I'm currently lying facedown on the floor, my books scattered around me like the world's saddest confetti explosion. Above me, I hear a chorus of laughs that sounds like a pack of hyenas just discovered stand-up comedy.
"Woah, you should be more careful!" a voice calls out, dripping with false concern that wouldn't fool a toddler. "Watch where you're going, fatass!"
I look up from my position on the floor, and yup, it's exactly who I thought it would be. Jack Richardson, in all his douchebag glory, leg still extended from where he tripped me.
Jack is objectively attractive, which is deeply offensive to me on a personal level. He's what you'd get if you asked a computer to generate "Generic Hot Bully #3." He's got it all: pale skin, a height of 6'2", short blonde hair styled with enough gel to make his head a fire hazard. His jawline is so sharp that I'm pretty sure it violates some kind of safety regulation, and he's built like he bench-presses smaller students for fun: which, knowing Jack, he probably does. His blue eyes are currently fixed on me with the kind of slanted, mean-spirited glee that would make a cartoon villain say, "Dude, dial it back."
He's constantly frowning, and when he does smile, like right now, it comes off less "friendly" and more "I'm about to steal your lunch money and feel really good about it." The guy's basically walking proof that you can be objectively attractive and still have a personality that makes people want to throw things at you.
In a word, he's a dick. Capital D, underlined, highlighted, with little arrows pointing to it. He enjoys making crude jokes, he enjoys harming people because apparently it makes him feel strong, he's perverted (not even in the funny way, but in the gross way), and he's dumb as a rock. Like, not just regular dumb. Premium dumb. The kind of dumb where you wonder how he manages to operate doors.
He's surrounded by an entourage of hot cheerleaders who all look deeply uncomfortable but apparently lack the spine to actually help the random guy currently eating the floor. They're all gorgeous and seem to have collectively decided that witnessing casual cruelty is just part of the high school experience. Cool. Great. Love that for them.
I stand up quickly (well, as quickly as someone with my level of coordination can manage, which is to say, not very), and start gathering my scattered books. Introduction to Advanced Calculus, Computer Science: Theory and Practice, and, embarrassingly, a manga volume that I'm just going to pretend nobody noticed. I scoop them all up and make a tactical retreat toward the nearest bathroom while Jack and his friends continue their jeering behind me. Something about whales and gravitational pull. Real creative stuff. I'm sure he stayed up all night workshopping that material.
The bathroom door swings shut behind me, muffling the sounds of the hallway, and I finally allow myself to breathe. I walk up to the mirror and, oh boy, what a sight.
Let me paint you a picture. Imagine creating a character in a video game, right? Now imagine making them as ugly as possible and completely tanking all their physical stats. That'd be me. Adam Gray, in the flesh.
I'm standing at a towering height of five-foot-two inches, and yes, I measured multiple times, hoping for a miracle that never came. I'm "a bit overweight," which is the polite way of saying I look like I've been in a committed relationship with snack foods for the better part of my teenage years. My medium-length black hair has the texture and styling of someone who forgot that brushing is a daily activity, not a weekly one. My eyes are gray, which sounds kind of cool until you realize they're just... gray. Like sad, overcast-day gray.
But the real star of the show is my face. Round. Pudgy. Covered with acne that seems to have declared squatter's rights on my cheeks and forehead.
I sigh, gripping the edge of the sink, thinking about Jack Richardson. And here's the really pathetic part… I'm jealous. There, I said it. I'm jealous of that dumbass dickhead. He's hot, he's tall, he's fit, and he's probably fucked more girls than I've had conversations with.
And the worst part? I'm angry at myself for even being jealous. The guy's personality is about as appealing as a dumpster fire in a sewage plant, but here I am, staring at my acne-covered face, wishing I had even a fraction of his genetic lottery winnings. It's pathetic. I'm pathetic.
I take a deep breath and force myself to think about the good things. The things I do have going for me.
Okay. Deep breath. Let's be fair to myself for once.
I'm smart. Like, ridiculously smart. Not in the "I'm great at trivia" way, but in the "I understand complex concepts the moment I hear them, and can actually apply them" way. My intelligence stat is basically maxed out. I've also got the kind of willpower that professional athletes would be jealous of: once I set my mind on something, I don't give up. I can't give up. It's like a compulsion.
I'm also an incredible programmer. I mean, if I do say so myself, which I do, because who else is going to? I've been freelancing recently, building websites and apps for people who have more money than coding knowledge, and I've actually accumulated a decent amount of cash. Not life-changing money, but enough to buy a used car or several hundred packs of instant ramen.
And honestly? The best part of my life isn't even me. It's my family.
Okay, so here's where it gets weird. I live with my mom, but she's neither my biological nor my legal mom. The story is wild, so buckle up.
