Rose

"Hey, nice haircut!" Brianna says when she first sees me in art Monday morning. She takes her seat at the table across from me. "I was wondering when you were gonna trim that ish."

Kelsey laughs. "That's what I said."

Yes, she had said that as well. And now, like I did when she said it, I clench my fists under the table and take one long, deep breath before speaking. Counting one, two, three, four....

And breathe out.

"Yeah," I say in a monotone. "My parents decided it was time."

"Well it looks cool," Brianna remarks. "You could totally, like, spike it up now."

Yeah, thanks but no thanks. I plan to continue doing what I did this morning, which was brush it down so what little bangs I have left hang across my forehead and over my left eye. Sure it looks kind of emo, but it's the best I can do at this point. Until I grow it out to about as long as I had it before, and my dad makes me cut it again, and the cycle continues.

Thank goodness the bell rings before my friends can say anymore about my stupid hair. I need art right now like a heroin addict needs a fix.

"Good morning guys!" says Miss Vaughn. Today, her lips are a stunning vermilion that matches the color of her loose t-shirt. Her paint-splattered capris compliment that lovely hourglass figure that I'll never have. "How are your character blocks coming?"

There's a collective groan from the seven girls and three boys I share the class with. Ah yes, our character blocks. Our first major art project of the school year, due by the end of September, began as a hardened clay block (about two feet in width, length, and height) that we were instructed to design to reflect our personalities. All six sides have to be painted, and (the fact that most people struggle with) we're only allowed one draft because there's not enough money in the art budget to be wasting clay blocks.

Miss Vaughn laughs. "Oh come on, guys. We're here because art is fun, remember?"

"Not when it's painting blocks," grumbles Brianna, who has always been more of a drawer than a painter.

"Well take your time," says Miss Vaughn. "We've still got two weeks left to work!" The she turns on the radio and leaves us to work, seating herself at her desk where her own character block is in progress.

Another thing I love about Miss Vaughn: she insists on doing the same projects we do, with the same rules and deadlines. As if she's part of the class, as well as our instructor. I honestly think it's simply because she loves art so much.

I collect my block from the back shelf and bring it to our table with the paint supplies, followed by Kelsey and Brianna. I only have one face completed so far, and I'm sure you can guess what I painted....

"George, what is with your obsession with roses?" Brianna asks (not for the first time, I might add). I'm sure she doesn't mean it to come out scornfully, but poor Bri tends to have the vocal equivalent of resting bitch-face. "Nothing against guys who like flowers, of course, but you did the same shit in middle school. Just roses, roses, roses on everything."

"Yeah, don't you ever want to try for some variety?" Kelsey adds condescendingly, instead of reigning Bri in for being rude, like she usually does. They're both always rudest to me in the art room, taking every opportunity to critique my work, possibly because of the jealousy they've always harbored of my artistic abilities.

I try not to let it get to me.

"I like roses," I respond simply. "And this is a character block. You're supposed to paint things that represent you."

"Well you better come up with five more things if you want a good grade," says Kelsey, eyeing the remaining blank faces on my cube.

I don't respond. I stare at the completed side facing me, where I spent the last week painting a ridiculously detailed rose, red as Miss Vaughn's lips, from birds' eye view that covered the entire square. This, I decide, will be the top of my cube.

Now I just need to figure out what else defines me.

Instinctively, I turn to where Miss Vaughn is working and humming along to the Taylor Swift song that's playing on the radio. She seems to be working on all of her block at once, rather than one face at a time. So far, it's composed of intricate little doodles that dance around the cube, somehow working well together.

The side facing me is painted completely white for the base, and has a string of music notes extending from the upper left corner to the bottom right. On that same face, she has inked in elegant cursive what appear to be song lyrics, but I can't read them well from here. The keys of a piano stretch across the bottom, and a violin appears to lean in another corner. Her art is breathtaking.

Before I know it, I've returned to my own cube, nothing but the thought of impressing my beautiful teacher occupying my mind. I wonder briefly if I do have a crush on Miss Vaughn, as Brianna suggested on the first day of school, before deciding that no, that isn't it. I just....admire her. I respect her. I want to be her.

The song on the radio has changed to "Diamonds" by Rihanna, and I mouth along the words as I begin painting the base of a new side with a soft cream color. The color of art paper.....

RIIIIIING.

I jump in my seat, my paintbrush almost flying out of my hand. Where the hell did the time go??

"See you all tomorrow," says Miss Vaughn as students race out the door, already having cleaned their messes.

"We tried to tell you it was almost time to go," Kelsey tells me. "But you were totally in the zone."

