I'm the first to walk into religion class and I choose a seat in the back that's not directly under a light so the pimples on my forehead aren't lit up. Ms. Q is leaning back on her chair behind her desk that looks gigantic next to her petite frame. She's lost in the glow of her iPhone.

In walks Becca D'Amico who ignores me and takes a seat near the front. You didn't hear it from me, but Becca is bulimic. She's also a Kim Kardashian look-a-like with 1K friends on FB and 8K followers on IG. She's an aspiring model. But little does she know, high school is a breeding ground for unrequited dreams.

Hi, I'm Becca, I will be famous for something, I just don't know what. I will be famous for being famous. I will be famous for being famous for being famous. Why? Because people care.

No. They don't.

They care about your cleavage and your hips. When you belly dance to Rhianna on Instagram, they're not watching you for your lip syncing skills.

The seats fill up and I'm happy that the two desks in front of me are empty.

I almost smile until I see Connor walk in with Abner who take the seats in front of me. I could give a fuck about Connor, but I like Abner. He was the only fuckboy I actually admired. He was never a bully, and never said anything negative about anyone. I think he's half Asian and looked like a cross between Zayn Malik and a tall Zac Efron. He asked me for a pen once and I felt cheesed. No homo. Kind of like how I would imagine feeling if I met Jon Snow in real life. Like if I was a girl, he'd be my type. Did I already mention no homo? I'm going to stop talking now.

Ms. Q is pacing the front of the class talking about Jesus's twelve apostles. Wow. Only twelve? I have more friends on Facebook. But now, the guy has millions of followers around the world. He would be the king of Twitter if they had twitter back then. Bigger than Trump, even. Hell, even the Bible is pretty much a million-character tweet by God himself that got retweeted billions of times and went totally fucking viral. But what if Jesus's posts, a.k.a. the New Testament, didn't go viral? He'd just be another cult leader, destined for obscurity. Some people say the Church of Scientology is a cult. I don't. Cults are just religions that haven't gone viral yet.

An hour passes and the class gets a little restless. People are chattering and Ms. Q is letting it be. I eavesdrop on Connor and Abner in front of me while idly doodling a robot dragon in my notebook.

"Let's scope out Square," says Abner.

"Bro, summer's coming up quick," says Connor.

"I know, bro."

"Bro! Let's hitch hike the west coast! I got five g's to blow, yo."

"Five g's? How'd you score that?" Abner turns his head to Connor so quickly that his chair moves.

"My dad."

"Yo, your dad is cool as fuck."

"Fuck that. He just wants me out the house all summer so he can fuck his new side bitch."

"You still choppin' Nadia?"

"Yea, and this Hillside thot, Shelly something. Look," Connor shows Abner his phone. I try to take a peek but Abner's shoulder is blocking.

"She swallow?"

"Suppose-bly," says Connor.

I snicker inside at suppose-bly. It's "you're" not "your", Connor.

"Connor!" Ms. Q calls out.

Connor stuffs his phone back in his pocket.

"No phones in class, Connor," Ms. Q hisses.

"Oh, I was just taking notes, miss. On my note app."

"Is that right? Why don't you read back those notes to us? Teach us something."

Connor glances at Abner who's covering his mouth with his hand.

"Excuse me, miss?" Connor sputters.

"You're excused." The class laughs. "Now use a pen and paper like everyone else." Ms. Q turns to write on the blackboard again.

I guess I laughed a little louder than everyone else because Connor twists his head back and shoots me a scornful look.

"What are you laughing at, faggot?"

"Let him be," says Abner.

"Faggot fuck," Connor snatches my phone from my desk before I can stop him. "What's your code?" He taps away at my phone screen, guessing at numbers.

"Give that back," I say, coldly.

"What's your fucking code?"

Ms. Q's back is still turned to us as she tippy toes to write something near the top of the blackboard. The tapping and scraping of Ms. Q's chalk seems louder now. Shawn, or Shane, across the aisle from Connor hears everything and snickers to himself.

"Give it back," I reach out my hand.

"You want it?"

"Yes."

"You sure?" Connor peeks back to make sure Ms. Q isn't looking.

Then he tosses the phone over my head. It smacks against the ground with a weird loud crack and it slides face down against the wall.

Ms. Q looks back, "What's going on?"

I ignore her and dart over to my phone. Bending over, I scoop it up, keeping it facedown in my hand, scared to flip it, scared to see if the screen is cracked or not. I sit back down as Ms. Q scolds Chester Leah on the other side of the room for wearing his his headphones.

There's a moment of truth when I flip the phone over. I force my eyes to look down, and then my heart sinks into my stomach. The bottom half of my screen is shattered -- there's one long crack extending from the top of the screen then branching out into many smaller cracks like lightening bolts.

Shane, or Shawn, gives Connor daps from across the aisle. I feel sweat pores opening up on my scalp.

Then the bell rings and the entire class stands up like synchronized slackers. Two thots walk by me and peek down at my cracked phone, so I flip it over to hide my shame.

"Let's go," Abner says to Connor who stands menacingly and glares down at me.

"Don't fuck with me. Next time, I'll crack your skull."

Here's my chance. Diss him. Say fuck you. Push him.

But nothing happens. Connor just struts out the door with Abner.

The regret begins to soak into me. I can feel the inevitable self-loathing to come. I'm such a fucking pussy.

I can already imagine the years ahead of me, the sleepless nights of me going over and over in my head how I would have beat him up if I had only tried. I duck under his left hook and land a straight right against his teeth. He falls back, his head cracking against the tiled floor, falling into a coma, dying in the hospital two days later. Getting tried as an adult, going to prison for manslaughter for four years, getting out on good behavior, a new man, walking with a lean, dripping with swag juice, a fucking bad-ass.

But none of that will happen. All that will happen is they'll talk about me, how I'm a pussy, a fag, as I wallow in a pool of my own obscurity.

In high school, no one respects how smart you are. Do people like you? Do you get girls? What are you wearing? And can you fight? This is what matters in the world of teenage male insecurity and hormones.

I'm the last to leave the class, still sitting there in the back row, alone with my regret and my cracked phone.