I'll be real with you, I'm that guy. The one who somehow manages to look both tall and awkward, like someone tried to assemble a human using IKEA instructions written in another language. Yeah, I've got the height, but it's wasted potential, just more surface area for disappointment.
Physically? Picture a noodle with anxiety. My reflection screams "lives in front of a monitor," and my shoulders have all the confidence of a folding chair mid-collapse.
Even the neighborhood legend, Toby Reyes, the guy who looks like he bench-presses vending machines for fun, pulls more attention than I ever could. And that's saying something, considering he's got patchy facial hair that looks like he lost a fight with puberty.
But I can't even hate Toby. Dude's solid. He just gets a little too competitive whenever computers enter the chat. He's convinced he's the coding king, but spoiler: he's not.
Now, my real story starts at home. I live with my mom, she's an ICU nurse at Saint Avara General and my two half-sisters, who love me the way people love expired coupons: they wish they didn't have to, but they can't quite throw me out either.
Here's the twist: I'm not even blood-related to them. I'm what you'd call a charity case.
My biological mom died giving birth to me, and apparently, she forgot to mention who the lucky donor was. Her best friend, my now-mom, stepped up, took me in, and raised me like her own. Which, honestly, is impressive considering my existence came with zero instructions and a lifetime warranty of chaos.
She's a hero for that, really. If she hadn't stepped in, I'd probably have ended up as one of those tragic background characters in a true-crime documentary.
So yeah, I've got this weird half-family situation where everyone loves me in that we-tolerate-your-existence kind of way.
Thing is, I'm actually smart. Like, dangerously smart. I'm ranked second in my class, just behind Lia Marin, who probably dreams in binary. I've built computers from scrap parts, written code that could get me expelled if anyone found out, and even fooled the school's attendance system with a self-generating sick-note program that ran for three months before getting caught.
But in high school, brains mean jack. You can be a genius, but if you don't look like you belong in a streaming-service teen drama, you're basically invisible or worse, a punchline.
And I? I'm the punchline.
Cut to now: me, sprawled on the cafeteria floor next to the trash can, marinara sauce soaking into my hoodie. The junior class has their phones out, recording my humiliation like it's the next big meme drop.
"Yo, he bounced!"
"Someone add the Windows shutdown sound!"
"WorldStar!"
Classic.
The star of this circus? Jaxon Merritt. Six-two, built like a Marvel audition, hair that defies physics. He's the kind of guy who looks like he was designed by an algorithm called Make Everyone Else Feel Ugly.exe.
Our families go way back. His mom runs the hospital where my mom works. She also used to be best friends with my biological mom until the rumor mill turned their history into a soap opera. Long story short, my mom's client list included Jaxon's dad. Yeah. That one.
According to local gossip, my biological mom left Mr. Merritt so emotionally broken he couldn't, uh, perform anymore. And because rich people can't handle scandal, Mrs. Merritt stayed with him and redirected all that resentment into hating me. Even after a DNA test proved I wasn't his kid, she didn't stop. Petty doesn't even begin to cover it.
So now, her perfect golden-boy son makes it his personal mission to keep my life miserable.
"Is he crying?" someone calls out.
"Nah, that's just fry grease!"
The laughter rolls through the cafeteria like waves. My sisters sit at their usual table, Sara pretending her AP Psychology book doubles as an invisibility cloak, and Emma scrolling through InstaPic like she's studying for a degree in denial.
They won't step in. They care, sure, but not enough to nuke their social lives for me. I don't blame them.
My phone's lying face-down a few feet away, probably shattered again. At this point, its screen has more cracks than my self-esteem.
Jaxon's buddies are losing it. "Bro, natural selection!" one of them snickers. Yeah, hilarious. Real peak comedy, fellas.
I pull myself together, trying to look unbothered while wiping marinara from my hoodie. My backpack's exploded across the floor, my stuff scattered everywhere like a sad yard sale. Two hundred phones are recording while I crawl around picking it all up.
This isn't even the first time today. Earlier, Braden Keller "accidentally" shouldered me into a locker. Didn't trend, though. Guess this time, I'm finally viral.
Once I've got my stuff, I make a quick exit, half-walk, half-flee, while laughter echoes behind me.
Here's the funny part: deep down, I know this isn't forever. There's gotta be something bigger waiting for me. Maybe college. Maybe karma. Maybe just the sweet relief of adulthood where nobody gives a damn who tripped in the cafeteria sophomore year.
For now, I've got sixth-period Computer Science with Mr. Phelps, the one teacher who doesn't look at me like I'm contagious. And Toby's there, which is nice. He still owes me twenty credits for saving his project.
Small victories, right?
The hallway's mostly empty, just the usual loners and library-lunch crew. I should probably be one of them, but the Wi-Fi in there is garbage, and I've got a code upload waiting.
My phone buzzes. Three notifications: two from group chats roasting me, and one from an unknown number.