Good ole Bleek and I walk to school everyday.

Yeah, sure, chuckle while you sip some wine with that cheese. What can I say—we're best friends and we're morning people.

Plus we're going out. We have been for basically a year.

I kind of love him and his awkwardness. He is the bacon to my orange juice. Coincidently the combination happens to be a breakfast of champions, thank you very much.

So put that in your pipe and smoke it.

So usually we're just bitchin' seniors laughing up a storm, but today we're just holding hands. I mean, it's nice and all, but we've been doing the whole we're-so-in-love-we-don't-have-to-even-talk thing for…kind of a while.

But heck, I deal. I can be one chill cat. And I just look over to see the sun in his hair…

And, hey, fuck the silence. The kid's just friggin' adorable.

I smile broadly, he smiles in that meek way of his back, we kiss (no tongue, darn) and we part ways. It's the start of second semester, so Bleek's all worried about getting to his new classes on time, yadda yadda.

Now on my own (a part of me is relieved he's gone?) I shove my hands in my jean pockets. They should probably be cleaned…probably have worn these babies for a good three days straight now. There's a sense of hippie legitimacy but the label of she's-the-girl-who-smells-like-homelessness looms near. I really can't have that. I mean I've already lived life as the cautionary whale; the way of the hobo is just a bit too much for me.

As I'm musing over the jeans I recall the fact I need to check out my schedule, as my fingers brush the bottom of my right pocket to find an entirely weathered piece of paper.

First thought: this dilapidated piece of paper has probably gone through the wash a trillion times.

Second thought: this crinkled piece of shit is actually my schedule.

I pull it out. From what I can make out first hour's Creative Writing with that one teacher who looks like a wrinkled trout (it's inexplicably true. See it to believe it, my friend) and, swear to blog, she smells faintly of fish. I've never had her, though.

Trout hits my tender nostrils right as I walk through the door. Not fun in the least. I'm halfway wishing Bleek would be right next to me so we could smile and hide our laughs together. Now, that would be fun. Maybe. Probably. Oh hell, definitely. She's the fucking trout lady. Bleek always thought she was a myth, now that I think of it.

I sigh. This could have been a legendary moment for dude.

So I shuffle up and down rows of seats, because good ole teach just had to place cutesy little name notecards on our desks: assigned seating. I could picture her, all excited, carefully writing out her students' names in Crayola and probably envisioning them all to be…what, five, six years old?

I sit down at my seat (front row. The gods are telling me to keep with my nerd status. I decide to embrace it). Her little notecard for me has smiley faces, clouds, and rainbows on it. A warm smile comes over me. Can't help but remember Bleek's postcard he sent me in Spanish class, all that time ago…

The bell rings (trout still not reporting for duty in front of class) but that's not what snaps me out of my little trip down memory lane. Nope, it's a voice, low and fucking cocky as hell—

"Geez MacGuff, I didn't think you could look any dykier, but you managed to pull it off. Bravo!" The voice cackled and clapped slowly.

I'd know that cackle anywhere.

I let a dry, venomous laugh, brushin' it off the only way I know how: bitch style. "Gee, Rendazo, I gotta say the douchiness of you and your thirty-dollar polo amazes me in its sheer magnitude of unoriginality. So, really, hat's off to you. You're a royally massive douchebag."

Steve Rendazo grinned, that stupid, I'm-a-jock grin, with his eyes all lit up, Chesire Cat style. He's eating this shit up. "Well, hell, that's not the only thing that's massive about me!"

Some dude behind us started to crack up. Rendazo high-fived him.

"Ah, how I adore your high brow humor," I quipped in a socialite sort of voice, with just the right amount of satisfying, bitter bite to it. "Simply divine."

While I do absolutely abhor Steve and his stupid insults dripping with the humor of a Neanderthal, I gotta say, there's a certain fun in the whole let's-insult-each-other thing. I call it the Ping Pong Effect. It's definitely a break from the quiet life I've had as of late.

Well sit me down and tell me I'm Charlie Sheen. You know you're life's headed down the shitter if you actually enjoy talking with Steve Rendazo.

"Class—class!" Trout now tried desperately to get the attention of a class of seniors she left alone for ten minutes. She evidently doesn't know that one minute—one second—of free time is enough to distract the minds of those suffering from a disease known as Senioritis.

Sure, it's a cheesy excuse, or joke, or what-have-you. But it's serious and it's pretty much fucking us all sideways right now.

Trout smiles desperately, Coke-bottled eyes glinting madly in the bluish sting of the school's cheap florescent lighting. It's Day One, and I think she's already considering giving up and retiring to a life of cheap bars, beer, and men.

Once again, a certain chuckle pushes me from my thoughts.

"This is so pathetic. I almost feel bad for her," he mutters cheerfully under his breath. It's as though he's meaning to eventually wind up murmuring sweet nothings to himself, but then…he glances at me.

And—damn, it could be the florescent lighting—I see him blush.

Sure, he has the hots for me, I knew that already. But this feels…real? (!) And, worst of all, as the two of us sit together laughing over The Hopeless Trout, I feel a faint tinge. Since I'm blushing, too.