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a work of fiction by Julie

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December 2005 - January 2006

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Just because it was my senior year of high school didn�t mean I expected to have any fun. I had a couple close girlfriends who didn�t like each other much, and one of them had just started college, so I didn�t see her very often. The other one lived in another town, so there was little socializing with her outside of the one class we had together. I�d been elected President of the Art Club, which wasn�t exactly a prestigious post, but came with a lot more stress than most people would realize. By the time the homecoming game rolled around, my younger sister, a new freshman, would be better known by the student body than I was. And, as if to cement the public perception of my nerdiness, I�d even decided to take a course in computers, the curriculum of which would, only a few years later, become utterly obsolete.

But the big decision came when I decided to sign up for choir. It had been something I�d wanted to do the year before, but I didn�t have room in my schedule for both art and music until that year.

I�d been excited about getting back to choral singing, but my heart sank a little when I walked into the classroom. I hadn�t realized that Jillian Greer and her friends were in choir, too. They were this clique of girls who all went to the same church, who were members of the Fellowship of Christian Athletes (an organization I didn�t understand a need for at all, except to give certain students one more opportunity to make their religious preferences known to the student body), and were all hugely popular, despite having really rotten personalities. These were the kinds of girls who usually looked as though they smelled something awful, who talked back to teachers, and who got away with being total bitches because nobody would say boo to them. At this school, as long as you went to the right church, you had free reign to do whatever you wanted, and the school administrators would look the other way, so girls like them ran everything. The kind of girls who would be nice to a person until she left the room, at which time they would proceed to rip her apart with insults. Of course, I was such a big nothing, they wouldn�t even wait until there was distance between us...I heard plenty of stuff about myself from only a few feet away on many occasions. Every bitchy cheerleader from every John Hughes movie rolled up into a hypocritically religious package. And there were four of them in this one class. Terrific.

And Jillian was their queen. Not only was her father the district superintendent, but her family owned a lot of property in the rural area where I lived. There were rich kids at my old school, but the gap wasn�t nearly as wide as it was here. She drove to school every day in the shiny BMW she�d gotten for her sixteenth birthday, parking right alongside the primer-colored wrecks the other students drove...at least, those students fortunate enough to have a car. The rest of us were bussed in from the neighboring towns, past fields of hay and alfalfa, and the occasional cow.

It was hard enough for me to fit in when I walked into a room without having someone like her to deal with. Apart from having the same first name, we had absolutely nothing in common. Well, except maybe for singing.

I surveyed the room, looking for a place I could crouch unobserved for a while. Not that it would be hard to blend in with the furniture, being virtually invisible.

But then I saw a new face. A really cute boy walked into the choir hall, and gave a quick glance around. I noticed he was getting ignored as he made his way around the room, but when he looked up at me, he smiled. I felt myself smiling back. He was a little taller than me, and rail-thin, with reddish blonde hair that he kept pushing off of his forehead. He was wearing a way-too-big teal shirt, as if he was trying to look bigger than he really was. Didn�t work because it was tucked in, so it only ballooned over the teeny waist of his pants. I liked it, though.

"Is there anyone sitting here?"

I looked around. "You mean, besides me? No." I picked up the books I�d placed on the chair next to me so he could sit down. I indicated the squealing mass of girls on the other side of the room and said "It�s a lot quieter over here, don�t you think?"

He dropped his backpack on the floor, swinging it under his seat, and slid his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "Yeah, I didn�t think I wanted to dive into all that mess. I�m Clayton, by the way."

I cocked my head at his accent. "You�re not from around here, are you?"

He turned towards me, hooking his arm around the back of his chair. "We just moved here. My dad�s job transferred him. I�m from North Carolina."

He was just too adorable. And it was so nice to have someone to talk to. "Really? Where in North Carolina?"

His face lit up even more. "Born and raised in Raleigh."

"Oh. Uh...you know, I�m not even sure why I asked. I don�t know anyone from North Carolina." I felt like an idiot.

Clayton leaned in with a huge, toothy grin. "Well, you do now!" How did he do that? How did he turn my mood around so quickly? Just a few minutes before, I was worried about how I was going to get through a whole year with these people. Now I just hoped Clayton and I would be close enough together on the risers to be able to talk sometimes. "You know, you don�t sound like you�re from here either."

"Yeah, I�ve only been here a couple years. Moved here sophomore year from California."

"Ooh, a California girl! Where in California?"

