Everyone is watching me as I walk in the door. They must've arrived early just to ridicule me. I can't blame them - I do provide an easy target, especially now - but I glare collectively at each pair of eyes - some of which are confused, but most of which are mocking me - and stomp over to my desk. I make as much noise as I can without bringing a teacher's wrath upon my already tortured head. Throwing myself into the seat, I slam my things down and make a large show of opening my book and ignoring their stares. I'm not really reading, just trying to get them to leave me alone.

I've been humiliated enough at this school, and I'm not putting up with any more of it.

Thank God the teacher comes in at that moment, sparing me from any questions. I don't look up to see if she gives any of them looks, or if she's watching me. For her sake, I hope she's giving them the evil eye. Teachers aren't supposed to be prejudiced. (Although they are, more often than not, as I've discovered throughout junior high and high school.) The others sit down, eyes on me, some of them warily glancing at the door. I know what they're on about. So help me, if it gets much worse, I'm up and leaving in the middle of class. I don't care what everyone will say. The gossips can shove it up their asses. I don't care that I'll get in trouble, either. The teachers don't like me, anyway, and everyone knows it. It'll just look bad for them to cuss me out when I eventually come back. If I come back. And knowing me, no matter how much I say I won't, I will.

I hate the government right now for requiring school until we're sixteen. I'm shy of the "big day" by four months. I think when I hit the so-called sweet sixteen - and for me, I doubt it'll be so sweet, or even bittersweet - I'm dropping out of school. Yesterday was the worst day of my entire life.

That's not teenage melodrama! It's the honest to God truth. I have good reason to drop out and leave people like them - like Sean - to rip one another apart. Inevitably, that's what high school is about. I used to like Darwin, when we first learned about him, but I think I'm beginning to truly despise him. His theories apply too well to high school situations. When this environment is survival of the fittest to a T, I don't think I can last much longer. I'm smart enough to know that I need to get out. I'm smart, period. I can take care of myself without a high school diploma. That's how I'll pull ahead in the end. While the people who insulted me in high school are still talking about the "best years of their lives," I'll be working. Maybe it'll be a job I hate, like the janitorial job my mom had when she and my father first came to America. Maybe I'll like it, like the teaching job my oldest brother got last year. I guess survival of the fittest may not be so bad, as long as I come out ahead of at least some of the despicable people who are looking at me now. That's what it's really about. Self preservation is pretty selfish, after all.

Sean chooses this exact moment to enter the room, ruining my introspection. I don't look up from my book. I can already tell that his scornful eyes are on me, mocking me, dragging me down into the mud even further than he already has. But I don't hear anybody laughing like they should be. I don't feel the figurative mud slinging. That's weird. An eerie silence has fallen over the room, sweeping over everyone, even the girls in the back who are usually tittering about something. For that last part, I'm thankful, but it still freaks me out more than I care to admit. I give in and look up. What I see makes my jaw fall wide open. I bet anything if Sean were his normal, arrogant self, he'd've made a scathing comment about tree frogs or flies. Thing is, he's not his normal, arrogant, asshole self.

Sean is literally slumping into the room in the same clothes he wore yesterday, which are now pretty rumpled and undoubtedly dirty, and he isn't carrying any of his books. His hair is flat and dull, not spiked the way he likes to wear it, although he did everyone the favor of making the effort to shower. He bears the crease marks from his pillow on his cheek, although he has bags under his eyes that make it look like he hasn't slept. Bags that resemble smudged mascara. 'Coon eyes, I recall. Sadly, the thought doesn't make me laugh like it usually does. He doesn't look up off the floor as he sits down in his assigned spot behind me. That's downright creepy.

"Man, what's up with you?" I hear one of his bolder friends ask.

"Shut up," Sean replies. I can barely hear him talk. Something's way off. His voice holds none of its biting sarcasm, none of the venom that used to make it so fun to needle him till he blew up in my face. Kinda like he did yesterday, only that was a thousand - make that ten thousand - times worse than normal... And no, I don't intend on talking about it. Never again.

Sean sounds dead and blank. It scares me. What scares me more is that I'm feeling sorry for him, even after what he did to me. You're a sick, twisted little boy, Mikhail, that's what you are and always will be, whether it's for being a faggot or for feeling sympathy when you shouldn't.

Sympathy or no, class drags by. I don't pay attention to Mrs. Hammerstein the way I always do. I don't take notes. And I don't have to yell at Sean for pulling my hair or poking me in the back with his pencil (juvenile things that he does now, in high school, the same way he did in junior high and elementary). I pretend not to notice that. I do my work and try to concentrate. Without him bugging me, though, it's hard. I know that sounds pretty screwy, but it's true. I can't figure it out. I'm too accustomed to it, I guess.