I blush, but remain behind to clean up my area. Miss Vaughn smiles approvingly and moves to write me a pass. "Where're you headed after this?" she asks.

"Biology," I grumble.

She chuckles sympathetically. "Not too excited about that one?"

I shake my head, dumping out my water and rinsing my brushes in the sink as she scrawls a note for me.

"Don't feel bad," she says with a laugh. "Science was never my strongest subject either. No subject was, actually. I would've spent my entire school day in the art room, if they'd let me."

I smile, enjoying the thought of a teenage Miss Vaughn skipping her core classes to work on a painting, and her art teacher probably being cool enough to not rat her out. In my vision, she looks exactly the same as she does now, with her paint-splattered capris and silky brown waves that fall gracefully over her shoulders....

I have to stop imagining to keep myself from crying. Wordlessly, I grab a sponge and scrub my entire table, including the spots of paint that Kelsey and Brianna missed.

"So who chopped off all your hair?" Miss Vaughn asks conversationally.

My hand moves to my head self-consciously. I almost forgot about my haircut over the course of the class, and my heart sinks as I run my palm over the stubble on the back of my neck. But I love the way she asks, as if aware that I had no choice in the matter. "My parents made me get it cut," I mutter, trying to hide the resentment from my tone.

But she picks up on it easily. "Oh, parents," she sighs. "No matter how hard they try, they never seem to know what you really need, do they?"

My eyebrows shoot up in surprise, because that is the exact opposite of what adults are supposed to tell you when you complain about your parents. I can't tell if she's being sarcastic or not, but suddenly I feel loads better.

I dry the table, grab my stuff, and accept the pass from her just as the late bell rings.

"Have a good rest of your day, Miss Vaughn."

"You too, sweetheart," she replies.

All the way through biology, I'm unable to stop smiling.

------------

Sam

"Everyone outside, let's go!" Coach Wheeler yells at us as we come out of the locker room at the beginning of gym class, "We're running today!"

The girls whine loudly in response, complaining about their hair, their makeup, and whatever the fuck else. Meanwhile I stretch, eager to feel the wind against my face and the ground against my pounding feet, but most of all eager for a day that doesn't involve any teamwork.

Outside, we line up by the football field alongside the boys' P.E. class. There's a sudden change in energy among my crowd as the same girls who were whining about having to run earlier suddenly start giggling and stretching provocatively.

"Yes, in high school boys' and girls' P.E. is sometimes combined," Coach Wheeler grumbles. "We assume you all can handle it at this point. Ladies, try not to be distracted when the boys start taking their shirts off."

The giggling increases in volume. I roll my eyes and continue my (non-provocative)  stretching.

"Did your brother actually cut his hair?" A male voice asks out of nowhere.

I look up with a start. Who the hell....Oh joy, it's Dan from math class. He gives me that creepy smile he's given me since day one, complete with a self-satisfied glint in his eye.

"What's it to you?" I ask, pointedly looking away from him as I do my arm-over-body stretch.

"Oh, nothing. Just thought it was weird, is all. I really thought you'd be the one to get the next haircut."

I stop stretching, meeting his black eyes through his blacker fringe. Stupid asshole thinks he's so cool and emo. "What the hell are you talking about? Why do you even care?"

He shrugs with mock innocence. "I'm just making a comment, don't get your boxers in a twist. I've heard a lot of theories about how you and your brother are so weird, but to me it was starting to seem like you guys just wanted to switch genders."

I physically feel my heart turn stone cold, and it's then that Coach Wheeler blows her whistle and everyone takes off.

Now, my original plan was to outrun everyone immediately and complete the mile in an easy six minutes (I've always been a good runner), but I can't leave Dan thinking he's right about his assumption. I can't.

I slow my pace to match Dan's moderate speed. "What makes you say that?!" I ask as we start running.

"Say what?"

"That we want to 'switch genders'. Because that's just fucking stupid."

He does his stupid fake-shrug thing. "It's just my guess. I mean, at first I thought you both were just faggots, but-"

"If you'd stop using that word....that'd be great." I interject, my incredulous tone masked by my heavy breathing.

"Bitch, why do you even care what I think all of a sudden?" He asks. I notice that we both speed up as we get angrier. "You never cared before."

We turn the first corner, now running onto the sidewalk, and it takes all my willpower not to push Dan into the street.

"I don't care," I assure him through gritted teeth. I wish I could sound angrier, but my breathing quickly becomes labored as we run, and I know I have to slow down my speech to allow for even breaths if I don't want to pass out. "You've always been an asshole....just like everyone else....in this goddamn school."

He scoffs in between breaths. "Then why are you talking to me?"

"Because....I want to know....why you think that." And tell you you're wrong.

