Like To Be You ✓

one

I don't know what it's like to be you

I don't know what it's like but I'm dying to

If I could put myself in your shoes

Then I'd know what it's like to be you.

Tell me what's inside of your head

No matter what you say I won't love you less

And I'd be lying if I said that I do

I don't know what it's like to be you.

- s.m.

o-o-o

The entire class is whispering amongst itself when I enter. For a moment, I halt, wondering if they're all talking shit about me. Then I remember that there's nothing that comes in the specifics under my name except for 5'11, hella gay, and the other walking Abacus.

The other walking abacus, apart from Crowne Heights High's all-rounder boy, Tyler Beckett, who is currently chewing at the end of his pencil while concentratedly staring at his notebook.

See, he even has the name to go along with his status, which is: highly-popular [def. The student population knows who he is but most of them don't give a fuck because there's literally nothing special about him except that he plays soccer really well and is tanned (like lightly toasted bread).]

I look back and forth from the whiteboard to the murmuring crowd, then decide that it must be something else.

Behind me, the door to the classroom opens again. Our breaths hitch at the blue spiral bound cover of a book peeking out from under Mr Blackwell's arm.

"Trigonometry." Mr Blackwell drops the heavy book he likes giving us questions from (I call it the Bullshit Book) on his wooden table and smiles at the class, which collectively groans. Like the shit-eating teacher he is, his grin widens, and he chuckles.

He writes out a few questions on the board, the ones we revised just yesterday. Within two—okay, three minutes, I'm done solving the seven proofs and am about to recite my signature monotonous 'done' when Tyler Beckett beats me to it and raises an amused eyebrow at me.

I glare at him in return.

Mr Blackwell's gaze jumps from Tyler to me, and he too raises his brows. I nod in affirmation, and he nods back, his posture easing. It's the usual silent conversation among us which goes something like this:

Tyler: I'm faster than you.

Me: No, you're not, you imbecile.

Mr Blackwell: You done with the questions?

Me: Yes. Now please end Tyler.

Mr Blackwell: I'm afraid I can't afford to end up in prison. The food isn't too nice and I have a son to look after.

Me(sadly): Okay.

It's another ten minutes until the class has finished all the proofs. Briefly, I wonder what took them so long before I remember that it took me a whole 26 days to complete reading Macbeth for an assignment, so I wisely keep my thoughts to myself.

x

I'm not as snarky today as I usually am, and Zayne notices it. And then he straight away asks me if I'm alright.

That's what I like about Zayne. He's straightforward, and a total douchebag to other people like me. Here are my specifics on him:

-Wears flannel shirts at least four times a week

-Likes strawberry ice-cream (truly revolting, I know)

-Has an unhealthy obsession with knitting fingerless gloves

-His longest relationship lasted two weeks and six days

"Are you alright?" he sounds mildly concerned. I don't respond, but I do narrow my eyes at the Pepto-Bismol pink tiles we're walking on.

"Why do you look... not angry?" he approaches me cautiously, all-the-while deeply frowning.

I give him a look.

"Are you okay? Down with a fever?" He snaps his fingers and inhales sharply. "I know! Your diarrhoea's over!"

He flashes me a proud smile that makes me want to lunge at him and punch all his teeth out, but because I am wise and don't want detention, I keep my clenched fists right by my side.

"It was a one-time thing!" I practically growl at him.

He smiles again, this time cheekily, and lightly punches my shoulder. "Just kidding. You haven't had Chipotle since that day."

"I said, shut up."

While Zayne rummages through his disastrous hurricane-struck locker, I look around, simply for the sake of not continuously staring at the greasy grey lockers, a sight which sometimes makes me unbearably nauseous.

Students are milling around, talking, chewing gum, and exchanging books at their lockers. Then I spot Tyler Beckett's head of hair so black, it glints blue under the lights.

He's standing beside Shannon, the girl whom I presume is most possibly his girlfriend/regular hook-up and his group of pretentious friends. They're laughing and playfully pushing each other, their every action so loud and obnoxious, I wonder why they feel the need to seek attention all the goddamn time. It's not like the thick letterman jackets and designer heels that go click-clack every time they walk down the halls like it's a catwalk don't account for enough attention.

I direct my gaze back to the grimy lockers and bitterly smile.

Nearly three years of friendship, but it seems like they know nothing about each other; because if they did, Jean McCormick would be considered a freak due to the hidden violent episodes she has at her house, Dylan Padalecki would be the outcast because he spent two months in juvie during the summer under the false pretence of vacationing in Hawaii, and Tyler would neither have a girlfriend nor his group of 'friends'.

Because nobody knows that on 29 December during freshman year, six days before school was set to open, Tyler Beckett, my then-best-friend of 1056 days, kissed me under a plastic silk-green mistletoe and put his head on my shoulder as he fell asleep next to me on the rug we were sharing in front of the fireplace.

And he never spoke to me again.   

o-o-o

a/n 

Thoughts?