I almost answered him. "Oh, no you don�t. Big meanie." His laugh came out in such a burst that we got a sneer from across the room. "You know, when I first moved here, that first year, everyone I met got all excited when I told them I was from California. Then they�d ask if I was from L.A., and I�d say no...and I just stopped being interesting after that. I guess San Jose isn�t very glamorous. It�s not like I said Livermore or something�"

"There�s a town called Livermore? That�s awful. You know, back home, we have a Kill Devil Hills." He made a cute little ick face. Our choir director, Mrs. Black, came out of her office with an armload of sheet music. Class was about to start. He leaned in and whispered, "You never told me your name."

I could feel myself blush a little as I looked down at my lap, suddenly feeling self-conscious. "It�s Jillian."

Clayton nodded and smiled. "Looking forward to singing with you...Jillian." He quickly nudged my arm before getting up and offering to help Mrs. Black hand out the music. I probably sat there with my mouth hanging open. I�d never met anyone like him. I�d been surprised when I first moved to Texas how boys would hold doors open for me, and kids addressed teachers as "sir" and "ma�am", but that all seemed like phony civility to me. I guess not growing up around those sorts of manners made me doubt the sincerity of people. But here was a guy who was surrounded by students who, for the most part, had been in Mrs. Black�s class before, and he was the only one who saw she might need some help, and offered his. He didn�t even know anyone in the class. Well, except for me. And I couldn�t have been happier about making a new friend.

I�d developed the ability to make friends when I needed to, having been a military brat who moved every couple of years. But it�s easier to find friends when you�re eight. Kids usually play with each other without too much prejudice. But teenagers are a different story. So much depends on who your friends are when you�re in high school. Sometimes you even hang out with people you don�t fit with just to say you�ve got friends...assuming they�ll let you. I�d found this group of guys who were into science fiction, so I had something in common with them, but we were extremely different politically. Normally that might not have been a big deal, but these guys were also on the debate team, so they loved to argue. I was always feeling attacked and got defensive easily. They loved it. I hated it. But sometimes you take whatever friends you can get.

I got worried when I realized a few weeks later that Clayton went to the same church as Jillian Greer and her number-one minion Christy Bailey. I was sitting in class and the three of them walked in together talking about something that had happened at youth choir practice the night before. I guess that explained how he ended up in the school choir. Almost all of the kids got their start singing in church. I always just sang because I wanted to, and hadn�t been in any sort of choir since grade school. Music had been the only thing about church that I liked, back when I still went to Mass every week with my mother, but it wasn�t enough to keep me there.

Every time I saw him talking to those girls, I told myself he was just being the "new kid". Finding friends any way he could, just like I always had. It had to be exciting for a new guy, especially a junior, to be getting any sort of attention from two popular senior girls, even those two. He couldn�t have really liked them, because they were so mean. He�d have to see through that bubbly, rah-rah facade to the shriveled black hearts underneath. Then again, he didn�t see the faces they made at him behind his back. I couldn�t tell him. I was so afraid that he liked them better than me that I wasn�t about to say anything to upset him, even if it was the truth.

Then again, Clayton did give me an awfully nice surprise one morning, that October. This was right before he and I started walking to class together. I�d arrived early, as I usually did, and Jillian and Christy came in, talking animatedly. Just before they reached the risers, Jillian said, loudly, because everything she had to say was important enough for everyone to hear, "You know, last night, I was reading in Romans..."

Christy grabbed her arm excitedly. "Oh my God, so was I!" They then squealed and jumped around together like they�d just been told to "come on down" on The Price Is Right. It was one of the dumbest exchanges I�d ever witnessed. It took all I had not to laugh.

And then I saw him. He�d walked in just before it happened, and saw the whole thing. With most of the class facing away from him, I guess he felt safe enough to roll his eyes and shake his head. Then he looked at me, and we shared a smile. It would be our secret.

That was when I knew. He liked me better than those churchy girls. He felt a connection with me. Probably not anywhere close to the one I felt with him, but it was a start.

Growing up, not just in California, but everywhere else I ever lived, people's religions didn't bother me. There was no reason why I should have a problem with something like that. I didn't ask, they didn't tell. It wasn't my business. And even if I happened to find out for some reason, I didn't care.

