The beginnings of what was supposed to be my NaNoWriMo novel, until I lost inspiration.

“Hey, loser. Watch where you're going!” “Yeah, freak!”

Big, dumb, ugly Elijah Forestt and his (if possible) bigger, dumber, and uglier friends shoved me into a locker and laughed as my books went flying. Then the three of them sauntered off, looping their thumbs into their belt loops, looking to all the world an innocent trio of boys off to the library. But I knew better.

As I scrambled to pick up my books, pens, and papers, I noticed two things. First, my Chem lab that Tim and I had worked so hard on was torn and dirty, and second, that my binder had ripped. Again. There's only so much magic that duct tape can really do. You may think that Elijah, Parker, and Anthony would get expelled, but that's not the case. At my school, South High, academics mean nothing. It's all about the athletics. That's why I, Clayre Michelle Trick, mean nothing. No one cares what I get on tests. They care if Brian Worthington scored the winning touchdown, or if Sam Figgins shot a basket. That's why I'm constantly getting shoved into lockers and called names. That's why I have to guard my secret.

My doctors told me to go shopping at the mall, in the same stores as everyone else, so I might fit in. My mother told me that people will want to be my friend, no matter what my IQ. She said I'd come home the first day and be amazed at how many new friends I'd have. She was wrong. Without Tim, I'd be completely friendless.

I don't really understand Tim. He really could have had it all. He looks like your typical golden boy, with his brown hair and honey highlights and his gorgeous brown eyes, but he totally hates the popular crowd. “Just a bunch of stuck-up bitches,” he calls them, and he's right. But why he chose to hang out with me, the British freak with ratty hair and guy's clothes, is beyond me.

When I went out to the bus, I mentally prepped myself for what was to come. Sam and Parker ride my bus, and they get immense amounts of pleasure out of making my life miserable.

Clutching my jean jacket tighter around me, I shivered. It was nearing December and the weather was getting colder every day. I dug in my pockets for my iPod. Jamming the earbuds into my ears, I sighed in sweet relief as the Who's “The Real Me” leaked into my head. School for me is like drowning in a pool of molten lava, then treading with my head above, only to be plunged back under, even more harshly. Music is my only escape. These men and women felt the same way I do now, but they had the means to escape it. They poured their emotions into their music, giving us the Beatles, the Rolling Stones, the Who, the Clash, ACDC, etc. My favorite is the Who, by far. The emotion is just so clear in their music, even after forty years. When I listen to the Who, my angers, fears, worries, and doubts just melt away. It takes me on a trip back in time, to a place where people are like me, understand me, and befriend me.

I walk into the house, yanking the earbuds from my ears. “Hi, sweetie! How was your day?” Mom was in the kitchen making supper. I shrugged. “You know.”

Mom's eyes softened. Her soft gray hair tumbled around her shoulders. She's a bit older than most parents of kids my age. She's got four kids already in college or grown up with their own families, so I think having a seventeen-year-old at home, especially one as screwed up as I, is really stressful for her sometimes.

“That bad, huh? What was it this time?” She's talking about what was ruined today. I shrugged, not willing to be pitied. “Chem lab. Binder.” I gruffly reply. “Oh no! Sweetheart, you've got to do something!” Mom's tone turned disapproving. “You know, I'm always here for you. I could go talk to your teachers if you want.” I used to hate it when she did that, but now it seemed like it might be a welcome relief to clue someone in, to have more then just Tim on my side, but I can't. She couldn't possibly understand what I go through every day, how much I dread school.

I go downstairs to my bedroom. Mom and Dad let me sleep in the basement after they realized that it was soundproof and they wouldn't have to listen to blasting music 24/7. I crank up the Beatles and pull out my math homework. It's sixty-eight trigonometry problems. I'm done in ten minutes.

Next, for English, I grab the Odyssey. I flip through it. I don't need to totally reread it because I read it in kindergarten for fun. I just need to remember it.

With my bed shaking and my speakers thumping to the beat of “Come Together”, I go over to my desk and open a large drawer. It's full of duct tape, scissors, and the occasional glue stick. I call it my “Fixit Drawer”.