The year I started highschool, the year I met Roger O’Donnell, was the year the rest of my life began.

That was a long time ago, but I can still see the faces of the people from that time in my life, still hear their voices ringing in my head. My years spent in highschool are not years I’ll easily forget.

I remember standing in front of the mirror on the morning of the first day of ninth grade, pouting into my half-dressed reflection.

My alarm clock, dormant for months and collecting dust by my bed, had leapt at the chance to harass me again, and its ear-splitting yowl still rang in my head. I’d grabbed a soccer trophy and hammered the hideous appliance into submission, but that didn’t change the fact that it was 5:30 and I had to wake up.

Dumb school. I didn’t want to go back. What happened to my summer, huh? And this wasn’t even my school—I’d bid my loving kindergarten-to-8th grade elementary school farewell forever—I was going to a new school. A high school. I was a high-schooler now.

I was only fourteen, though. I’d hit the teenage years full force, and there was no turning back. At least I looked the part. Puberty had been kind to me, granting me a decent voice and a respectable body. I even shaved. Or at least under my nose, anyway. I was slightly tall for my age: I suppose I could pass for older than fourteen.

If you’ll forgive a moment’s narcissism, I figure I’m not too bad off for looks. I’d gotten a haircut the day before, so my medium-length brown hair looked neat and tidy, even if my bangs still fell in my eyes. I gave my head a shake and brushed my bangs away from my eyes. I had my dad’s eyes, minus the need for glasses: clear blue eyes, a pale color like the light blue at the very edge of the horizon. Or that’s what my mother said, anyway. She said they were beautiful. I don’t know, she says that about all my other body parts too, and she is my mother, after all. I suppose her opinion isn’t very valid.

There were noticeable black circles under my ‘beautiful’ eyes, however. I looked as tired as I felt, which was not a flattering description. Soo earrrllyyyy. Needs much lots sleep Arik Redde does.

“Honey, are you ready?” Mum called from behind the door.

“Al—“ I yawned, “—most.” Untrue. I wasn’t ready! In my present state I wasn’t mentally prepared to tackle my first day of second grade, never mind high school.

I pulled on the shirt I’d set aside for today. It was new, as were my sneakers, a red and navy striped polo shirt with a white collar. I’d bought it at Abercrombie & Fitch, where all the cool kids shopped. I wanted to be cool, too, and I thought it looked nice on me. Collared shirts seem to agree with me. Besides, that store had those bags with the half-dressed guys on them—

No. Don’t think that way, Arik.

I laced my new sneakers and checked the fly of my khakis before hefting my backpack and gym bag onto my shoulder and descending downstairs into the kitchen.

Dad was seated at the table with the newspaper, and Mum was at the island counter fixing breakfast, only up at this ungodly hour in order to see me off. They both looked up and smiled as I entered.

“Hey, hey, hey, first day of highschool, eh, little man?” Dad laughed, using one of his pet names for me.

I nodded shyly as I accepted a plate of toast and some orange juice from Mum.

“Wow, highschool already. Guess I’ll have to stop calling you ‘little man’, huh?”

I sat down and attacked my toast ravenously, shrugging in response. So long as he didn’t say it in front of my friends and associates and still gave me an allowance, he could call me whatever he so desired.

“Nervous?” he continued.

I shrugged again, stuffing my face to avoid having to speak.

“Aw, no need to be. High school’s going to be great. You’ll meet so many people: new friends, new teammates, new teachers….” He leaned over and nudged my wrist, sharing a man-moment with me. “New girls.”

I nearly choked on my toast. Dad laughed and cuffed my shoulder.

“Arik, finish up, we’ve got to get moving,” Mum reminded with a yawn.

I chugged my orange juice and went to brush my teeth. Ingest some toothpaste, gargle some mouthwash, double-check to make sure I had my cross on…

Okay. Now or never.

“Go get ‘em, tiger,” Dad called from the doorway of the kitchen, grinning proudly under his mustache as I followed Mum to the front door.

Since it was my first day at a new school, Mum had agreed to drive me, even though there was a bus. Am I a little sissy Mama’s boy? You better believe it.

The ride to the highschool was far too short. We wound the driveway up around the ugly monster of a brown building. The school was crawling with kids. No, not kids—people. Kids were the little tots who skittered around below us with their teddy-bear backpacks and action figures at my old school. But these people were gigantic, sophisticated, mean-looking: for God’s sake, a lot of them drove themselves to school! Some were, like, eighteen!

Which is a gargantuan difference from fourteen, by the way.

“Well, here we are, honey! Have fun! Remember, Mrs. Shannon will bring you home from soccer tryouts after school.”

No, you can’t make me get out of the car. I refuse to surrender my summer, my childhood, my life to this horrid place. Because, see, I’ve heard about this place, this highschool. It didn’t get very good reviews. No thank you, I think it’s back to fifth grade for me.

“Um, Arik, dear, really, you can get out now,” Mum murmured after several minutes, smiling awkwardly.

