a million different things I could have done that day

Chapter 1

Carson

Carson Andrews was carelessly positioned on a green chair outside the principal's office. It shouldn't really come as shock; it certainly didn't to any other witness.

Principal Florence slouched at the sight of him. "What is it this time, Carson?"

The boy smirked. "You don't want to know sir," he replied confidently.

"Well," The principal said, leaning back in his seat, "you know the drill."

"Two laps around the football field during lunch and after school for a week," Carson said. "Yeah, I do."

After a while, the principal sighed, "Why do you do this? It must be boring by now."

He  loved principal Florence. The poor man had always cared for him, but he just didn't get it. Carson smiled as he opened the door. "I guess I live to see your beautiful face, sir."

Carson

The session right before lunch was Chemistry. Hard enough as it was in sophomore year, junior year was unfathomable. It was considered strange to actually understand what "the old chem goat" was talking about without having to read the lesson two more times. I  was shocked when the new girl flounced in, a week after school began and finished her experiment perfectly without a lab partner.  Faster than the rest of the class, I might add.

"Hey dude," I whispered to Michael, "who is that?"

Michael was one of my closest friends. Knowing someone since kindergarten does that to you, even with all your differences, there is something about the experiences you share: The laughs when a teacher says something they've said a hundred times before, the look you share when you know someone is lying to your face, the remembrance of every test you thought you screwed up. It all adds up in the end, because despite your disagreements, there's that indubitable bond. 

Michael looked up to where I was pointing, frowned and looked back down at his work dismissively. "Dude, you're whacked. This is a joke, right? Please tell me you aren't as stupid as you look right now." 

The bell, barely audible here in the labs, screeched. I wish I could say I was saved by the bell, but Michael ignoring my question after that, assuming I was smart enough to figure it out, made matters worse.

Some people paint; others play instruments. Everyone has their own messed up version of therapy. For me, that meant running. Whether it was dawn or freaking midday with the scorching sun, I didn't care. This was my way of leaving all the bullshit behind: Mom, dad, ex-girlfriends, and college. People say that you can't run away from your problems. People were wrong, because that's exactly what I did.

I didn't need Florence giving me detention to run laps, that was just a bonus. At this point, I was even beginning to feel bad: the poor man would never understand my intentions. Then again, that was the whole point.

After I finished my 'punishment', I saw a girl sitting on the bleachers. Maybe she's doing drugs or something, I thought. This happened a lot in my school. People would bunk class and hang out around here, drinking and smoking pot. Despite that assumption, I chose to walk up and say, "Hey, mind if I sit here?"

She looked up disoriented, "Go ahead."

I dropped myself to a rough, white seat to her right. Then oddly, I began noticing random things about her. Like her left-handedness, the book she was sketching in, her caramel brown hair falling over her face.

Suddenly she muttered, "Are you going to keep staring at me? And if yes, try to be stealthy about it." This type of suave behavior was probably why I was single.

"First day?" I asked

She smiled, "Is it that obvious?"

"You're sitting alone on the bleachers. Well, that, and I saw you in chem. How's it going so far?"

"Let's see. During the last three hours, I've been stared at, asked to introduce myself to a classroom thrice, and asked out on a date by five different boys."

"Quite the over-achiever," I remarked.

She looked up with a look that expressed that that was the time she actually noticed my presence. "You really don't know who I am. I can't seem to decide whether I find that impressive or moronic."

"I'm hoping the former. Does everyone here know who you are?"

"Well, I'm sure most people didn't, but then the ones that did sort off spread the news around."

I waited for her to continue; when she didn't, I asked, "Are you going to tell me?"

She smiled mischievously, "Oh, sir! Didn't your mother ever teach you to not give personal information to strangers? You could be a creepy stalker for all I know."

"To prove my innocence, let's play a game. I am going to start spurting out random facts about myself and you'll do the same. Number one: I'm that one teenager in the world you'll meet who plays Sudoku on his phone instead of Candy Crush Saga."

She laughed a laugh that gives you happy memories of childhood, "You know that kinda makes you sound like a nerd, right?"

"Did the big, black Ray-Bans give it away?" I asked sarcastically. "Your turn."

She pondered something for a minute. "I have a fear or needles. I saw this movie when I was ten where this guy stabbed this other guys eyes out with a needle, and I have never been and never will be the same."

I grimaced, "That's morbid . So, do you have a boyfriend?"

She looked impressed, "That escalated quickly. Is this a part of the game or you wondering if you stand a chance?"

"A little bit of both."

"I did. His name was Troy. It didn't work out."

"Why?"

"It turned out he was nice guy disguised as a jerk. I couldn't handle the jerk part."

"Yeah, my ex-girlfriend was that.  A nice girl disguised as a vapid narcissist. Then it turned out she was a vapid narcissist."

"Krystelle."

"I'm sorry?"

She stood and picked up her purse "Krystelle Yale. That's my name," she said before walking away.