Oran Hurst.
When I saw him, he was just standing by his locker mumbling, "Um okay," over and over. He was perfect. Unfortunately, not everybody else thought that.
"Hey fatty." Lizzie Battaglia. She is pure evil. I've been watching her harass the love of my life since the third grade. She was relentless and always came up with the harshest insults. Most of the time they related to his weight, which is odd because Oran isn't even fat. He has a slim, muscular build. After all, he is on the swim team and in marching band.
"Lizzie, what do you uh need?" Always so polite even to people like Lizzie.
"Nothing you asthmatic loser," said Jessica Kauffman. She's Lizzie's minion. I don't know why she always makes fun of his asthma when she has it to. Violently, Jessica knocked Oran's black, square glasses off of his face so that Lizzie could stomp on them. I couldn't watch him get hurt like that anymore. As I turned down the hallway to get away, I ran directly into his best friend, Caleb Neece.
"HEY NOW DONT MAKE ME GET OUT MY PISTOL. LEAVE ORAN ALONE!"
Imagining the train wreck of fight that was about to go town, I resumed my trek down the schools main hallway towards my literature teacher's classroom. Oran is Mrs. HG's favorite student. He's an expert when it comes to Jon Krakauer and always knows anything and everything about DGP. He's my favorite part of the class too. The seating chart puts me in the unfortunate seat right between Lizzie and Jessica so that I am forced to listen to their taunts every morning. "He looks like an the cleaners from the Industrial Revolution," they mocked when he wore a white shirt and khakis. "Shut up Oran nobody cares," they jeer silently whenever he makes a brilliant comment that the were too dull to think of. It's torture because all I want to say is, "He looks amazing," or "He's a genius and everybody should care." When he and Caleb finally walked into class, my eyes followed them. Even though Caleb looked furious, Oran seemed indifferent. Usually, he looks eager to learn and charismatic. I wanted to ask him what was wrong, but he has no idea who I am. Or so I thought. Instead of walking to his desk that fateful morning, Oran walked over to me and asked for my Snapchat.