When it came down to it, I guess, it didn't matter what religion these girls were. They would have been bitches no matter what church they went to. But, at that time in my life, when I was still getting my bearings in a strange new place, it was too hard not to mentally label people. Baptist. Methodist. Church of Christ. Any one of a dozen or so factions. It wasn't my fault, they were labeling themselves. All I did was use the information they gave me. If they were going to go around shoving it in people's faces, how could I see anything else?

And they were so condescending. That stupid Fellowship of Christian Athletes couldn't even be counted on to hold a fundraiser without trying to convert people. At least when the Art Club was raising money for supplies for the mural we were working on, we didn't try to make people join us. Ask them if they had a preference for oils or watercolors. Just buy some candy and thanks for your support. When an FCA member sold a Twizzler, a helpless student could find himself in a theological discussion. No, really, I'm just hungry. And if you were really a Christian, wouldn't you teach me to make my own Twizzlers, like Jesus would do?

Can't say something like that to these people. Gets 'em all fired up. And then they pull out the big guns. How mocking the Lord only serves to condemn your soul. The One True Path to Salvation�blah blah blah. Forget that we were all brought up in a primarily Christian society�I need some teenager to explain life to me. Where oh where is the pimply seventeen year old who will magically make everything my parents taught me vanish, so The Truth can save my soul? Someone who is "only trying to help" when they point and yell what a sinner I am. Someone who knows that the preponderance of black clothing among young adults is clearly the work of Satan, and all those students who read about other religions are in danger of becoming unduly influenced by the evil that is anything un-Christian. And listening to secular music was the worst. Better watch out or Huey Lewis will drag you down with him!

I never could figure out why some people are like that. Why they feel like they have the right to lord over others, to look down at people. Jillian was a truly awful person, snotty and belittling, but as long as she went to the right church and kept up that facade of the "good Christian"�then again, not being what people here considered Christian, perhaps I didn�t know what a "good Christian" was in their eyes. I wanted to ask Clayton. He�d be honest with me. I felt fairly confident that the answer he�d give me would make me feel better, but my fear that he�d quietly agree with all those jerks kept me from asking the question.

Maybe I didn�t need to worry. He seemed to care enough about me that he wouldn�t side with anyone who would hurt me so much, but religion is a tricky thing. It was easier to just not talk about it.

At least until that one day.

I�d walked to choir by myself that morning, because I didn�t see Clayton in the hall outside his English class and assumed he was sick. It was during that period where Mrs. Black had us sit in a big circle so we could really hear each other, which meant everyone could see each other, too. Most of the class was already there, and I was sitting quietly on the far side of the room, flipping through some new sheet music that had been set on our chairs. I glanced up and noticed Jillian and her friends talking quietly to each other and looking at me. Oh, no. Now what? Suddenly she got up and began heading toward me. She rarely spoke to me, except to tell me to get out of her way or shut up, so to hear her speak my name was shocking enough�but then she asked me a question I couldn�t recall being asked before, and right there, loudly, in front of everyone.

"Jillian, what religion are you?" The room went almost silent�or maybe I couldn�t hear everyone over the sound of blood rushing in my ears. How dare she! Who the hell was she to ask me a personal question about religion? How did she figure it was her business? And why would she care? Never mind that it was a question that, for me, couldn�t be answered easily�even if I�d wanted to talk to her about it, this wasn�t the time or the place to go into my personal relationship with God and my uncertainty about just how much of all that stuff I actually believed. But there she was, standing in front of me, her head cocked and her hands on her hips with that obnoxious smirk. I had to say something. She wasn�t going to go away. It felt like everyone was waiting. I had to sum it up in as few words as possible�say something that would make the conversation over.

"Um�Catholic?"

Her forehead crinkled and her voice took on that extra twang. "Oh." Then came that big, insincere smile and condescending tone. "Well, that�s okay!"

She spun on her heel and strutted back to her giggling friends.

What the hell? Do I need her permission or something? Was she just checking to make sure I wasn�t someone who needed immediate saving? I felt my face get hot and my eyes began to tear. Don�t cry. Damn it, don�t you dare cry. Don�t give her that.

Then I saw Clayton. He was standing in the doorway, his thumbs hooked in the straps of his backpack. He scowled at those horrible girls, then strode across the room to crouch in front of me.

"You okay?"

"Don�t I look okay?" I leaned down towards him, my elbows on my knees, and whispered, "I hate her."

"I know you do. She was totally out of line." He took my hand just as Mrs. Black came out of her office and told everyone to get in their seats. "It�ll be okay. She doesn�t matter. Only your real friends matter."