"Again, it's just what I think," he spits back. "I see you two....everyday in algebra....and it's just so obvious."

"What's obvious?" I demand. "Because you're wrong....our problems have nothing to do with our genders." I can't help but laugh in my head at that bull-faced lie.

We both stop to catch our breath by the tree at the first quarter-way point. We've already surpassed most of the girls (and the boys who stopped to flirt with them), having both reached our maximum speed at some point. As if we were trying to outrun each other.

"It is obvious," Dan insists, wiping the sweat from his forehead. "It's in the way you act....like, you guys care about each other a ridiculous amount-"

"We're brother and sister-" I try to argue, but he continues.

"Yet you're so jealous of each other. And the way he acts all girly and you act all butch...." he trails off, as if the rest is self-explanatory. "I'm surprised no one else has thought the same thing."

"Well yeah, cause everyone just assumes that we're gay!" I yell without thinking. "How about you and all the other assholes in this school just STOP ASSUMING SHIT!"

He gives me a look, the first look he has every given me that's not cocky or angry. He looks....curious.

I take off running again.

He follows me. "Hey!" he calls.

"I'm done talking to you!" I yell back. I wish I never started talking to him in the first place. I wish I just ignored his stupid questions like Rose does with her bullies, instead of making a goddamn conversation out of it. The guy's a douchebag. Why did I feel the need to defend myself against a douchebag?

"Wait up!" He says as he catches up with me. I don't slow down, but unfortunately he maintains my pace no problem. "Just for the record....I'm not an asshole."

I laugh out loud, wasting all my breath as I do, but I can't help it. Funniest shit I've heard all day. "Yeah....and I'm the goddamn queen of England," I respond, trying to speed up, but unfortunately I don't have the energy to sprint.

"I'm serious-"

"You've made fun of me," I remind him, my blood boiling. "....And my brother....since that first day....you call us names....you laugh along with everyone else....how the hell are you not-" I'm cut off suddenly when I trip over the bump in the sidewalk that I didn't see, and would have gone tumbling to the ground had Dan not caught me by the elbow.

He pulls me up and we both fall into the grass. We're at the halfway point anyway. "Would an asshole...." he asks, his tone joking and cocky even as he catches his damn breath. "Save a damsel in distress?"

"Fuck you!" I spit, ready to get up and start running again even though I'm still practically hyperventilating, but he pulls me back.

"Hey..." he says, all serious now. "Look....I'm sorry, but might I remind you....you were mean to me first."

"I was not."

"Uh, yeah you were,"

"Why, because I didn't want you to hit on me???" I demand, outraged. "Hate to break it to you pal, but your dick isn't god's gift to the fucking universe. You think people owe you shit just for sitting down next to them and playing nice guy???"

"You seriously don't remember?" Dan asks, almost equally frustrated. "Sure, I was flirting with you, but just because I thought you were cute! You're the one who started acting all bitchy like, 'Uh, that seat's taken." He mocks me in a ridiculous, high-pitched valley girl voice that makes me want to punch him in the nose.

I have to stop and think though....was I the first one who was rude? It's not like I haven't had my fair share of asshole moments, I suppose.

But then, "Of course," Dan adds. "I wouldn't have flirted with you if I knew you were a dyke-"

"DON'T FUCKING CALL ME THAT!" I scream, finally losing it and tackling him, pounding at him with my fists.

"Christ! Fuck, stop!" he yells, shielding his face.

"I'm sorry, what was that? I thought there was no way a GIRL could beat you up!" I quote his words from just last week, prying his hands away from his face and pinning them to his own neck. I jab my knee onto his stomach, knocking the wind out of him. "Fucking apologize, dickhead!"

"Sorry," he groans.

"WHAT?!"

"Sorry, sorry!! Fuck...."

I get off of him quickly, catching the sound of other people approaching the corner. We both stand up, neither of us wishing to be caught in the situation we were just in, and pretend to be just having an uneventful break as they run past us.

"Jeez...." Dan mutters, dusting himself off and wincing. I probably left a huge bruise on his stomach. Whatever, I'm not sorry.

"That's what you get," I growl. "Fucking liar...calling me a dyke and still claiming not to be an asshole."

"Well what do you want from me?" he challenges. "Where I come from, that's how it is. Gay dudes are fags, gay chicks are-" he winces again. "You know. And fucking trannies or whatever, they're just weird...."

I glare at him, the heat in my face having nothing to do with the workout. "What do 'trannies'-," I use air quotes, not brave enough to tell him that the term is outdated and offensive. That would give me away for sure. "-Have to do with anything?"

He raises his eyebrows.

I take off running again. Regret regret regret....

