Brandon. Yes, THAT Brandon.

You What?

"Do not leave!" Miss Ryan says at the bell. "There's a junior class meeting. Seniors, you may go," she announces. Matt pats me on the back as he walks out of the classroom. It's a mystery to me why he associates himself with Mitch and Marshall.

The only reason Ms. Ayler is our class sponsor is because the old gym of West Crimson used to sit here. They just sort of cut it in half to split classrooms. So her classroom is one of the two large enough to fit 212 juniors in it. Half the classroom isn't even used at all. "First of all, I am Miss Ryan. Ms. Ayler is currently unavailable." I hear someone whistle from behind me. At least I have some respect. "I won't waste your time if you don't waste mine. So, I hear you juniors have a choice whether you would like to host Fall Festival, Prom, or Last Week Parade. We'll do this quickly by hand votes." Of course, we're all gonna pick Prom. We don't spend nearly as much money on Prom as we do everything else.

"I'm class president, if you'd like me to help, Miss Ryan," Gerard Spencer asks. Miss Ryan nods, and Gerard goes up to the white board. "Okay guys. We all know that Prom costs the least amount of money, because nobody cares about it. All in favor?" I turn to see about 80% of the class raise their hands. "Prom it is. Thank you Miss Ryan." Gerard sits back down.

"Okay... that's done." I hear people shuffling behind me. "Do not leave! A few more announcements!" Miss Ryan stands on a chair to see everyone. "Could Aryana Bergo, Kyle Bernard, Anna Dietz--" Miss Ryan recites about eight names of people I don't know from a sheet of yellow paper. "Parker Motzler, Brandon Owens, and Gerard Spencer please stand up at the front?" Brandon Owens. Hmm wonder who he is. I slither out of my chair and stand in the ten people line at the front of the classroom. A few of them are in student council, but more aren't. Maybe this is about our different activity leaders. I was one last year. I know Aryana is in the chess club, and Kyle does theater.

"What's this?" Gerard asks me.

"How should I know?" I reply. "Not like I did any--"

"Your class," Miss Ryan begins. "is indeed recordbreaking. As of now, these ten, ten students tie at a 4.35 GPA and are in the running for Valedictorian of your class next year. The class of 2015. Give them a big hand!" The juniors hesitantly clap for us, but I see the 'smarter' kids glancing at me with suspicion. "This is a record for West Crimson, you being a smaller school." My cheeks warm up immediately. Well, this is embarrassing.

"Seriously?" the redheaded girl beside me scoffs. I feel her glimpse at me quickly. "This is ridiculous."

"What?" I whisper.

"You. And her. That's what," she says in disgust. She indicates a girl on my right. She's pretty. I think she's a cheerleader. "Some of us work hard to be here. And we aren't rich. Or popular." We all retreat to our seats. I rest my chin on my hand and zone out of the rest of our class meeting. What does she mean 'some of us work hard'. I work hard. Not as hard as I could, I guess. I don't think teachers just love me and throw me a few A pluses.

"Wow, could you be any more of a fag?" I hear Mitchell whisper in my ear. I don't even respond. "First, you get freaky with dudes at parties, and now you are a little teacher's pet? Why are you even playing football, Gay Boy? Hmm?"

"Shut up, Bitch--"

"You're not even good. I heard you want to quit like a little wimp. Go ahead. We don't need you. Just stay with your little academics. Stop checking us out in the locker room like a perv."

"I'm warning you--"

"How do you even get straight A's when every single thing about you is gay as fu--"