He steps into the classroom with his head down, almost ashamed to be here. He walks quickly to the back to an old chemical-stained desk, but his effort doesn’t work. The jocks notice him and begin to pull puns. His head lowers with each throbbing word.
He is the smartest guy in the school and is often used as a model student in class. Each time he is mentioned, classmates turn and stare while his head lowers to its limit. He barely looks up, only to take notes from the chalk-caked board.
He looks at me and I smile. He turns his head, lowering it again, and begins to write. I wonder if it hurts him more than it hurts me. People smile and act kind, but they make fun of him. People smile at me, but I shrug it off.
I’m an outcast among the girls. I’m not a shopper or a rich girl who flaunts dim-witted talent.
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