Of course, he catches up fast, even with the good injury I just gave him. "Look....I got bullied at my old school," he tells me. "A lot. By people who acted....a lot like I act now."

"Then why-"

"You don't know what it's like," he interrupts. "To be treated like that all your life....and then suddenly get the chance....to start over."

I don't try to respond this time. I just run beside him silently.

"Back where I come from" he continues. "I was called a fag every day....That's just what guys called losers in middle school. To us....it was the worst insult ever."

Our pace is pretty steady now, but we pass a few more people on our way to the end. He stops talking whenever we pass through a group, as if afraid they might overhear. At some point, we make a silent, mutual decision not to stop for another break until the end.

"After awhile," he adds eventually. "I realized that I was teased because....because I never teased anyone....I realized too late how the system works.....in school, you either whip or get whipped.....So then I move here for high school....I join in the teasing for once....and suddenly I'm popular."

He ends his little sob story there, with an expression that's actually almost humble, but I still don't feel a drop of sympathy for the guy. And I'm not afraid to let him know.

"So you were bullied," I snap at him. "Big whoop....that's no excuse for how you treat people....and it doesn't stop you from being an asshole."

"Then what will?" he asks.

Oh, I'm glad you asked, motherfucker. "Number one....admitting you've been an asshole so far.....Number two....actually being sorry for having been an asshole...." I cough. My throat is raw from the run, and probably even worse than it normally would be from all the talking. "And number three....stop acting like an asshole."

Silence on his end. Then, "That's a lot of work."

I turn, ready to slug him again.

"I'm kidding, I'm kidding!" He takes a deep breath as we approach the end of our mile. I do as well, and we both sprint to the end.

"Seven minutes." Coach Hill tells us as we pass him, screeching to a stop at the exact same time. "Good job you two."

It's then that I notice we're the first ones who finished.

I stumble over to the water fountain to get a drink before slumping against the brick wall of the gym to await the end of class. Dan follows me.

"Hey," he says after a few moments, and I'm sure he's going to spout some more crap about how he's not an asshole, but then he says. "I won't tell anyone."

"Tell anyone what?"

"That you and your brother are tran....transexuals, or whatever."

I sigh, closing my eyes in exhaustion. "We're not," I respond quietly.

"I think you guys are....if not both of you, then just you, at least."

"I'm not." That's the only response I have anymore.

"Fine...whatever," Dan grumbles, though I can tell he hasn't given up on the idea. He saunters away to join his friends that just finished the mile, but not before muttering, "You sure as hell fought like a dude out there, though...."

When he's gone I smile. The guy's still an asshole, and I definitely still hate him....but damn, he just gave me the best compliment I've received from anyone other than my sister in years.

------------

After a boring lunch period (Rose and I didn't sit together today, because she had to go work on her art project) I walk to creative writing in the same daze I've been in since gym class. Still not sure if it was the mile or the crazy conversation with Dan that took more out of me, all I know is that I'm ready to go home. As I enter the room and take my usual seat in the back, I'm not even sure this class can cheer me up today....

Until I see Cody walk in, and my brain and heart simultaneously announce, Whelp, time to WAKE UP, and shift into overdrive faster than I can blink.

It doesn't  help that he immediately makes eye contact with me, smiles, and approaches the desk to the right of mine. "Is it okay if I sit by you today?" he asks politely, causing me to say a legit prayer of thanks in my head that Mr. Morton is a cool teacher who lets us sit wherever we want.

"Yeah, of course," I say, hoping I didn't respond too fast or too eagerly.

"Cool." He sits down, placing his neat binder and notebook (both blue, I notice for some reason) gently on his desk.

"You're organized," I remark.

He raises an eyebrow and I cringe. Ugh, that was so random. What is wrong with me?

"I-I mean," I stutter. "Your notebook and stuff. They're all color coordinated, and like, clean and stuff." Christ, why is it that I had no problem making clear, articulate points when I was yelling at Dan, a person I hate, yet can't form a clever sentence for the life of me when talking to someone I like?

"Yeah, I guess so," he agrees, looking at his notebook. His light brown hair falls over his eyes.  He shakes it away and pushes up his glasses. "I mean, I prefer my school stuff to be neat."

I hold up my own solid white composition book, with the bent pages and poetry quotes scrawled all over the cover in different colored markers, smudged in many places. "I'm the opposite, I guess. Clean notebooks drive me crazy."

He laughs quietly. "I can tell," he says as he leans closer to examine some of the words. "Is that Robert Frost I see?"

I look to where he's pointing. "'...and miles to go before I sleep.' Yeah, he's one of my favorites." But I cringe at myself again. Why did he have to see that quote? He probably thinks I'm some stupid hipster who only knows it from Looking for Alaska, and doesn't even read actual poetry....

