're nothing and I'm not gonna let myself be held down - physically and mentally - by an asshole like you anymore."

As Mr McLean appears at the entrance of the circle formed around us, I hesitate. All this time, I've been the victim. Now, his star sporting pupil is under the body of Cal Olsen, feeling the wrath that had built up inside of the "emo" for what feels like countless years - a lifetime. "Mr Olsen, Mr Hawke, if you'd like to come to my office," Mr McLean says, the sternness of his voice bouncing off of the collapsing walls of this ancient school.

Whispers surround me as I get off of the sweating giant. As per usual, Denzel will get away with his actions, despite being the entire cause to this uproar, because he fits in with the school, has a stereotype that most members of our school connect with.

I doubt I'll get get off easy though. Time and time again, the outnumbered receives multiple detentions and punishments that take away the time freedom you had outside of the outcastes life you'd been given.

Honestly, I just want to be accepted and to have a friendship where I can prove that I'm still at the side of my best friend without them turning on me for having opinions and a personality different to the norm. Just where will I find out where I fit in?