Loser || WlW

One

"Claire's gonna die." I gasp, white knuckles clenched around my desk. My eyes dart around the room of blurry faces.

AP Psychology.

I wipe the drool from my chin and clear my throat, stare at my desk while fire runs through my cheeks and my heart pounds in my ears.

The silence is suffocating.

It was just a dream. The quiet lasts so long I start to convince myself nothing happened. Maybe I didn't say the words out loud at all, but before I can finish the thought, someone in the front snickers. An eruption of laughter follows and it's not the good kind. Not the "I told a funny joke" kind.

Mr. Gomez manages an eye roll and continues writing about classical conditioning on the board.

Claire's stare lingers. Her curious blue eyes travel my face as she tilts her head to the side, one million questions crossing her expression.

I force a half-smile, look down, look back. I can't bring myself to hold her stare.

Her lips pull into a small smile before she turns and twirls a wavy strand of blonde hair around her finger.

I bite my lip and manage a glance at Allison who's scribbling notes faster than the teacher can write them. I stare at her until she sighs, pushes her glasses up on her nose, and acknowledges me.

"Sorry," I mouth to her.

She flicks a ball of crumpled paper at me, her eyes darting across her notes, her untamed brown curls flowing over her face.

I sink back into my chair and let out a sigh. I should follow suit. Take notes instead of dreaming about Claire Davis. We're barely two months into class and I'm already giving people a reason to torment us.

The last half of the period drags until the bell rings. Mr. Gomez is droning on about the exam next week as a mob of students push into the hall. I shove everything in my backpack, and dash after Allison who already used her tiny build to squirm through the crowd.

"Allison!" I duck under a high five between two bros. "Allison, wait!"

She turns on me as I catch her by the elbow. "What the heck was that, Jordan?" Her voice gets squeaky high when she's mad. "Claire's going to die?" She scoffs. "You're going to get yourself turned into a meme." She clutches her notebook to her chest and continues walking.

I shove my hands in my pockets. "I had a late shift last night. It was just a dream."

She turns on me again. "Well, stop dreaming about Claire Davis. She's up here," she stretches her hand above her head and makes a level with it, "and we're down here." She drops her hand to her knee.

I smile. "I get it."

Allison's been an outcast since Freshman year when she got food poisoning in the middle of a musical that she was the lead in and threw up in front of the entire school. People only laughed about it for a couple of months but at Jefferson High, once you're labeled, you're a loser forever. Or at least until you graduate.

I was labeled when I pulled up to our prestigious charter school in my dad's 1992 Honda Civic. It broke down as he was pulling out of the parking lot and here I am, prohibited by social norms to talk to anyone besides Allison.

"Hey, Jordan," someone calls from behind.

But as I turn to see who called me, I'm hit with enough force to knock the breath from my lungs. The quarterback of the football team has his forearm pressed into my throat, pinning me to someone's locker.