"You know, a lot of people don't even know what poem that quote is from," he remarks.

"'Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening,'" I say immediately, anxious to prove myself.

He laughs again, obviously surprised. "But apparently you do."

"I read a lot of Frost," I assure him. "I love him, actually."

He grins. "Me too. I always feel so cliché when I tell people he's my favorite poet, though."

"Same! And that's just one of my favorite poems from him. That one and 'Nothing Gold Can Stay'."

"Ah," he responds, then bites his lips and looks off into the distance, as if trying to remember something. "....'Nature's first green is gold, her hardest hue to hold....' He recites, in a thick British accent for some reason.

Chuckling, I join in, also with an accent. "'Her early leaf's a flower, but only so an hour."

"'Then leaf subsides to leaf,'" he says.

"'So Eden sank to grief,'" I add.

We both finish it with matching smiles: "'So dawn goes down to day. Nothing gold can stay.'"

The girl in front of us turns around just as the bell rings. "You morons do know that Robert Frost wasn't British, right?" she asks in a snooty tone.

I glare at her, not only because yes I did know that, but she totally ruined the moment. "Shut up Meg, everything's better with a British accent,"

She makes a face. "My name is Jessica."

Cody laughs so loud that everyone turns to look at him. He attempts to turn it into a cough, blushing.

"Okay everyone," Morton says, shutting the door so we can begin class. "It's Monday and we have lots to do, so we're going to skip the journal entries and go straight to today's assignment...."

Some people groan, but I'm a pretty relieved. At this point in my day, besides my fight with Dan, I'm not sure I'd have had anything to write about other than OH MY GOD Cody and I recited Robert Frost together and it was SOOO GREAT, and I really don't think my journal is ready for that intense level of lameness.

Morton goes on to tell us that we need to have a two-page long opinionated essay ready to turn in on Thursday. I'm only half listening, distracted by the scratching sounds of Cody's pencil against his desk. I don't know what he's writing, just that I'm happy that I'm not the only writer who vandalizes school property when I'm bored.

"Okay, you have the rest of class to work!" Morton announces, causing me to snap to attention.

"Sorry, did he say our paper had to be over a specific topic?" I ask Cody.

"No, just over something you feel really strongly about."

I nod. This will either be really easy then, or really hard. I decide to start with an idea page, scrawling down vague topics that I have strong opinions on. LGBT rights. Gender roles. Discrimination of any kind....

"So I noticed your brother cut his hair," Cody remarks casually.

I look up. I wasn't aware he had made the connection that I had a "brother". It usually takes people awhile of knowing both Rose and I separately before being all like "Omg...Wyatt, Wyatt....*gasp* are you guys twins????" Hell, I wasn't even aware that Cody knew my last name.

"Sorry, it's just....he's in my English class," Cody elaborates, seeming embarrassed.

"No, you're fine. Um...yeah. He did." What else am I supposed to say about it?

"He didn't seem very happy about it," Cody adds. Not as a question, but as an observation. Something he knows for a fact.

I make a mental note to talk to Rose later about keeping up appearances. If Cody's noticing, that means other people are too, and we can't afford to let our guard down. Especially not now that Dan could be a potential threat....

"Ugh, I don't get why we have to do this," Jessica's snotty voice grumbles loudly out of nowhere. Cody and I both look, but she seems to be talking to the blonde girl next to her.

"I know," her friend replies. "Like, this isn't even creative writing. So not what I signed up for."

Cody and I give each other a side glance, rolling our eyes.

"Honestly," whispers Jessica as if thinking no one else can hear her. "This class hasn't been what I thought it would be like at all. Like, the stupid journal entry thing? And having to write other people's stupid prompts every other day? I've actually been thinking about dropping the class if it keeps being this lame."

"Bye Felicia," I mutter. Cody has to cover his mouth to contain his reaction this time, and I realize how much I enjoy making him laugh.

Jessica whirls around to glare at me, her hair flipping dramatically as she does. "My name is Jessica!"

I just stare at her innocently until she turns back around, and then stick my tongue out at her. No, it wasn't mature, nor was it very clever, but Cody high-fives me under his desk so I say it was worth it.

------------

Rose

Fifth period gym. This is where my day gets bad, I think to myself as I duck into the changing room.

"Hey, look! Little Georgie got a haircut," one of the guys calls out right away, rubbing his knuckles on my head as he walks by in his boxers.

I ignore him. I ignore everyone as I grab my clothes and take them into a stall to change, even as I get the usual taunts.

"What are you trying to hide, faggot?" someone said, banging on the door amidst laughter. "You afraid everyone will see your tiny dick?"