The rest of the day follows the same pattern. All through P.E., the only class I don't have with Sean, I keep wondering what the hell is wrong with him. I get hit in the head with a volleyball three times. The other kids laugh at me and make derisive comments. "Weak faggot," I hear, and then, "Fucking queer." They only do that because they're taking Sean's place. While he's in some Morissey phase, they must feel the need to make fun of me and tease me excessively. I ignore it. They don't do nearly as well as Sean did at pissing the hell out of me. My figurative hackles don't even stir, much less raise. Even if they did, it wouldn't be a sight to behold. I'm not impressive or intimidating when angry. Plus I could never intimidate anyone when I've been so debased. I almost wish I were an animal. No more school, and probably no one who'd make fun of me for being a fag.

Okay, I'll admit it now, Sean's weirdness is affecting me.

I don't like to think too hard about that, so I don't. I don't want to think about much of anything. I just want to go home and listen to my parents argue in Russian about what to do about me and the car. I want to listen to my younger brother blast his stereo in his room, oblivious. I want to be anywhere but here. Preferably, anywhere that's comfortable and devoid of all people except maybe my family. I have to do something to calm myself down, or figure out what's wrong with me. Figure out why Sean's getting to me like this.

In math, I give in and come up with a ploy to glance at him. I knock a pencil off my desk and lean over to get it, then look up at him furtively through the curtain of my hair. No, not the most creative thing I've ever done in my life, but it proves itself effective now. Sean is staring at my back like he's never seen it before. It must be my t-shirt or something. It is purple, after all. Guys don't wear purple. I always liked it... Whether it's my faggy t-shirt or my spine sticking out or something stupid like that, I don't say anything about it. If he were me, and I were staring at his back, he'd make some rude remark and laugh at me, bring me to the class's attention and further degrade me. That's the kind of person he is. Luckily for him, I'm not like that. No matter how much I hate somebody, I won't ruin their life like he ruined mine. I can't bring myself to do it. I have older brothers and peers. I know what it's like.

By eighth period, history, it's driving me crazy. I take desperate action. Waiting till after school, I approach my archnemesis at his locker. He's a lot taller than I am, probably by a good six inches or more, and more muscular, but I didn't take karate for five years for nothing. I have a good idea of what I can do to make sure he notices me and can't do anything about it.

I punch him good in the nose.

It's liberating to see how he staggers back, shocked. He doesn't even hit back. He wipes the blood away from his left nostril and goes back to digging through his dirty locker. I notice that he doesn't even have his books, or even his backpack. He's at his locker out of habit, or for some other reason. Once again, I don't comment. I slap him this time, making sure that I hit him with the heel of my hand and not just my fingers. It stings like hell and I rub my hand after enjoying the red mark I've left on his cheek.

Wait a second... is Sean crying?

I step back, eyes bigger than saucers, and run for it. I leave my things at school, forget my bus, and run and run for as long as I can. My lungs give out only a few blocks from school, on the sidewalk outside some stores I've never paid attention to, and I pull out my inhaler to calm myself. It takes a few minutes. I gasp and wheeze, continuing on my way, appreciative of the shade that blocks most of the glaring sunlight from reaching me. It glints off my glasses, making one of those little reflected spots of light on the ground before I move further into the shade and eliminate it. Right now, I need my vision free of the sun if I'm going to get home any time before five o'clock. My parents would be pissed off even more than they already are, and my brothers... Well, I'm sure they're ready to beat the crap out of Sean anyway. They'd blame this on him, and they have good reason to. With all that justification behind it, they could seriously cause him some harm. Their beating would be a better one than my two hits. There are four of them, and all of them - even the youngest - are taller and stronger than I am.

I envy them. They could all defend themselves if they were in my place. It's just because I'm the weak one that I can't. The gay one. I hate genetics. Hell, I'm just full of hate right now.

"Hey, Mikhail," someone says out of nowhere. It scares me that I didn't even hear their footsteps.

I know it's Sean before I turn around. I try to fix a glare on my face. I'm sure I look like an angry kitten now, not the tiger I'd like to be. Even if I had hair on my back and a tail to puff up, I'd still look like a kid overdoing it. A freak, actually. It's always been his job to be intimidating. Problem is, he's not doing it up to par. "What do you want?" I demand.

"I want - Can I talk to you?" He's being a hopeful puppy, not the vicious Rottweiler he's supposed to be in a situation like this. He's supposed to be hitting me or screaming more insults at me.

"No," I say sullenly. Let him play wounded victim. I don't care. That should be my stance. I should be the one displaying pain here. It's not his place, the bastard.

"Please, it's about what I did yesterday."

