Hopeless

I spilled to you the details of my evil, sadistic plan to overtake the school with our two person alliance.”
    “I am Sky. And you really have nothing to worry about, seeing as though you really haven’t shared any details about your evil plan yet. I am curious though, how you know who I am. I know four or five guys at this school and I’ve made out with every one of them. You aren’t one of them, so what gives?”
    For a split second, I see a flash of what looks like pity in his eyes. He’s lucky it was just a flash, though.
    Breckin shrugs. “I’m new here. And if you haven’t deducted from my impeccable fashion sense, I think it’s safe to say that I’m…” he leans forward and cups his hand to his mouth in secrecy. “Mormon,” he whispers.
    I laugh. “And here I was thinking you were about to say gay .”
    “That too,” he says with a flick of his wrist. He folds his hands under his chin and leans forward a couple of inches. “In all seriousness, Sky. I noticed you in class today and it’s obvious you’re new here, too. And after seeing the stripper money fall out of your locker before fourth period, then witnessing your non-reaction to it, I knew we were meant to be. Also, I figured if we teamed up, we might prevent at least two unnecessary teenage suicides this year. So, what do you say? Want to be my very bestest friend ever in the whole wide world?”
    I laugh. How could I not laugh at that? “Sure. But if the book sucks, we’re re-evaluating the friendship.”

Turns out, Breckin was my saving grace today…and he really is Mormon. We have a lot in common, and even more out of common, which makes him that much more appealing. He was adopted as well, but has a close relationship with his birth family. Breckin has two brothers who aren’t adopted, and who also aren’t gay, so his parents assume his gayness (his word, not mine) has to do with the fact that he doesn’t share a bloodline with them. He says they’re hoping it fades with more prayer and high school graduation, but he insists that it’s only going to flourish.
    His dream is to one day be a famous Broadway star, but he says he lacks the ability to sing or act, so he’s scaling down his dream and applying to business school, instead. I told him I wanted to major in creative writing and sit around in yoga pants and do nothing but write books and eat ice cream every day. He asked what genre I wanted to write and I replied, “It doesn’t matter, so long as it’s good, right?” I think that comment sealed our fate.
    Now I’m on my way home, deciding on whether or not to go fill Six in on the bittersweet happenings of day one, or go grocery shopping in order to get my caffeine fix before my daily run.
    The caffeine wins, despite the fact that my affection for Six is slightly greater.
    My minimal portion of familial contribution is the weekly grocery shopping. Everything in our house is sugar-free, carb-free and taste -free, thanks to Karen’s unconventional vegan way of life, so I actually prefer doing the grocery shopping. I grab a six-pack of soda and the biggest bag of bite size Snickers I can find and throw them in the cart. I have a nice hiding spot for my secret stash in my bedroom. Most teenagers are stashing away cigarettes and weed—I stash away sugar.
    When I reach the checkout, I recognize the girl ringing me up is in my second period English class. I’m pretty sure her name is Shayna, but her nametag reads Shayla . Shayna/Shayla is everything I wish I were. Tall, voluptuous and sun-kissed blonde. I can maybe pull off five-three on a good day and my flat brown hair could use a trim—maybe even some highlights. They would be a bitch to maintain considering the amount of hair that I have. It falls about six inches past my shoulders, but I keep it pulled up most of the time due to the southern humidity.
    “Aren’t you in my Science class?” Shayna/Shayla asks.
    “English,” I correct her.
    She shoots me a condescending look. “I did speak English,” she says defensively. “I said, ‘aren’t you in my Science class?’”
    Oh, holy hell. Maybe I don’t want to be that blonde.
    “No,” I say. “I meant English as in ‘ I’m not in your Science class, I’m in your English class.’”
    She looks at me blankly for a second, then laughs. “Oh.” Realization dawns on her face. She eyes the screen in front of her and reads out my total. I slip my hand in my back pocket and retrieve the credit card,