I wallow in the semi-darkness of my bedroom. The shades are drawn, filtering most of the annoying streetlight just outside my window.

Nadia calling me sweet echoes in my mind.

I hate myself for being sweet. I hate being "so sweet" and "so nice" and so fucking lonely and so fucking empty. I don't want to be myself, if it's true that I'm somebody at all.

Lying on my back, staring at the ceiling, I pull in a long drag from my vape. I exhale a tower of vapour that reaches the ceiling and flattens out like a pancake cloud.

I immediately feel a buzz—a feeling like I'm not myself, and maybe that's the point.

I stretch out over the edge of my bed towards my pants on the floor. I fumble through the pockets, my belt buckle making clinking noises. I tug on a bottle of Xanax and my pocket flips inside out.

Bart sold me the bottle after school, and told me that it was like mollies, but chill. I pop the lid and drop a long white pill onto my palm. I think about breaking it in half but decide to try the whole thing instead. I swallow it without water as I eye a dark spot on my ceiling that I never noticed before.

I move over to my desk, the springs on my swivel chair squeaking from my weight, and I flip my laptop open. The brightness of the screen hurts my eyes so I dim it down. I type in Facebook and stare at the home page, prompting me to either LOG IN, or CREATE A NEW ACCOUNT. I stare at the new account form and the fields to fill out – a first name, a last name, an email address, a gender.

I'm filling out the form, almost unconsciously, and I already begin to feel different—better.

Simon Jackson.

Male.

On my laptop is a folder of random photos I saved to make memes. One folder is called "Scumbag" with photos I saved of someone who actually looks similar to me, but a scumbag version of me. A version of me with a Prada cap and a fur jacket. A version of me giving a peace sign over my chest. It's the version of myself that would go to a party with no beer and drink everyone else's. A version of me that would steal someone's iPhone at that same party.

I get the feeling that I'm reinventing myself, which is normal. There's nothing strange about that. Look at Kylie Jenner. She looks nothing like she did three years ago. Is she even the same person? We don't add filters to hide who were are. We add filters to change who we are.

I write my first post, not giving a shit about what people would think of it:

Simon Jackson

April 26 at 7:40pm

Don't you hate it when you're driving, and you flick your cigarette out the window, then a few minutes later you smell something weird and turn around to see a priest masturbating in the back seat while eating flowers?

I click post before I can change my mind.

I go to Sandra Bertolucci's page and request to be her friend.

Then Becca D'Amico's page.

Then Yvette Willems's page.

Yvette instantly confirms. I write her a private message:

7:43pm

Simon Jackson

Hey my ebony treat

I see her typing. Her message pops in:

7:44pm

Yvette Willems

LOL Heyy

Oh em gee. Already two y's.

I request more girls.

Roberta Bertolucci accepts and sends me a private message instantly:

7:46pm

Roberta Bertolucci

heyy

Oh my god. Another two y's.

My fingers hover over the keyboard, about to reply to Roberta with 'how are you?' or 'what did you do today?' and I think about how nice that sounds. But then I remember—fuck nice.

7:47pm

Simon Jackson

I want you to fuck my side bitch

I see her typing.

7:47pm

Roberta Bertolucci

word? damn.

7:47pm

Simon Jackson

She's hotter than you

7:48pm

Roberta Bertolucci

i doubt it.

when can i meet her?

7:49pm

Simon Jackson

Slow down, you're smothering me

7:49pm

Roberta Bertolucci

lol

hit me back when you feel better.

here's my number...

I stare at the number, squinting, wondering if the number is real, and at the same time knowing that it is.

Ding. A notification comes in. It's Paul Onofrio requesting to be friends.

Ding. Maddox and Bart, too.

Ding. Julio Peralta, who I think is in my biology class, writes on my timeline:

Julio Peralta

April 26 at 7:58pm

Simon! Finally you're on FB. Welcome to the dark side.

I open a folder on my laptop named "GoT memes" and post an old one I made last month of hipster Jon Snow with the caption, "I worship the Old Gods. You probably never heard of them."

Ding after ding, warmth expands in my chest as I watch my like counter on the meme reach 56   in less than ten minutes, which is more likes than I ever had in my life.

I go back to Roberta's message. I punch her number onto my phone and send her a text:

          Hello side bitch

I can see her typing. She texts:

LOL. I thought I was your main bitch

I text:

          No, I met someone hotter. You're demoted

Booo!

          Shut the fuck up. Come see me

Okay

          Tomorrow. Afterschool. The bridge at Rowntree

U serious?

          Fuck, nvm then

No no its cool. Will meet you there.

          Good

I scroll back up and read through our conversation three times, wondering what the fuck just happened.