My real parents were, in a word, neglectful. They wanted a child, right up until the moment they actually had one. Then they realized that children require effort and commitment, and they weren't ready for that. So they left me with their friend, Fiona Holloway, while they traveled the world. They paid her to take care of me, but honestly, they didn't pay her nearly enough. She just took me in because she's an absolute saint of a woman.
As I got older, they left me with her for longer and longer periods: months, then years. And then, during my eighteenth birthday, their plane crashed on their way back to see me.
I guess I should feel... I don't know, sad? But really, they were almost strangers to me. I didn't cry at the funeral. I barely felt anything. They were just these distant figures who sent postcards and money but never actually parented.
Fiona, though? Fiona wept for me. She pulled me into her arms and told me I could stay with her for as long as I wanted. That I was family. I don't know what I did in my past life to deserve her, but honestly, I might have saved the world or something, because she's really just too good to be true.
And it gets better. Fiona has two non-identical twin daughters who treat me like I'm their actual brother. Not some random kid squatting in their house, but genuine family. Someone they'd protect with their lives. I know this because Selene once threatened to "end" a guy at school who made fun of my height, and I'm pretty sure she wasn't joking.
Seriously, what did I do to deserve this family? They're perfect. Every single one of them is kind, intelligent, and gorgeous. Meanwhile, I'm over here looking like the "before" picture in a makeover montage.
I would burn the entire world down if anything happened to them. No hesitation. I'd become a supervillain so fast, the news wouldn't even have time to give me a clever name.
I splash some water on my face, take one last look at my reflection (still disappointing), and head out of the bathroom. Time for first period: Math.
As I walk through the hallways, I'm once again struck by how absolutely absurd this school looks. I'm currently a fourth-year at the Fairchild School of Excellence, which sounds fancy, and trust me, it is fancy.
Fun fact: In the big year of 2030, high school lasts six years. The official reasoning is that students need the extra two years to thrive in a more complex, increasingly intellectual society. But really? I think some politician just saw the teen depression statistics, panicked, and decided that more education would somehow fix it. Because that makes total sense. Nothing says "mental health" like prolonging the high school experience.
But the school itself? Man. This place looks less like a school and more like a billionaire's mega mansion. Sure, there's the normal stuff: lockers, classrooms, the occasional inspirational poster about "reaching for the stars" or whatever. But the hallways are pristine. The floors legitimately sparkle, like someone's full-time job is to make sure they could double as mirrors. The ceilings are so absurdly high you could fit an extra floor in here and still have room for a chandelier. And, by the way, there actually are chandeliers in some sections. Who puts chandeliers in a high school? Rich people, apparently.
Ten thousand students roam these halls, but with how massive this building is, it doesn't feel cramped at all. It's like they built this place to house a small city and then just casually turned it into a school. The teachers here are apparently the best in America, which I'm not sure is actually true, but the aesthetics definitely make it seem plausible.
Even the water fountains look expensive. They look like art installations, and I'm half-convinced that if I accidentally scuff one, I'd have to sell a liver just to cover the repair costs. This place is so fancy I'm expecting the bathroom stalls to have heated seats and complimentary champagne.
The day passes fairly quickly. I keep my head down, shoulders hunched, trying to make myself as small as possible. It's a survival tactic I've perfected over the years: if you don't draw attention to yourself, people generally forget you exist. It's beautiful, really.
I breeze through my classes. Math? Easy. English? Please. Science? I memorize every concept the moment I hear it, and while teachers ask questions that I definitely know the answer to, I keep my hand down. No need to paint a target on my back by being the "smart kid." I'm already the short, chubby, acne-covered kid. Let's not add "obnoxious know-it-all" to the list.
Brain stuff is the one thing I'm actually good at, and honestly, I'm grateful for it. If I didn't have that, I'd just be... well, screwed.
Finally, the bell rings, signifying that it's time for lunch.
In the cafeteria, I head straight for my usual spot. It's a corner table in the back, partially hidden by a structural pillar that the architects probably didn't intend to be a social outcast's best friend, but here we are. It's perfect. Invisible. Low traffic. Zero chance of unwanted interactions.
I sit down alone, which is fine. I don't really have friends at school, mostly because I'm shy and not great at starting social interactions. But also? Screw people anyway. People suck. Present company excluded, obviously, since I'm the one narrating this tragedy.
I pull out my lunch: a sandwich, some chips, and an apple that Mom packed because she's convinced I'm going to develop scurvy if I don't eat fruit, and I'm about to take my first bite when I notice something.
Someone's walking toward me.
Not just someone. An absolute beauty of a girl. The kind of beautiful that makes you wonder if you're hallucinating or if someone spiked your lunch with something. She's walking straight toward me with the kind of confidence that suggests she has never, not once, been told "no" in her entire life.
My brain short-circuits.
Huh?
Oh no.
What now?
I can feel my anxiety ramping up like a car engine that's about to explode. This day just keeps getting better and better, doesn't it?