You, Me, and All The Spaces In-between

CHAPTER 1

For someone of my stature, social standing and confidence, the halls of Grammarville High were an unending nightmare throughout most of my high school experience. People were scary, intimidating-and tall.

Like, really, really tall.

But I was smart, I guess, and quiet, so my parents and teachers seemed to assume the ease and enjoyment of my schooling days to be a given. My teachers doted on me endlessly-which sounds fun, but really wasn't. It honestly just led to a lot of awkward interactions and forced, too-bright smiling.

Like today, in English, when Mr. Reiner informed the class we'd be starting a new assignment, and then beamed at me with the eagerness of an overexcited puppy.

Seriously, who's the teacher here?

"Yes, it's going to be very exciting," Mr Reiner continued when the usual unenthusiastic groans had died down. "A real treat, if I do say so myself." He adjusted his thick, wide-rimmed glasses and peered hopefully over at Robert Wilson, my companion in mediocre social skills and academic prowess.

Robert gave a tentative thumbs up, and muttered in my ear when an ecstatic Mr. Reiner turned back to the class, "Poor bastard. Must not have many friends."

I huffed a laugh. "Him? Perish the thought."

Mr. Reiner clapped his hands. "So, class, here's the goss."

Cue blank stares.

"Goss? Gossip? Eh, whatever."

Still smiling at us, he blindly reached into his desk and pulled a book from its drawer. "Class, let me introduce you to my favourite book."

A series of hysterical howls pierced the air, followed by a few loud jeers and a whistle: Mr. Reiner was holding a lewd magazine, featuring a half-naked woman on the hood of a sports car, sunglasses and all.

"Way to go, sir!"

"Ey! Now that's a piece of literature!"

"Hey, Miller!"

The sound of my name made me turn suddenly, and I stared right into the grinning, obnoxiously handsome face of Cash Smith: Star athlete, quarter back for the football team, and general juvenile douchebag. His eyes were the kind of blue you could gaze into all day, and his hair, blonde, slightly ruffled, shining radiantly in the sunshine pouring in through a window, hung perfectly about his chiselled face. Plus, he had abs. Like, we're talking abs. He could play a superhero in an action film, he could model for a famous agency, he could sell me anything in the middle of a shopping centre. And now he was looking at me, talking to me, opening his perfect lips just to say:

"Bet that looks familiar!"

His beautiful face contorted into a wicked grin, and his friends, fellow football douchebags, all broke into mocking laughter again.

"Nah, bro." Designated douchebag best friend Bryce Greene slapped him on the shoulder. "We all know he's gay."

I turned away abruptly, scowling furiously, my face red. They were all assholes, the lot of them.

But they were also right.

By now Mr. Reiner had peered anxiously at the magazine's cover and, stuttering, stuffed it back into his drawer and pulled out a copy of 'To Kill a Mockingbird' instead.

"L-Let's forget about that," he suggested, wiping the back of his hand across his forehead. He looked about to faint.

Robert shook his head. "Poor, poor bastard."