Ignore. Ignore. Ignore.

"Everyone outside!" Coach Hill barks by way of greeting as we emerge from the locker room. "We're doing the mile today. Go on, get out there!"

"You too, girls!" Coach Wheeler yells by the adjacent locker room. "Line up by the football field...."

I follow the boys outside, but lag behind so the group of girls just coming out can catch up. Quite a few of them shove their way past me, grumbling at me to get out of their way, that I'm too slow. I don't bother explaining that I'm waiting for someone.

Rose Parker comes out of the locker room last. She's in her usual mismatched gym clothes and her fiery red hair frizzes wildly in the heat. She smiles wide when she sees me hanging back for her and rushes to catch up.

"Hey," she says, bumping my shoulder playfully. "Thanks for waiting for me. I just had to grab something."

"I know," I say, smiling slyly. "And you better not let Wheeler see them."

She looks down to where her headphones are hanging carelessly from her pocket. "Crap," she says, shoving them back in. "Thanks. I didn't need another detention."

I laugh with her as we mosey on over to the orange starting cones outside, the last ones to join the crowd, it appears.

"Okay, now that everyone's present and accounted for," Wheeler grumbles, eyeing the two of us suspiciously. "I'm sure ya'll know the drill from middle school. A mile's just around the gym building and the football field. Coach Hill and I will be waiting here to write down your times. And those of you who think you can get away with walking it, just remember: anything under fourteen minutes requires a redo."

And with that, both coaches blow their whistles and the overachievers take off running, while the rest of us start off with either the casual jog or the classic I've-already-given-up walk. Rose Parker and I are part of the latter group.

"You don't run either?" I ask her.

She snorts. "The way I see it, there are exactly two reasons to run in this life: If you're being chased by something that wants to eat you, or you're chasing something you want to eat."

I nod. "Seems legit."

"Hey, the cavemen used that philosophy and they turned out okay....I think. Anyway, why don't you run?"

I hesitate. Is it time to outright lie to her yet? It's only a few days into our friendship (counting the entire weekend I spent texting her).

"....All throughout elementary school, kids made fun of the way I run," I tell her, truthfully. "I mean, they pretty much made fun of everything I did, but during gym everything was ten times as vicious. Over time, I grew to associate running with panic attacks." Holy shit, did I just say all of that?

"Aw man," says Rose sympathetically, putting an arm around my shoulder. "People are fucking jerks. I've got plenty of gym-related horror stories myself." She actually shudders, as if just the memories of said horror stories still frighten her. "But anyway, being picked on. Yeah, I totally get that. Girls just hate me for some reason. Always have. They just never stop finding reasons to make fun of me....I mean, not like I make it hard for them," she adds, motioning down to her randomized clothes and basketball players' body. She says this in a humorous tone, like she's gotten so used to being teased over the years that she's learned to laugh about it, but I can see the sadness behind her eyes.

"I still don't get it," I tell her. "You're such a cool person. If any of them actually took the time to get to know you...."

"Well, it's like I was telling you at lunch," Rose reminds me. "Most girls aren't willing to risk their social standing."

I nod attentively, but cringe with guilt when she mentions lunch. She had invited me to eat outside with her today, and I didn't want to turn down spending more time with her. But I also didn't want Sam to think that I was ditching him for another friend, so I ended up texting him that I had an art thing and couldn't eat with him today.

"Honestly, I act like I don't care most of the time, but there are actually times when I really wish I knew how to fit in with the other girls," Rose continues.

"Well....I've never really fit in with the other guys either," I tell her, once again speaking my mind for some god-unknown reason. "All the guy stuff I've been expected to do since I was born- the roughhousing, liking sports, even playing with boy toys when I was kid- I just never clicked with any of it. And I think it's because of that I've only ever been able to make friends with girls."

Holy fuck biscuit, I honestly think this is the most I've ever spoken to anyone at once in my entire life, besides Sam of course.

But Rose Parker doesn't know that. She probably thinks I'm this chatty with everyone. "I'm exactly the same way with girl stuff," she says. "I've always been a tomboy, from the day I started kindergarten and I chose to play in the dirt with the boys instead of in the playhouse with the girls. God, even the teachers thought I was weird! I know exactly how you feel."

I almost laugh and say No, I'm sure you don't. Not unless you've ever wanted to do permanent surgery on your own genitals just to get rid of them, anyway. But I don't say that. I may have broken a ridiculous amount of honesty barriers in my four days of friendship with this girl, but I'm definitely not stupid enough to tear down the Mother Wall. The wall behind which lies a secret that could not only make or break my friendship with Rose Parker, but that also has the potential to ruin my life.

