Walking into the gym with all eyes on us, it's difficult not to be reminded how everything changed since that incident.

I used to have everything: good grades, a secured college scholarship, the admiration of my peers, two trusty wingmen who happen to be my closest buds, and the best girlfriend in the world. Now, what is left of me is that nickname, which instead of being a harmless moniker to poke fun at the way I turn into at the football field in reference to my last name—like what it originally was meant to be—has become a weapon of torment.

Psycho.

That is me now, according to the rest of the school.

That is me now, even outside the football field.

That is me now, until after I leave this shithole of a town for college at least—if I get to leave, that is.

Apparently, I'm that crazy dude who attempted to start a hysteria by claiming to have seen the inevitable end of the world at the hands of ghost-white-skinned, alien-like monsters with superhuman powers in my visions.

Of course, nobody believed me.

At first, they thought I was just being my wacky self by interrupting a boring class with a drop-to-the-floor seizure episode fake-out, followed by an out-of-this-world warning just to elicit laughter. Well, I wasn't.

When those warnings morphed from a one-time stunt into a running gag for weeks, everyone outgrew the humor and started thinking of me as becoming an actual psycho. For a while, I even thought the same, especially after mom was advised by the guidance counselor to have me see a shrink and a neurologist.

Word about me being spotted leaving a psychiatric ward got out, eventually cementing the new meaning to the nickname.

It was the ultimate "hero's reverse-journey": I turned from hero to zero. Real quick.

At least, I still get to attend the homecoming dance—and with a date to boot.

Sure, she's no Ashley with the banging body and the perfect hair, but Wendy is on a completely different league of her own. She's beautiful, without it being her only selling point, and she doesn't give a damn so much about what other people might think of her, her own unique sense of style and her whole foster care situation. She certainly has no issue being seen walking this series of decorated arches hand-in-hand with me, a laughing stock.

"Look who the loser club's newest recruit has brought to the dance tonight: the OG loser herself, Miss Carrie carpet-wearing White," I begin to hear someone remark from among the small assembly near the center of the gym—basically, the same people who are giving us these condescending stares. "She's got herself her own Tommy Ross now, Ash!"

I try to make out who exactly is making those insults with outdated references and see Rose, Ashley's best-friend-of-the-moment and default sidekick, stirring the hot pot and feeding the latter's already ablaze ego with even more firewood.

It's funny, because I used to like her—back when she was just Rosalinda Gonzalez. A regular geek, who was sweet, eccentric and actually kind of cool. But when Ashley took her in as her new 'project' (i.e. errand girl) after the former dumped me via a two-worded text message, that's when everything changed.

"So, that makes you the quintessential Sue Snell, obvi, and I'm like," Rose starts to ramble, carrying on with her analogy, "that vengeful best friend whom Carrie kills with a telekinetically induced car explosion? No way! Nah-uh."

She's been trying so hard to adjust to Ashley's brand of cool that she has ended up being a carbon copy in appearance and personality, except with the same dorky humor and fancy way of speaking she had from before.

"Misery loves miserable company, indeed," Ashley quips as we walk past them.

I'm not sure if she intended for that to be about me finding company in Wendy, or her in Rose. Because I have never once felt miserable when I'm with my date.

With Rose, however, I'm not sure she's having a good time. Her otherwise cheerful eyes are cold, dead and flat, despite letting out a condescending laughter.

"I'm sure they're going to make loser babies tonight."

"Oh, shut the ef up, Rose! Won't you ever?" Ashley hisses, her volume overriding the loud music. "Your one-liners aren't even clever."

Shocked by the sudden snap, Rose yelps, reaching up a hand to lightly clasp her throat, as her other hand continues to toy with her curls.

"Let's just dance," Ashley says, as she yanks my old pal, Brent—who happens to be her date—away from his too-early-for-the-night alcoholic punch feast with the rest of the football team and into the dancing crowd, with Rose and my other friend, Seth, following them.

I inwardly chuckle, feeling relief that I no longer have to sit through this kind of drama every day during lunch.

As we approach our assigned table—the centerpiece, a jar of Ashley's favorite flower: daffodils—everyone stands up and leaves, avoiding us like we're some people with a highly contagious disease.

"Shall we dance, instead?" I ask Wendy, before I could pull her a seat.

"Maybe later," she replies, pulling the seat herself.

We have arrived about two hours late into the dance—thanks to Wendy's last-minute backing out which took an hour-long pitch from me before she could agree to stick to the plan and put on this bright yellow, velvet gown which she has no idea is looking so good on her.

Everybody else is already deep into party mode, so if we don't start dancing now, I don't think I'll have enough warm-up for me to be able to tell her how I truly feel.

