The crowd of kilts and grey pants scurry around in the narrow hallway. The air is sticky with faint BO and perfume. The off-white ceilings are too low and the rows of blue lockers lining the walls on each side seem to close in on us, like a Star Wars trash compacter.

There's a group of thot girls with caked on makeup crowding around Gravy leaning against his locker. Gravy's real name is John Greaves, or John Graves, or could be James Greaves, I don't know because everyone just called him Gravy, even his FB name is Jay Gravy. He's just another fuckboy to me. He wears a red Phillies cap with a flat-bill and and an ironic Nirvana t-shirt underneath his opened white polo, yet I'm pretty sure he never listened to grunge in his life. None of the fuckboys did. They don't know what teen spirit smells like. They don't know about lithium. What do they know about heart-shaped boxes?

Wait a second, is that Adam Cantu by the washroom? Never mind, that's Jim Olynyk. Jim Olynyk is fucking Polly Lyons. How the fuck did he get a bae like her?

Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah. Gravy.

He must be saying something funny because all the thots are laughing. I stand there for a moment, studying him. I can't tell if he's good looking or ratchet. At first glance, he's good looking, but there's something off about his face. Maybe his eyes are slightly further apart than normal, but other than that, he has a perfect face. What did he say to them that was so funny? And what do they see in him?

I feel a hand on my shoulder and spin around to see Mr. G, our guidance councilor, his hipster flannel button up tucked into his black jeans.

"What up!" he gives me daps. Mr. G is young-ish and desperately wants to be everyone's friend. He's the only teacher who tried to add the whole school on Facebook. I even have him on Facebook. He even has Rocco Consentino as a friend, but hey, who doesn't.

"Come in, let's chill for a bit," he disappears into his office behind us, leaving the door open.

I stride in and plop down in the student seat. Mr. G sits opposite me behind his clunky desk. His office is a small box with no windows. There's a coffee mug in the shape of Homer Simpson's head on his desk, and an empty bookshelf behind him.

Mr. G leans back in his chair. I feel the urge to twirl my thumbs but I didn't let them.

"You hear the new Drake track?" he says.

"Not really."

"You should, it's lit. You have Apple Music?"

I shake my head no.

"How you feeling?" he says.

He's seems to be paranoid that every quiet kid like me has a mental illness. Or is being bullied. Or is thinking about suicide.

"Good."

"You sure?" he says.

"Yea. Why?

"I don't see you talking to anyone."

"I don't have anything to say."

"You're on your phone a lot though," he leans forward and clasps his hands together on his desk.

"Isn't everyone?"

"Yea, but they post about stuff in their real life. Like what they did that day -- how they feel..."

"What if I don't feel anything?"

"Is that how you feel?"

I shrug.

"What do you do online, mostly?"

"I don't know. Facebook."

"Okay. That's what I mean. I want you to think about something," his voice drops an octave. "Does your Facebook page really reflect who you are?"

I shrug.

"It's an honest question. Some people put up a front on Facebook. It's not healthy. I mean, it's not normal. You have to own your social media, man. Don't let it own you."

Hashtag so deep. Hashtag not.

Mr. G notices me shifting in my seat.

"What's wrong?"

"It's just that... they all front out there in real life, too. Fake smiling and shit. Dressing the same. Talking the same. They're all just copies of copies."

"Is that what you think?"

I shrug.

"It's like we're in a movie," I look down at a coffee ring stain on his desk. "Fuckboys trying to look like Magic Mike. Thots trying to look like Kylie Jenner."

"Kylie Jenner isn't in movies."

"I know. That's even worse."

Mr. G scratches something on his desk. "Listen, I'm just saying, be real. Be yourself. Don't be two different people. You can't be two different people, can you?"

"Isn't that normal?"

"How so?" he furrows his brows.

"I mean everyone's two people. There's the real person, and then there's the front."

"Then don't be like everyone else. Find yourself. Let people know who you really are, in school, on Facebook, whatever. Know who you are."

Hashtag I know who I am. I'm the dude playin' a dude disguised as another dude.

"Okay," I nod.

"You know what I mean?"

"I know," still nodding.

"Okay good," he smiles, satisfied at something, but I'm not sure of what exactly.

He springs to his feet. I guess I should stand, too.

"You're on my friend list, right?"

I nod.

"Message me whenever, homey. I got your back," he stretches his closed fist to me and I dap him.

"Cool."