"Clayton, don�t make me tell you again." Mrs. Black started playing scales for our warm-up.

He squeezed my hand and smiled at me before heading for his chair. He kept smiling at me all through class, and I could hardly take my eyes off of him. All my humiliation was gone�there was nothing else in the world but that sweet, gorgeous boy. I don�t even know what I sang, but it must have been okay, because Mrs. Black never said anything.

I decided I had to eat lunch with him that day. Usually I ate in Miss D�s room with the other art geeks, but Clayton didn�t feel comfortable around them, so I didn�t see him at lunch very often. But that day, my heart still pounding from the rush of him holding my hand, I asked if he�d sit with me.

We found a spot by the library and sat down, as far from other people as we could.

"I just don�t get it. I�ve been picked on before, treated like crap�but this is different. Call me ugly, I don�t care. That shit stopped bothering me a long time ago."

"They called you ugly?" He seemed surprised.

"Well�yeah. Sure they did. All the time. I've been called lots of things. But I don�t care if people like me, especially people like that."

"People like what, exactly?"

"Well, no offense, but�Christians." He looked down at his hands. "Not you�I mean, I don�t think you�re like that. It�s just that�well, ever since I moved here, I�ve been catching crap for not being one of them. My whole life I�ve never had to deal with anything like this."

Clayton finished chewing a bite of his sandwich, looking like he was deciding what to say. "So�you�re not a Christian? I thought you said you were Catholic."

I sighed. "Yeah, you�d think being Catholic would qualify me as a �Christian�, but apparently not. I guess being the original Christian church doesn�t count for much. Then again, how Catholic am I, really?" I told him about my history teacher telling the class that a Catholic can�t be trusted to be President. How a classmate of mine told me I needed to be baptized again, because my Catholic baptism didn�t count, since "they do it wrong." I�d heard people call Catholics "idolaters," a lot of it with a racist slant, because of the way Mexican Catholics revered La Virgen de Guadalupe. Of course, missionaries of all faiths blend whatever they're bringing to the table into the local religion to make it more palatable�but nobody wants to hear about that when they're sure they know The Truth. He was pretty surprised, but I could see by his face that he was torn. Those people who were so intolerant and self-centered had a lot in common with him.

"Wow. All I can really say is�I'm not like that. I mean, I hope I'm not. You're never going to have to worry about me treating anybody like that. Ever."

Just knowing someone like Clayton helped a lot. I mean, he was seriously Christian, like he really believed all that stuff, but he never once said anything to me that made me feel like he was trying to change me. I kept in mind that he represented what Christianity was supposed to be�and all those jerks bothering me were like the Protestant equivalent of the Inquisition. Convert or die�or at least be harassed until you want to.

That was the first serious conversation I'd had with him. I was nervous every second of it. He could have gotten weirded out and stopped talking to me after that, but he didn't. We had so much in common and we got along incredibly well. Religion was really the only thing that made us different from each other. Well, that and my filthy mouth, but I was working on that.

One afternoon I talked him into stopping by the hallway where Miss D's office and the art and drama classrooms were to see the mural I'd been putting my heart and soul into for over a year, and we were about to officially unveil. I think being so enthusiastic about that project is what got me the presidency of the Art Club. I wanted Clayton to see that I wasn't just one of those kids who took art classes to get an easy A and bump up my grade point average. I wanted to impress him with one of the only things I had that was mine.

"You painted this?" His eyes were huge as he walked along the wall. It was a strange mural for most people to see the first time, but it always held their attention. It showed a brick wall that had been broken, and the landscape beyond it contained everything that exists in the imagination. Great achievements in art and science, fanciful characters, magic�everything that originates in creativity. Kinda deep for a bunch of high school kids. But it gave us a chance to put a lot of color and life into that drab wall. Especially when everything else at that school was covered in Confederate flags.

"I didn't do all of it. Like, the guy who did this bit over here graduated last year. We all put something into it. But I did that castle over there, and this river, and the mountain range in the distance with the eyes in the clouds�oh, and that little cartoon rat with the eyepatch."

He laughed and squatted down by the rat. "I like this guy." He ran his finger along the fur, as if he were trying to feel the texture of it. "How do you do this? I mean, making something like this out of just a bunch of paint�look at the colors you put here. I mean, it's a rat, but it's really kinda beautiful."