"No!" I say, louder now.

"Ple -"

"NO!" I scream.

Some people across the street stare in shock. I scowl at them and then at Sean. "Leave me alone," I snap. "What you did... That was... I can't forgive you!"

I sound like a blubbering idiot. I'm crying now and trying to brush the tears off on my sleeve. Too bad it's not working, and the tears keep coming. They may be warm, but they feel cool on my hot face. Cool, but not soothing. Sean looks at me with similar sadness and the remnants of his own tears streaking his face. There's still a little blood underneath his nostril. Good, I try to convince myself. "I'm sorry for what I said," he offers lamely.

"Sorry doesn't cut it!" I shout, practically hysterical now. Great. Just peachy. Hysterics don't win points. Hysterics discredit points, really, and I'm ashamed that I'm resorting to them now, when I've never in my life - even at my most upset, even traumatized moments - had to scream like this. I'm used to fighting with my family, and that doesn't require any apologies like this. Besides, if anyone in my family ever apologized, it'd be a better one than the stupid, not even halfassed one he just tried to give me. "Sorry doesn't begin to cut it! You ridiculed me in front of everyone, the whole damn school, just because you could!"

He winced and looked like he was about to say something, but I didn't let him. "Do you have any idea how it feels to be hated and discriminated against? Not just for being an immigrant, like my parents, but for being gay? No, wait, you call people like me 'fags!'" My screams are so loud that my throat is burning and people at the nearby intersection are leaning out of cars to see what's going on. The people inside the stores, too, are peering out the windows in annoyance, some in utter disbelief when they see who's doing the screaming. I bet they all expected Sean to be wailing on me; they might've even come to my rescue if he had been. They won't rescue him. In gratitide for their lack of interference, I'll give them the show of a lifetime, and I'll show Sean exactly how I feel about him at the same time. Kill two birds with one stone, as the saying goes. "You found out I was gay and you told everyone, and you and your friends humiliated me! You showed everyone photocopies of my journal!"

"I -"

"Shut UP!" I scream, ready to punch him again. "And if that's not bad enough, you fuckhead, you just had to paint 'fag' and 'queer' and 'ass fucker' all over my car! My parents are pissed off at me now, and that car was brand new, and I had to pay almost a thousand dollars for it, and I FUCKING HATE YOU!"

I slump against the building and take a few needy breaths from my inhaler. I'm wheezing again.

"I'm sorry, okay? I had to do all those things or they'd know that I was gay, too!" Sean shouts back.

I fall and land smack on my ass in utter shock. "You what?!" I cry. Oh, man, this is turning into a fucking soap opera. I hate my life more than ever.

"I'm a Goddamn fag!"

"What?" I say again, weaker this time. As I stand up, I have to use my inhaler again. Man, I'm probably going to get high from it now or something. I don't know if that's possible, but I don't how the damned thing works or any of that, even after years of hauling it around in my pocket. It's been my lifesaver many a time, a bridge over the canyon when I've been about to fall into it, out of breath, and at the same time, I love it and hate it.

Ironically, that's how I feel about Sean. Or how I did, before he humiliated me and then threw a curveball at me like this. He can't be gay. This is all an elaborate prank. "You're lying!" I gasp.

"No joke," Sean admits sadly. "Remember last year when everyone said my parents threw me out for bad grades?" I nod, rolling my eyes. "They kicked me out because I told them. Nobody else knows but you."

"Let me get this straight," I say, and force myself not to snigger at the oxymoron, "you ruined my life to save your reputation?"

"Well, yeah, but there was more to it than that."

"Oh?" I should punch him. I should rip out his throat and feed his body to the crows, or something brutal. I can picture myself clawing at his neck, the blood collecting under my fingernails as I pull away layers of enemy skin. I can almost feel the warmth of his flesh and the vibrations as he tries to cry out and push me off him, and I can truly feel what it would be like to literally break a hole in his throat with my own two hands. I can feel that mad rush of power now. I can feel the need to hurt, even kill - something I've never honestly considered, and I find that I'm not terribly averse to it after all - him for what he's done to me. I should punish him somehow.

I don't do any of it, just look at him. I can't even make myself glare. I'm crying again. The tears, more than cool, are like saltwater ice on my burning cheeks. I brush them away furiously. It hurts to cry, to admit that I'm so weak. It's like they said in gym class. "Weak faggot." That's what I am to them, to Sean. I don't want to play into their hands, yet I succeed in doing it so many times. I'm doing it now, dammit, as I stare at him and try to focus on his eyes even though that hurts me like the tears do.

"Ikindahaveacrushonyou," he mumbles all in a rush.

I blink. Did he just say...? "Come again?"

