Last year, as a joke, the yearbook ran my picture, accompanied by the phrase "Most likely to blow the school up."
I guess I am that kind of guy. I have the appearance of the stereotypical loner; my entire wardrobe is black. I paint my fingernails –which are disgustingly gnawed down out of nerves- and my hair is emerald green. Most mornings, I don't even bother to comb it; I pull my hood up over it instead. I'm too pale, too dark, too brooding. I hate the world and the world hates me.
I don't wonder why they think I'll blow them all to hell.
It's a long ride on the underground from school to home. I change trains twice, which is a pain.
I don't know which train she takes first, but I always see her on the second one. That girl. She's friends with the goodie-two-shoes; the popular guys. The ones every one loves because they're just so gosh darn nice. She's loved too, because she's that girl who's so sweet and pretty and kind. She was even nice to me once, apologizing when she bumped into