It's Monday. It's a cloudy, grey day, the kind that makes you want to stay at home and curl up with a good book. But I have to go to school.
I get on the bus. Today it's the old guy driving, the one who really can't drive. He says hello. His breath smells like cigarette smoke. I walk down the aisle and stumble a little as the driver pulls away from the curb.
I sit on the inside, by the window. My backpack is on the outside of my seat, as a signal to overly friendly fifth-graders that I want to sit alone. My violin is in the corner between the window and the seat in front of me.
I pull my iPod out of my pocket and turn it up as loud as possible. I don't want to hear the fake laughs of the people around me, cocky and arrogant.
We arrive at school. I follow the other students in. Ahead of me is my ex's new girlfriend. We always seem to get off our buses at the same time.
It's only fifteen minutes into the school day, but already people are flocking to their niches. By the cafeteria, most of the eighth graders stand around, trying to act cool. They're the predators, the highest links on the food chain.
I see my best friend by the gym. She meets my gaze and runs over to me. I still don't understand why she's always so eager to see me.
My best friend asks me how many Butterfingers she could buy with $500,000. I tell her probably 500,000.
The bell rings and we walk up the ramp to our lockers. Let the torture begin.