"I," he breathes, "have a crush on you. I like you. Before all this, I wanted to date you."

Funny how humans work, and how fate plays a cruel hand in everything we do. That's why I believe in karma and destiny, regardless of my Good Christian Boy upbringing. "Oh my God." My voice breaks. I feel even weaker now, hearing him tell me that. Hearing the one person I'm supposed to hate, the person I imagined killing just moments ago, confess the high school equivalent of undying gay love to me. It's not funny, really, not in the sense it might be if it were a dream, or if it happened before yesterday. It's sick. Like a sick, cruel joke, and I'm the victim again. "Oh my God." My breath is threatening to stop dead in my chest, and my heart may explode at any minute from all this stress it's been put under.

Wouldn't that be a choice way to go.

"Um," Sean says. His eyes are focused on the ground again, as though the sidewalk or his shoes are fascinating. "I knew it'd piss you off."

"God," I repeat. "I... Oh my God. Don't talk to me about this right now."

He turns to leave. "I said don't talk, not don't leave!" I shout. Wait. That came out wrong. "I mean... Oh." He turns back around and eyes me suspiciously.

Dammit, I'm too tired and too angry and too confused to care what happens or what I say. I'll blurt whatever the hell I want to.

Sean sits down and for the second time, I fall to the ground in surprise and defeat.

I should kill him. I should want to kill him, want to run away from him and leave him to drown in his own misery. A life for a life, they say. He wrecked my life, threw the mask I'd crafted so carefully to the ground and broke it for everyone to see. Stomped on the shards, even. He left me open to criticism and hatred to protect himself. Basic animal instinct, right? Protect yourself. Let the weaker one take the fall, and go on at the top of the food chain. For that, I should beat the shit out of him right here. I bet he wouldn't do anything to stop me, either. I have the chance. I have the justification.

I should do it.

I could.

Instead, I ask, "Whose idea?"

Sean sighs. "Mine."

"Do you know what I'm asking here?" I inquire, cocking my head and peering at him closely over my glasses. It blurs him a little, like looking at him through teary eyes does, but I don't mind. I'm afraid of what I might find if he were in sharp focus. Maybe more tears, maybe confusion, maybe burning rage. None of those are attractive. I want a confident, unsullied, one hundred percent honest answer.

"You want to know whose idea it was to make fun of you," he concludes.

"No. I want to know whose idea it was to get my journal from me. I want to know why whoever it was thought they needed to know about my private life."

"I was the one who took your journal," Sean admits. "I wanted to read it. I wanted to know if I had a chance with you. So when Dustin said he wanted to mess with you, I gave it to him."

"Sick fuck," I snap. "I should murder you."

"Yeah."

"Oh, stop it!" I order. He looks like a downtrodden puppy all over again, with his bangs in his face instead of spiked up, and his eyes brimming with tears. They're captivating eyes, as I've noticed before, but never really thought about until now. Dark blue, a strange shade of dark blue that I haven't seen in anyone else's eyes. That color reminds me of the ocean, which I absolutely adore.

Stop it, Mikhail. Don't link him to anything you like. Don't let him creep in past your barriers and your common sense.

Too late for that. I silence my conscience, as he must have silenced his. "You know I can't forgive you now," I tell him, with as much coldness as I can muster. That makes my words about as cold as a barbeque grill in the middle of July. I wasn't aiming for that. I guess I'm not as good at being unfeeling as he is.

"I wouldn't blame you if you kicked my ass and murdered me like you said you wanted to," says Sean.

"I said that I should murder you," I correct him. "But that isn't the point. I can't forgive you now. It's too much for me."

Sean stands up. "I get it." He starts to walk away.

Why is it that such a small movement, his admission of defeat, makes me feel so miserable, as bad as I did when I went out to the parking lot and found "fag," amongst other such loving words, painted on my car. As bad as I did when I figured out my journal was missing and in the hands of people who wanted to use it to abuse me. Shit. So much for Sean never having a chance with me. "Let's talk about this more," I call after him.

Sean whips around and gapes at me. "Good imitation of a dead fish," I comment, "but not good enough. Come on, we'll go somewhere - public, but not too crowded, mind you - and you can tell me exactly how much you want my forgiveness."

Sean looks so grateful that I'm horrified he might try to touch me. He might even try to hug me or kiss me. I have to force myself not to shudder. Not yet. Not anytime soon. Sean starts to reach out, but jerks his hand away like I'm on fire or have some sort of disgusting mark on me. "Don't touch me yet," I tell him, but I can't make myself smile at the shock on his face. Shock sure does seem to happen around me a lot these days. I'm getting sick of the word. "We can talk about that, I guess, if you really want to be all over me. Just come on."