I think I'm falling in love with her.

These last five months have been a difficult time for me, and being with her sure makes it a lot less shitty.

She didn't have to, even if I frequently defended her from bullies, such as my friends and Ashley, when I still had the influence to do so. I wasn't asking for payback—I told her these same words—but she chose to side with me, even if that had the potential to further hurt her reputation and did. Even during the summer vacation, when there's no reason for us to band together, she still made time to hang out with me. Often.

But no, she's no rebound, or a last resort kind of thing. I'm really enjoying us spending our time together. More than I ever did with Ashley.

So, maybe I didn't lose everything after all.

"Oh, c'mon," I beg her, reaching my shaky hand out. "Please, we don't have forever to spend tonight."

"Okay, fine," she replies, with a half-smile, taking my hand.

We join the crowd and start making some goofy moves. Wendy is a popping and locking robot, while I am the Tobey Maguire from Spiderman 3's god-awful dance scenes like I have always been in the showers—the exact reason why I never bust a move beyond the confines of my own bathroom.

And it's been fun making a fool of myself for once, without a care in the world. It's been a nice change of pace from the calculated, old me before the psychosis.

I would have loved to continue down this path to full insanity, especially with the DJ continuing to play a string of club hits like Diplo's and Marshmello's, but I still haven't gotten the chance to slow-dance with her and confess.

But as if the telepathic link between me and the DJ has awakened, the music suddenly shifts into sweeter mode. The AV guy must have also received the same telepathic memo, allowing the hall to dim, with the illumination from the dizzying disco lights replaced by these fairy lights above us.

I'm not gonna lie; Ashley and the homecoming committee have done a wonderful job in transforming the smelly gym into a romantic place. Even the stink of feet and sweat that normally pervades the atmosphere here is undetectable, as the lavender scent coming off of the smoke machine somehow masks everything.

Fighting off these jitters, I put my hands around her waist, and she puts hers above my shoulder, as we start swaying to this classic love song.

"Wendy, I have something to confess," I launch, as we finally start to get comfortable with the intimacy of it all.

"What is it, Logan?" she asks, her glistening greyish-blue eyes looking up straight into mine, sending what felt like shivers down my spine.

"I think I—" I begin to stammer my way into a wasted opportunity. "I—"

Before I could even finish my rather suave profession of love, someone else grabs her attention.

"Hey, Wendy!" someone with a distinctly nasal voice calls out from the crowd.

Shit. Perfect timing, huh?

I look around to see who it was.

Sasha Bertrand.

Wendy's best friend, a.k.a. the most annoying girl in school.

"Looks like you two are taking it to a whole 'nother level, huh?" She pauses with the suggestive movements she calls dancing to holler at us. "Logan, can I borrow Wendy over?"

"Sure!" I holler back, before bobbing my head to conceal my apparent disgust, grunting under my breath.

I rarely get annoyed by girls with such superficial personalities—Ashley and her sycophants, for instance—but Sasha is on a whole 'nother level.

For a few months of having to hang out with her, I was able to recognize how toxic she really is. She is bossy, manipulative, narcissistic, on-the-sly cruel and worse, a hypocrite, desperately wanting to be part of something she openly despises: Ashley's posse.

Her being best friends with Wendy is the biggest mystery of all, one that I have yet to dig deep about. On second thought, Sasha is the daughter of Wendy's foster parents, so that somehow explains everything. That Wendy has no choice.

"Come over here, you, snobby lover girl!" Sasha beckons Wendy over, towards her and her cheerleader friends.

Out of her desperation from trying to fit in and failing, Sasha has formed her own clique—which Ashley used to refer to as the wannabes—by enlisting some rich white girls, who happen to be Ashley's rejects. Wendy, naturally, is not a part of it.

"Just a second." Wendy traipses away, postponing my confession yet again.

Sasha then drags her by the arm to a corner, away from the crowd, for what seems like an extremely confidential conversation.

Frustrated that Sasha gets to steal Wendy just when I was ready to take the biggest risk of my entire teenage life, I walk over to the long, curtained table near the bleachers to get my own taste of the punch.

"Having a blast, Logan?" asks Mr. Hanks, a member of the faculty who is manning the cupcakes, the chips and the punch, which I must say he is not doing a very good job about, not with Brent and the boys being able to lace the last one with vodka.

"Yes, Mr. Hanks," I respond, as he hands me a half-filled cup of the cocktail. "A lovely night, indeed."

Despite having been his student for only one subject last semester, I have developed a soft spot for him. A spot I would've otherwise reserved for my absentee father.

Contrary to popular opinion, Mr. Hanks is actually a very good science teacher. He has even authored a science fiction book about a different race of sentient beings coexisting among us, which for me is amazing.