"You know," Rose remarks as we turn the first corner of our mile (barely). "I think you're the first person in my life that I've ever been this honest with."

I laugh.

"What's funny?"

"Nothing," I say. "It's just that I was thinking the exact same thing. I've never trusted anyone else in my life as much as I trust you, for some reason. I mean, besides my brother...."shit. Only on the last syllable of the word brother do I realize that I've done it again. I've unwillingly smashed another huge fracture into the Mother Wall, the first having been made when I accidentally told Rose Parker my real name.

Immediately my brain starts screaming at me, and rightfully so.

YOU STUPID SHIT ROSE WYATT WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU???

"Oh, I didn't know you had a brother," Rose says.

YOU ABSOLUTE AIRHEAD. YOU IDIOTIC, SPASTIC MORON.

"Does he go to this school?"

Shit shit shit that's it. You're in for it now you stupid fuckhole. It has been exactly four seconds since you said the word brother, and you have to choose between becoming a liar or telling the truth. Now, right now!

"Yes."

WRONG CHOICE YOU STUPID FUCK!

"What's his name?"

"Sam," I tell her, thankful that she's ignorant of the apocalypse currently happening inside of my head.

"What grade is he in?" she asks curiously. "I mean, I'm just wondering if I've met him. Though I assume he's older than you if he's also in high school."

"No, actually we're twins."

SHUT THE FLYING FUCK UP YOU STUPID BITCH SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT-

"Twins?!" Rose Parker repeats, as ecstatic as most people are when they meet an actual twin in real life. I mean, they don't exactly sell us two-for-one at the Dollar General. We're pretty damn rare. "Wow, I can't believe I've never met him. Are you guys identical?"

"Fraternal," I tell her, trying to turn down the obscenities that my brain is screaming so loud, I'm almost afraid she'll hear them.

"But he's in our grade....well I don't think I have any classes with him, but then again, it's never really occurred to me to listen for another Wyatt while my teachers take role," she laughs. "When do I get to meet him?"

We are well behind the rest of both our gym classes by this point, but I still feel the same flushing anxiety that I've come to associate with large crowds. As if the whole world is watching me, anticipating what I'll say to fuck myself over next.

"He's pretty shy," I explain, my nails biting into the palms of my hands. "Not much more popular than I am, and his attitude can be kind of vicious sometimes. I don't recommend trying to seek him out."

"Oh," Rose responds, then shrugs. "Okay, whatever. Ooh, hey! Now that the coaches can't see us anymore, I brought something for you to listen to...."

I laugh in relief as she digs her iPod and headphones out of her pocket, secretly thrilled that the subject's been changed. Deep breaths. See, brain? We're not found out.

Not until she runs into Samantha Wyatt and wonders why you lied to her.

Everything will be okay.

Sure, sure....for now.

Rose scrolls through her song selection real quick, then hands me one of her earbuds. "Have you ever listened to Twenty-one Pilots?"

I shake my head.

"Oh my god, they are my salvation. Their music's so....ugh, just listen!"

"Okay, okay," I giggle. Her eyes do this thing where they appear even more blue when they're excited. Blue that glints in the sunlight, like crystal.

She taps the screen, putting in her own earbud as she does. And I listen.

"....Am I the only one I know.

Waging my wars behind my face and above my throat?

Shadows will scream that I'm alone...."

Rose lets me listen in silence, mouthing along with the words, but casts side glances at me often, trying to read my reaction to her favorite music.

Meanwhile, the lyrics nearly shatter my eardrums with their accuracy, and I close my eyes even as we're walking. My hand finds my chest where, underneath my shirt, Sam's necklace lies hidden against my pounding heart. I think about the wars we rage behind our own faces, to the ignorance of the rest of the world.

I'm reminded of the migraine my brother and I share, and the sheer amount of trust we've placed in each other our entire lives. Trust to keep our mutual secret, to never come out without the consent of the other person.

Trust that has never been put into question once....until now.

"But I know we've made it this far,

Kid.

Made it this far.

Made it this fa-"

And it cuts off. I look up. "Did you pause it?"

"No, that's the end. Did you like it?" she asks, retracting her earbuds as she obviously tries not to sound too eager.

"No....I loved it."

------------

We complete the mile eventually ("Thirteen-forty" Wheeler grumbles at us as we stroll past her.), having only run a small portion of it. But by the time we're done, I'm officially convinced that I need every single Twenty-one Pilots album in my life.

"Their songs are just so perfect," Rose fangirls to me as we take our seats by the wall. "Every word of them, I can just....relate. I mean, I think anyone with depression or anxiety-" she stops herself, her face turning red.