“Oh, right. Um, bye, Mum.” I leaned over and kissed her cheek. Mum smiled lovingly: she figures I’m doing her a favor by still allowing a show of affection even though I’m a big macho teenager now. On the contrary, Mommy Dearest, I’m just glad you still let me kiss you. If I had it my way, I’d stay your sweet little boy forever.

She drove away the instant my bags and me had cleared the door. Oh, Darling Mother, you’re not even going to wait until I’ve safely entered the building? What if I get jumped on the threshold?!

There came a shout behind me—“HEY REDDE!”—and a pair of hands pressed against my back, knocking me forwards and making me shriek.

The person behind me laughed. It was Pete Shannon, a fellow ninth grader, a tall coat rack of a boy who consisted of little more than wild orange hair and a loud mouth.

“Oh, Pete, you scared me!”

“Ha, neurotic pussy,” Pete snickered. “Saw you give your mommy a big ‘ole smooch.”

My cheeks reddened. “I’m fond of my mother, so sue me,” I replied.

See, Pete and me are friends, but he’s hardly a friend. I dislike him and his loud mouth but he seems to like having me around as a source of personal amusement. Our mothers are good friends, so we tend to spend a lot of time together. Oh well. He was someone I knew, a familiar face, and I was now going to latch onto him like a barnacle and follow him around for as long as possible.

“Hey, there’s Marcus and Burkes. Hey! Hey!” Pete spotted a group of boys from our town, or more specifically boys from our town soccer team, and he rushed over. Being his barnacle for the day, I hurried after him. These boys were more of my friends who are not really friends, and they greeted me by telling me my new shoes were lame.

Our group attracted a few more familiar faces before a menacing-looking old man yelled that we had to get to homeroom. I’d never been inside this school that was to become my second home, and I felt my eyes double in size as I took in my surroundings. Hallways stretched in both directions from the office, long corridors lit with flickering fluorescent lights and bustling with teenagers of every shape and size. It was nearly all wood, being an older building—unmatching shades of brown and metal and linoleum—frayed carpets—PEOPLE. EVERYWHERE.

“Redde, come on, let’s find our homeroom,” Pete called, trundling over to a list on the office wall. I was still gawking at this intimidating building when he seized my backpack and whirled me around. “We both got some dude named Dingle. Let’s go.”

I clutched onto the back of his backpack and let him pull me into a nearby classroom. We didn’t have to go far, but as it was, we had to shove our way through a crowd of scowling and muttering upperclassmen. In the classroom, a stuffy room of mismatched wooden desks and chalky blackboards, a thin, hook-nosed old man regarded us vituperatively from behind a desk.

“This Dingle’s freshman homeroom?” Pete barked.

The rat-faced old man narrowed his colorless eyes. “And you are?”

“Pete Shannon.”

“Right, Peter Shannon…” He checked his class list. “Yes, let’s see, I have Marguerite Monough to Tamsyn Tiverton, yes, I have you in my homeroom. Also, I have the pleasure of having you in my D period English class.”

“Fabulous,” Pete snickered.

Dingle pursed his lips. His eyes flicked down to his clipboard and he checked Pete’s name off the list. “And you, sir?” he directed at me.

“Oh—Arik Redde.”

“Eric?”

“Aa-rik.”

“Yes, yes, I have you. You’re in my C period English class, lucky you.”

“Nice to meet you, sir,” I murmured politely.

The man’s thin gray lips pressed into a grin. My mother always said that a polite first impression was very important. I was the oldest, the only Redde at the school, so I had to make a reputation for our family, she said.

One by one more people began filtering into the classroom, peeking in nervously, shyly inquiring if they had the right homeroom. Pete was yammering at me, but I was more interested in watching my new classmates. There were girls, guys…one I wasn’t actually sure about… Slowly the seats around me filled up. I scanned each face. Would one of these people be my friend? The dark boy beside me, the chunky girl to my right diagonal—did I have a future with any of them?

I could use some friends, real friends. People like Pete provided someone to stand next to, but they weren’t really good for much else. I guess I didn’t really have any friends.

I’d never had a best friend, either, because while Pete was the one I spent most of my time with, we really weren’t close. I thought it might be nice to find a platonic soul mate.

From the seat behind me, Pete jabbed my shoulder viciously. “Hey, Redde, Redde, get a load of the yahoos on that one! Damn!”

He was gesticulating towards a buxom black girl in trendy clothes that clearly showed she was aware of the womanly curves of her body. I felt blood rise to my face.

“Um, yeah,” I mumbled, eyes rooted downwards shyly, wondering if I was weird or if Pete was just one heck of a pervert.

“Ha, I call that one—she’s mine!” Pete was still foaming at the mouth. I couldn’t help but think, Sure, you scrawny little Irish horndog, I’m sure that majestic African Queen will be so into you. “Yeehaw, welcome to high school, m’boy! This is the year we’re gonna get ourselves some chicks, man!”