I sat down beside him, leaning up against the wall. "I don't know how I do it. I mean, I do it a lot, so I guess I get better at it, but�I think it just happens. It's like singing. You can't really explain to someone how to sing if they can't hear the music. This is just�seeing. I guess I see the world differently than other people do." I pulled a sketchbook out of my backpack and flipped to a page with a drawing I'd done of a girl in my class. "See, when you draw a person, you have to really look at them. You have to see what makes them look like them, and not just that they have two eyes and a nose. There are things that make a person look human, but you can't see people as proportions and symmetry. Like, if I was going to draw you, for instance, I wouldn't just draw some glasses with eyes behind them�I'd have to really look at you�" I'd never looked that closely at his eyes before. Between his glasses and the way his hair hung into his face, you'd think he didn't want anyone to see them. He had the longest, palest eyelashes I'd ever seen. And the color�those eyes had a jade-like transparency and little flecks of hazel. And when he got embarrassed and looked down, I noticed his eyelids were covered in tiny freckles. He was actually cuter than I'd previously thought. "Anyway, you know what I mean." I started to close my sketchbook, and he put his hand out.

"Can I see that?" I gave it to him, and he turned to sit next to me on the floor. As he thumbed through my drawings, he kept shaking his head. "These are amazing. You have so much talent. I mean, look at this!" He held up my portrait of John Lennon. "This is really cool, Jilly. Did you get a good grade on it?"

"Oh, the stuff in there is just for me. I don't usually even show people. It's embarrassing."

"Oh, right. Having this much talent is embarrassing. No wonder you keep arguing with Mrs. Black about doing solos. I think you're afraid people might think you can sing."

What a weird thing for him to say. He might have been right, though. Showing people you have talent means drawing attention to yourself, and drawing attention to myself always resulted in getting crapped on. Easier and safer to stay hidden and remain crap-free. "Look, art and music and stuff makes me happy. I don't do it to get attention. I do it because I love it."

He handed me my sketchbook. "Then why show me?"

I guess I wanted his attention, but it was too painful to admit it. "I don't know. Because you're nice to me. And I trust you." I slid my book into my backpack just as he got to his feet. He held out his hand to help me up, and I was surprised that someone so skinny could actually lift me. "Thanks. And, uh�thanks about the�talent thing."

He went to the door and held it open for me. "It's my pleasure. And I meant every word of it. Now let's see if we can't still catch our buses. Mama's gonna kill me if I make her drive out here to get me again."

"Oh, I could take you home�you know, if you want. Mom let me drive the station wagon this morning since I was running late. Do you want me to wait to see if your bus is gone?"

He looked towards the bus stop. "I'd rather just catch a ride with you, if that's okay. I just�uh, yeah, I think I wanna go with you."

When we rounded the corner of the building, the wind blew Clayton�s hair off of his forehead, revealing a weird-looking bruise.

I grabbed his arm and headed to the parking lot. "Shut up. Let's blow this popsicle stand."

Like I had room to talk. I didn�t exactly jump up and defend myself when people were treating me badly. But, shit, if someone hit me, I would have hit them back. Then again, maybe I had a better chance of actually taking them than Clayton did.

There was that one day when I was coming out of computer class, and Clayton was waiting for me. I�d come out of the doorway and saw him all the way across the courtyard, leaning up against the wall by my locker. When he saw me, he waved and started to take a step forward, and accidentally bumped into Matt Keissler, who was walking by with a bunch of other guys from the basketball team. Clayton apologized and stepped back, but Matt, being the bigshot that he was, couldn�t let it go.

"Watch where you�re going, faggot." I�ve always hated that testosterone-y thing, where guys in packs start strutting around to impress each other. One on one, most of those guys wouldn�t act like that. Matt shoved Clayton against my locker. Then the rest of them got all puffed up, and I started walking as fast as I could, hoping I could get there in time to do something. So many of the kids in my school considered themselves full of Southern manners, but apparently those manners don�t include keeping a skinny kid from getting beat up, so they kept walking right on by.

Then Jon Medrano started in. "You know where this faggot was yesterday? He came into the locker room to check me out after practice. Did you get a good look?" He spun Clayton around to face him. "I�m talking to you."

Clayton shook his head and hugged his backpack to his chest. I couldn�t hear what he was saying, but it�s not like it made a difference to those guys.

I was so afraid something would happen, and I really didn�t know what I could do to diffuse the situation, but I wasn�t about to let him get hurt if I could help it. I heard myself yell, "Leave him alone!"