"Yeah," I agree, feeling the necklace through my shirt again. "I get it."

She smiles at me. She pets my hair, not noticing when I flinch. "You know, I get that you hate it, but your haircut doesn't look too bad." she remarks .

I shrug, saying nothing.

"I like what you did with your bangs," she elaborates.

"Thanks. But I still wish it was long again. I wish I could never cut it."

She tilts her head. "Why?"

Pause. Shrug.

"Hey Wyatt!"

I look up to see Warren Hawk looming over me, all sweaty and doused in water after the run. "I saw that you cut your hair. Congrats, you're half a step closer to manhood. All you gotta do now is lose the jewelry and grow a dick."

There's loud cackling from the guys the are listening in. I put my head down, but to my horror, Rose stands up. She faces him head on, almost his height. "Do you need something, or are you just here to be an ass?"

Warren sneers at the challenge. "No one's talking to you, ginger. Why don't you sit down and let your boyfriend fight his own battles?"

"Nah man, she obviously wears the dick in the relationship," another guy growls.

Warren laughs. "Probably." He looks down at Rose condescendingly. "Do you wear the strap on when you girls fuck?"

Rose's already flushed face grows redder with fury. She looks madder than I've ever seen her....but also the most uncomfortable."Oh, grow up!" she growls. "We're not in a relationship. God, why don't you just leave him alone?"

I hide my face. No, no, no. The last thing I need is another Sam, getting into fights for me and landing themselves in the office.

"Oooh, watch out Warren. She's about ready to fight you," one of the girls calls out in a mocking tone.

Warren holds up his hands. "Hey, don't get mad at me because your faggy boyfriend can't please you right with his tiny dick-"

"And another thing," Rose shoots back. "Why are you so obsessed with dicks? Are you sure you aren't the one whose sexuality should be called into question here?"

Warren looks confused. A few of the girls off to the side actually laugh. One of them though, a skinny-mini brunette who I think is Warren's girlfriend, steps up beside him.

"Why are you even here, Rose?" she asks, spitting venom. (For a crazy couple of seconds, I almost feel like she's talking to me). "Shouldn't you have killed yourself by now because no one likes you?"

The color drains from Rose's face, but otherwise her expression is unchanging. She even opens her mouth, about to spit back a retort, when Coach Wheeler comes around the corner with a reluctant Coach Hill trailing behind her. Everyone falls silent.

"What's going on here?" the coach asks suspiciously at the sight of the crowd around Rose Parker, Warren, his girlfriend, and me. "Not something I need to get involved in, I hope?"

Warren's girlfriend flashes a fake smile. "No, Coach Wheeler," she responds in a sickly sweet voice. "Nothing to worry about."

"Alright, everyone inside then! Get changed."

The crowd disperses, and I exhale breath. My teeth and hands unclench. I meet Rose's eyes, shining with tears, and a tsunami of guilt washes over me.

"Rose, I'm sorry," I say immediately, knowing that I have no right to her forgiveness. We start our walk to the locker rooms slowly.

She blinks. "What for? None of that was your fault. They're all a bunch of assholes-"

"No," I shake my head. "I mean....I'm sorry for not standing up for you. I wanted to, I swear. But with most people, my voice just doesn't exist. It's stupid, I can't explain it," ironically, I'm rambling now. "But I'm sorry."

She frowns at me. "George, I don't expect you to stand up for me."

"You did it for me," I protest. God, she is just like Sam. Why won't anyone ever hate me for being weak?

"Defending your friends isn't a payback situation," she insists. "I hated watching that guy put you down and was feeling reckless, so I decided to give shit back to him."

"But you didn't deserve what that girl said to you," I tell her. "I....I wanted to hit her in the face for saying that."

Rose smiles, her eyes sad. "Fiona Hoffman has been telling me to kill myself since the fifth grade. Believe me, it's nothing I'm not used to by now."

"Well you shouldn't be."

"Yeah, I shouldn't be used to a lot of things," she mutters. "And neither should you. I wasn't hurt by you not speaking up for me, but it hurt to watch you not speak up for yourself. Something tells me you've never stood up to your bullies once in your life."

My silence, I'm sure, is enough of an answer for her.

"Woah there." Rose stops me with a hand on my chest. Shit, I almost followed her into the girls' locker room.

"Sorry," I say, blushing furiously. "I wasn't looking-"

"Dude, it's okay," she laughs. "Go get changed, and hey," she grabs my shoulders, makes me look her in the eye. "Please George, at least try to defend yourself if anyone else gives you shit today. Okay?"

"....Okay," I reply, turning reluctantly to enter the boys' locker room, knowing that I probably just lied to Rose Parker for the very first time.