I forced a laugh. “Heh, yeah. Girls.”

I liked girls. Girls were nice. And pretty and stuff. I guess.

In a few minutes the entire homeroom had assembled and Mr. Dingle gave a short welcoming speech. He handed out our schedules and instantly everyone spun around and compared, desperate to find a partner to latch onto. Pete and I were in none of the same classes, as he’d been placed in level 3 for slightly below-average students, and I was in level 1, for advanced. This horrified me as much as it elated me. No jerky Pete Shannon to hassle me all through class like the past eight years! But—no jerky Pete Shannon!!! No one to stand next to so it looked like I had friends, no one to follow around to make sure I was on the right floor! Oh, God, what if none of my classes had kids in it I knew? Oh man, I really need to meet some people, I thought nervously.

I had math first period. Wonderful, I’m a gut-full of nerves and they start off my new year with my worst subject. However, Marguerite Monough said she was in my class, so I followed her up the stairs, completely clueless how to get to the second floor other than that it was ‘up’.

“My older sister goes to this school, you know, so I’ve been here loads of times! I love math, I’m good at it. Do you like math? I hear this teacher is nice but really, really tough! Well, I guess that’s good! That Professor Dingle doesn’t seem to be very warm and fuzzy, does he? He’s got the funniest nose, don’t you think? I think we’re in the same English class with him, that’s good! By the way, um, what’s your name?” She halted in her babbling stampede for me to answer. It took me a moment to remember, as my head was spinning from the wonder of so much information squeezed into a single breath of air.

“Arik,” I mumbled.

“Oh, hehe, nice to meet you, Erik! Do you have a girlfriend? Hehehe, JUST KIDDING, hehehehehehe!” she giggled, rosy cheeks going rosier.

“Actually, it’s, um—“ I began, but Marguerite’s verbal floodgates had opened, and her words were spilling over each other like water rushing through rapids.

If your parents ever, for whatever reason, decide to name you ‘Arik’, there are two things you can do. A) move to Germany where it’s actually a heard-of name or B) Enunciate very well. Since my family has no plans of moving to the Deutsch Country, I suppose I should just learn to speak up.

Marguerite ended up being in the majority of my classes, so I stuck close to her leaving her side only when she disappeared into the girl’s room, which, for the amount of time the females spend in there and all the giggles that emanate from behind the door, must be one heck of a swinging joint. It was easy to stay by her: so long as I followed the flowing waves of dark brown hair and that never-ending stream of high-pitched communication, there was no way I could lose her. I hoped I wasn’t bothering her, but I don’t think I was. She seemed to like the company. She also seemed to like grabbing my arm/hand/wrist at every justifiable opportunity.

By lunch I was feeling slightly less nervous; the desire to run down the driveway screaming had somewhat diminished. Pete and some of my other former classmates from my old school met up at lunch and exchanged stories of the events of the day. Five minutes of Pete’s report on the “big momma yahoos” and “tee-ight boo-tays” on those of the opposite gender in the vicinity and I realized I did not miss this nauseating horndog. In fact, I decided, I despise Peter Shannon. Someday I am going to punch him, and I am going to punch him hard and good.

I couldn’t find Marguerite after lunch, so I got stuck in the horndog brigade going up the stairs. My schedule out in front of me like a map, I wasn’t really watching where I was going, simply making sure to keep Pete’s narrow back in front of me.

“Hey, I have Mr. Shelali for Biology, where’s he?” I asked.

“Dude, Shelali’s on the first floor; we’re all going to Math on the third floor,” Marcus reported.

“Oh-oh no! I’m going to be late!” I gasped. We were already on the top of the second floor landing!

I whirled around to race back down the stairs but—UMPH—there was someone behind me—I connected with a wall of manly flesh and polo shirt. “HEY!” hollered the person, but we’d both lost our balance and—WHAM. We bounced down the last few steps and slammed hard on the bottom—he landed on his back and I fell on top of him facedown—directly over him in a very awkward position.

A stunned face goggled up at me with bulging brown eyes and then: “SHIT, KID!” He hollered and shoved me hard in the chest, throwing me off to the side like I was nothing—and I was nothing: I was a lowly moron freshman and he was obviously a god of an upperclassman.

The upperclassman’s friends were guffawing, as was the horndog brigade—the whole staircase seemed to be beside themselves with choking hysterics. Pete was screeching, “Smooth one, Redde!”

The upperclassman got to his feet and stalked back to his friends, muttering and cursing darkly, color in his fair cheeks. He looked back over his shoulder at me, scowled, and shook his head. He continued up the stairs, his pals grabbing his shoulders and razzing him.

Still seated on my butt where he’d thrown me, I felt my entire body burn crimson. I wanted to run into the bathroom and cry, like a girl. Only I didn’t know where the bathroom was.

I picked my pen up from where it had fallen and scuttled, red face down, to find my class

Chapter Two...