Jon was pinning Clayton to the lockers and Matt turned around. "Oh, look who�s got a problem. There�s a surprise."

Clayton�s eyes got big. He looked more scared of me at that moment than he did of the guys. "It�s okay, Jill�really�" Jon shoved him again.

"Let go of him, Jon. You and all your fuckwit friends get away from him!" I threw my books on the ground. I could sense a bunch of kids standing behind me, and I kinda pictured that scene from My Bodyguard where Chris Makepeace punches Matt Dillon in the nose. I hoped this wasn�t gonna come to that.

Matt was laughing. "Ooh, what�s the little girl gonna do to us?" Jon shoved Clayton one more time then headed towards me. The other two came around to my right.

I really don�t know where it came from. Suddenly, a lifetime of rage was just pouring out of me. "What makes you assholes think you can go around shoving a guy into a fucking locker?" I noticed Steve Demore was one of the offenders. He was close to my height, so I got into his face. "What�s the matter? Afraid someone might think you�re not a big tough guy if you don�t kick someone�s ass every once in a while?" I grabbed his arm and looked back at Matt. "Besides, if you want to pick on a guy, why not this one?" Steve suddenly looked scared.

Jon laughed. "Shut up, dyke. Steve�s cool."

We walked across the courtyard like we were going to the library, but we went around the side to sit on the low wall behind it. Clayton managed to keep from crying until we got out of sight. I hadn�t even realized his shoulder was hurt until he grabbed it just then. He was really good at not visibly flinching when surrounded by guys like that. "I�m sorry, Jilly. I didn�t mean for that to happen."

He laughed a little and wiped his nose. "Yeah, I�ve been meaning to talk to you about your language."

I nudged him playfully with my body. "Shut up. They had it coming. I kinda feel bad for Steve, though. It�s not really helpful to make them bash someone else. But I don�t care about Steve like I care about you." Steve was a nice enough guy, most of the time. And there were a few guys in choir who were also jocks. Most of them didn�t hang out with jerks like Steve did. "I guess I owe him a big apology tomorrow. Or maybe just a little one." The tardy bell rang. I gave Clayton a gentle squeeze before letting go and picked up the back of his collar. "You�ve got some locker schmutz on you. Anyway, what was that shit about you being in the locker room? You don�t even take PE!"

He turned to straddle the wall, dropping his backpack on the ground beside him. "Well, I was in there for a bit. Yesterday." I didn�t mean to look at him like that. It wasn�t that I didn�t believe him. I was just surprised. "What? It was during Health, and Coach Klaus needed some packet of stuff delivered to Coach Shelton, and I was the only guy in the class that was finished with my test. It�s not like he was gonna send some girl into the boy�s locker room."

"I�m sorry. I just assumed they made it up."

He smiled. "Yeah. Funny thing was, it wasn�t me noticing Jon. I just walked in there, and I heard someone call my name. Jon�s making this big show out of walking across the room and I guess he wanted me to look at him. It was pretty gross. Who wants to see that?" He shuddered dramatically for effect. "Anyway, I took the stuff into Shelton�s office and booked it outta there. Jon�s all woo-woo at me as I�m leaving�"

I almost fell of the wall I was laughing so hard at his impersonation. "Oh my God! Who�s the faggot now?"

"Shhh�don�t say that. I hate that word."

I stifled my laughter as best I could. "I know. I hate it, too." That�s always been a word that made my stomach hurt. There are lots of words I don�t have a problem with, and some that I don�t like, but I can handle�but that�s a word that�s never said without intense hatred behind it. I was surprised it came out of me like that. "But dammit, that�s funny. If I wasn�t such a nice person, I�d go around the school telling everyone that asshole was flirting with you. Naked."

Clayton scooted closer to me and took my hand, smiling as he played with the woven friendship bracelet he�d given me. "Thank you. I�m really lucky to have you as a friend. You�re the best friend I have here." He squeezed my hand when I started sniffling. "Thanks for believing me. And everything." He glanced down at my watch. "I�ve never skipped class before�do you think we should just go and be late?"

I hadn�t skipped before either. I was gonna get in so much trouble. But I was sitting in a shady spot behind the library, and Clayton was holding my hand. "Nah. Let�s just stay here. I bet if we�re quiet, we could hang out here for an hour."

"Okay." He rested his head on my shoulder. "Hey Jill? What�s�" He got really quiet. "What�s a�fuckwit?"