Sure, he is one of the few who hasn't made fun of my gradual descent into madness (at least, not to my face), unlike what even other grown-ass teachers did. Sure, he maybe believes my claims about the world ending are true, what with his seemingly sincere questions about it during detention, after I got into fist fights with those dicks who were ridiculing me. Sure, he understands my situation, being the butt of the jokes and victim of pranks in his class, despite his constant effort to adjust and relate to our generation.

In other words, he is an outsider, and I've never been prouder to say that so am I.

"Do me a favor, will you?" he asks me, his voice croaky, as he checks on his watch.

I nod, before finishing my drink.

"Please watch the table while I crown your new monarchs with plastic." He irons out his sky-blue coat with his hands, pulls down his red necktie and looks at me for approval. The hint of biting apathy in his facial expression for this whole popularity contest situation is as palpable as the stench of liquor in this part of the gym. "Make sure none of your teammates spike it this time, okay? I trust you, Logan."

Fighting back my urge to snigger, I end up choking on my drink and coughing.

"Hey there, confessor!" Wendy pinches my left ear, startling me to the point of almost dropping my empty paper cup.

My reflexes have become increasingly neurotic since the fallout of the incident. Considering how touches like this usually preludes the boys' bullying, which more often than not would result to a brawl, fight mode has been my body's impulse since.

"Oh, hey!" I reply, regaining my composure. "What has Sasha's evil mastermind coerced you into doing this time?"

Wendy snorts a little. "Nothing. Just family stuff."

"It sure looked like it was serious."

"Well, anyway," Wendy interrupts, deliberately diverting the topic, "what was it you wanted to confess?"

"Nothing. Maybe some other time." I look down at my cup, my confidence from a while ago gone.

Before I could return my gaze on her, I hear my name being announced by Mr. Hanks on the microphone, followed by a round of applause.

"What's going on?" I ask Wendy, oblivious to what all the fuss is about.

"You're homecoming king," she answers with a smile. "It turns out that majority of the school is still on your side, Logan."

I look around and see everyone smiling, as if they are genuinely happy with the election turnout, as if it is like the old times, as if none of this crazy shit ever happened.

"Way to go, Bates!" Brent taps me on the back, like we're best buddies again.

"This is definitely some sort of a cruel prank," I tell Wendy.

Either that, or everyone has been hypnotized into voting for someone whom they made fun of a hot minute ago.

"Just go get your crown, my king," Wendy insists, shaking me by the arms, trying to exorcize the disbelief out of my head. "You deserve it."

"But I—" Before I could utter a third word out of my objection, she pulls me in and plants a kiss on my lips.

A kiss.

On the lips.

From Wendy.

Elated by the unexpected gesture, I amble my way into the crowd and up the stage, my hand fastened around my chin.

"Congratulations, Logan," Mr. Hanks whispers as he hands me the toy crown, before clapping his hands. "Not bad for a comeback."

"Thanks," I whisper back, still confused, and nod.

Wow, even Ashley and Rose and all my former teammates who called me names and never faltered to alienate me day after day are smiling and applauding.

Am I hallucinating? Am I drunk now? From a glassful of the punch?

"And your homecoming queen is..." Mr. Hanks pronounces, as he pulls out a card from the envelope. "Ms. Wendy Covey."

Surprised as I am, Wendy puts both palms over her eyes, then over her agape mouth, as the people from around her goad her to join me on stage.

Seriously, am I dreaming? Have I passed out already?

As Mr. Hanks puts the crown over her head, I can't help but be bothered by the taste her lips have left on mine. Literally.

It tastes a little salty and bitter.

Like iron.

Like blood.

Did I bite her lips so hard they bled? No way, I hadn't even had the chance to kiss back.

Did she bite mine? It doesn't feel like it; I can sense no cut anywhere on my lips.

Is she a vampire or a werewolf who has made a snack out of Sasha during their top-secret mini-family meeting earlier? I do hope so; the girl is nowhere in sight after all.

While savoring this surreal moment of a return to normalcy, smiling in front of the suddenly non-threatening crowd, all the cheers and the applause quiet down to a stop, with a look of shock crawling up in everybody's faces.

Soon enough, I feel a cold, thick liquid dripping from the faux crown over my head.

I turn to look at Wendy and notice how the fabric of her unadorned gown has become a canvas of splatters, how she, a blonde, has turned into a newly dyed, fresh-out-of-the-salon redhead and how the sweetheart that she is now brims with rage.

Everybody then bursts into laughter, as if this is all a climax to a very amusing live sketch comedy show.

I knew it; we've been pranked.

We've been Carried.

And like the perfect capper to the referenced novel, the carnage begins.