Michael

I walk through the halls, being as inconspicuous as possible. I hope the school bullies don't notice but they spot there target. There like predators, looking for prey. I breathe in and prepare for the worse.

            "Hey guys, it's the faggot!" the ring leader Grant says. He wears a skater hat and sweatshirt with jeans on his semi bulky figure.

I start to grit my teeth. Why don't they see how much it's killing me inside. I start to walk away quickly and tune out their words. Just not quickly enough.

 Grant's other half, Alyssa, trips me, making their posse laugh as my books make a loud clang on the floor. I gather my books swiftly, but not before Alyssa makes a final crack at it.

"Is that the same position your boyfriend used to fuck you in?" she spats, with an evil smirk.

I get up, keeping my head down and head to class, hearing their laughs behind me. The kids that go here are pathetic. They pick on each other to make themselves feel better. I've always been a target, but things have gotten worse since, well the ‘incident'.

I enter the choir room, my only source of escapism. My only friend, notebook, is sitting in my lap, opened up waiting to be written in.

Log 279:

Physical Health: Average

Mental Health: Stable, but barely

Emotional Health: Bad condition; Completely deteriorated

That's as much as I get in before my class starts.

"Good morning everyone! I just want to remind you that we're starting our Music Department Ensemble tomorrow and you CANNOT choose your groups!" Mrs. Gardener says. Everyone else groans in annoyance. I don't mind at all, I would've ended up in the leftovers group.

"Okay children, get in your places! Michael, you lead dear." I smile softly at her. She's always been my favorite teacher.

The rest of the day I stay hidden until the final bell. I head straight for the news office, the metal on my boots slowing me down. I find myself running into Blake.

Blake is a guy in my grade who had a crush on me and asked me out last year. I declined of course, but we've been good friends ever since. Besides, he had a boyfriend now, but I get the feeling the crush is still there.

"Hey Michael" he says, now walking with me there.

"Hey Blake. How are things with Jason?"

"Tomato, tomoto. How is life?"

"Potato, pototo." Blake gives me his signature smirk, gliding his hand over his wavy, dark brown hair. His freckles look like there dancing on the bridge of his small nose when he shows anything close to a smile.

"Going to do newspaper, finally?" he asks, with only a hint of teasing in his voice. I nod.

I've been trying to work up the courage to go and turn in my try out article. The newspaper kids are the only decent people in the entire school, not to mention this one special girl. I not sure why, but I know she's different.

"Good luck man." I nod in response.

I waltz straight in and do what I usually do. Blend in and see.

I act like one of their own. Have a busy urgent look. Hold articles with importance and pride. They were bees in a hive, no person rested. The place smelled of ink and paper. News, cardstock, printing, even magazine. I push through a door to find who I was looking for. The chief...the female chief. She was typing away with a delirious look in her eyes.

            She was wearing a magenta pencil skirt and a white-black patterned tank top blouse. She bared a sleek pair of reading glasses.

When she finished typing, she gave a satisfied nod and smile. She lays back and spins in her swivel chair towards me, eyes closed. When she opens them she lets out a small screech.

"Arrgghh! Who the hell are you?" the girl asks harshly, a strange glint of mischief in her eyes.

"I-I'm, uh, Michael Jackson" I respond, walking forward.

She stands with surprising stature.

"Are you here to turn in a "breaking story?"" she asks, obviously annoyed.

"No actually, I was here to apply for a spot on the staff if there was one available." She gives me a look of surprise, her eyes now laughing.

"Why yes, actually our photographer just moved last week, so this is perfect timing! Do you have anything to show that you qualify for this job, Mr. Jackson?" I wanted to laugh there and then. So I guess I'm Mr. Jackson now, huh.

"So?"

"Oh sorry, I kinda blanked out there, sorry." She gives me a small, forgiving, smile. I return it and start fishing through my messenger bag, crimson starting to flush up to my cheeks. I know what you're thinking; only a faggot would carry around an effing backpack that looks like a damn purse. I guess you could say I brought the bullying upon me.

I finally pull out my photo binder and hand it to her. It was a 3'' wide red and black patterned binder filled with years of photography. I've been doing this since I was twelve. She looks through the pictures, obviously infatuated with each one.

"Wow Michael, just wow!" she says ending with an astonished laugh.

"So? What do you think?" I ask nervously, biting my lip.

"Michael, these truly are beautiful. Almost as beautiful as your paintings." My eyes widen a bit, but I keep quiet.

"Unfortunately Michael, these pictures just aren't what we're looking for" she says solemnly and I look down at the floor, my depression wave starting to flow.

"They're better than that." I look up a sudden feeling washing over that I haven't felt in a long time. It starts at my toes, goes up my feet, shoots up my legs, warms my stomach, flutters in my chest, and adds color to my cheeks. Pure happiness, it is just pure happiness.

"Thank you so much! You have no idea how much this means to me!" I say, giving her a bear hug.

"Actually, I do." I freeze up, not knowing what expect.

"You think I don't know who you are, Michael Jackson." I cringe, expecting the sympathy speech.

"Don't think that because you're the victim I'm about to sympathize for your ass! There are enough people to do that for me. I let you be a part of the staff because you have potential, not because of empathy. I've been watching you for awhile now, and I'm not sure if I should trust you or destroy you. I eventually came to the decision to trust you. But just in case, you're going to have to fill out this." She hands me a packet and pencil. I must come off as confused because what she's says next explains her little rant.

"It's a personality test. It just makes sure your sane, or at least somewhat. I was angry now.

"YOU think I'm a nut job!" I bellow in a low tone.

"Yes, I do. Unless you felt forced to perm your hair instead of cut it." I really want to stay mad, but I can't. She was obviously just messing with me, not bullying me. So I let it slide, for now. But not before I mess with her a bit.

"What If I told you I hear voices in my head?" I ask.

"Then your either schizophrenic or like me" she answers, now sitting again with her glasses off, messing with them in her hand.

"What's schizophrenia?"

"It's generally known as hearing voices that control you and/or seeing or imagining things that aren't there or don't exist" she says in a matter-of -factly.

"Well then!"

"Just stating the facts Jackson" she says, now looking directly at me. Then it clicks.

            It's her. The girl, the special one, and the one that's different.

            "Wait, then what are you?" I ask. She raises an amused eyebrow.

            "Lonely, that's all I am." I smile a reassuring smile.

            "Well Jackson, its 5:30, so you should start heading out. Just make sure to come here every day after school, except Friday. You'll start next week. Okay?" I nod and head towards the door, holding it open for her. We're almost outside when I ask her one last thing.

"What's your name anyways?"

"Skeeter, Skeeter Ramsey."