The walk to school was dreary and gray since the sky still hadn't cleared.  It was late September, and the maples were beginning to turn red, orange, and yellow.  But it was hard for George to tell on a rainy day like this one.  He raised the hood on his jacket to avoid the drizzle and hiked the two miles to Stafford Regional High School.  He'd done it so often that he could walk it with his eyes closed. 

But George could never get too comfortable.  Suddenly, a bus coming up the road behind him stepped on the gas and swerved toward the massive lake-like puddle George was passing.  The tires hit the water, making a loud scuffing noise and creating a wave over eight feet high right at George.  He dodged behind a telephone pole just in time and avoided the tsunami.  As the bus sped by, George heard the children aboard the bus laughing and cheering and just rolled his eyes.  "Not today, bus driver.  Not today."

Stafford was on the smallish side but reasonably diverse, being a bedroom for the larger cities nearby, and the students of Stafford Regional reflected that diversity. There were people of all shapes, sizes, races, and creeds united by the school's reputation for athletic dominance. In just a decade and a half, a single high school athletics program transformed the once very lived-in colonial East Coast village into a boom town, and a wave of immigration now propped up Stafford's economy. Families had moved there from across the state and beyond just so their children could be a part of a legacy, and they'd brought with them their cultures, political views, and, some would say most importantly their money. There was friction here and there, but as long as the Stafford Dragons brought people together, common purpose had won the day. Some had called it a modern miracle, a shining example of what a pluralistic society could accomplish.  

George had lived in Stafford his entire life. To him, it was just the place where his family had lived for generations. All he wanted was to get through the day without attracting too much attention from the masses of students flooding the corridors. While everyone else had a friend or two and a little slice of the school just for them, George felt like a zombie lumbering through the halls, moving with the pack without being a part of it.

At his locker, George caught a familiar sight.  Someone had slapped a brightly colored sticky note on the door that read, "SNOWFLAKE!!"

"Two exclamation points," he mused.  "Guess it really is my birthday."

He peeled the note off the door to add it to his collection.  There was always one waiting for him, and he'd taken to collecting them like trading cards.  He had a sizable menagerie inside his locker, with the dupes stuck on top of each other.  However, he quickly realized his folly.  Today's note had superglue on the back, ready to adhere to the first person who touched it.

He could hear giggling from a group of girls a few paces away, but rather than acknowledge them, he did his best to act like their little trap didn't bother him.  He'd seen other students punished for lesser infractions, but George had learned long ago that it was useless for him to speak up.  Since the accident, no one save his mother had taken his side for any reason, and it was better they didn't see him cry.

Then, as the warning bells rang, people scrambled to their respective classrooms to start the day.  With no time to fix the problem, George quickly put his jacket away and hurried to homeroom; the note still stuck to his fingers.  Then, George felt the telltale signs of another episode when he sat at his desk.  He clutched his stomach as his innards began twisting themselves inside out and put his head down to avoid eye contact with anyone nearby.  

It wasn't until he heard the click-clack of heels that he chanced looking up.  "Good morning, everyone," said Ms. McCoole pleasantly as she set her latte on her desk.  

Catherine McCoole was the youngest and newest teacher at Stafford Regional.  She was brilliant and efficient, and she spoke with a smooth, sultry, yet commanding voice that politely asked for your attention.  However, her body demanded attention before she had to say anything.  Ms. McCoole was a knockout.  She had dark brown hair held up in a tight bun, big brown eyes, and delicate features.  She was about the average woman's height but packed extreme curves that would make any social media starlet jealous.  Though she did her best to downplay her charms in how she dressed, she could have been wearing a hazmat suit and still turned heads.  

George could tell she was in a good mood from how she twirled around the front of the room, updating the information on the whiteboard.  But then she made eye contact with him, and her mood shifted.  Her cheeks reddened, and though she quickly averted her gaze, she couldn't hide her discomfort.

George had two daily class periods to bask in her beauty.  Unfortunately, In the first week of school, George let his imagination get away from him and made a salacious sketch of her during her English Literature class.  Naturally, he'd been found out. In an embarrassing reveal, Ms. McCoole was forced to confiscate his sketch pad filled with over a dozen drawings of her, each more erotically charged than the last.  Aside from a mild admonishment, she barely said anything about the incident or even written him up for it. But that didn't stop the story from spreading through Stafford Regional like a virus.  His lapse in judgment had left their already perfunctory relationship strained and awkward. George's shame was as painful as any of his episodes, and while he yearned to apologize properly, he had yet to work up the courage.

The bell rang, and homeroom officially began.  George sat alone in the corner and did his best not to draw attention.  It was then that one of his worst nightmares was realized during the morning announcements over the school loudspeaker.

"Thank you, Serenity, for that riveting sports report.  Go Dragons!" came Farah's lovely voice through the speakers.  "Next, don't forget that the anti-bullying club, No Bull, is accepting new members and donations.  With your help, we can make our school a safe space for all.  Finally, it looks like we only have two birthdays today.  Piper Rosewood and…George Everhart."  

Predictably, the entire class looked at him like a cackle of hyenas, ready to pick off a sickly gazelle.  Farah might as well have painted a bullseye on his back and announced the start of hunting season.  

Farah continued, "Happy Birthday…to both of you, I guess." His classmates giggled, whispered conspiratorially, or grinned malevolently.  "Well, that does it for your morning update.  Remember, you can have a good day or a bad one; the choice is yours.  Bye bye!"

Meanwhile, he struggled to breathe as the pain in his abdomen spread to his chest.  He cursed himself for letting his birthday slip his mind.  Historically, the day brought out the worst in people around him, seemingly encouraging the indifferent to join in the fun at his expense.  Yet, he forgot, perhaps on purpose.  Wishing he could crawl back to his attic, he flipped his hood over his head, folded his arms over the desk and hid, hoping they'd leave him alone.

After homeroom, George darted to a bathroom to remove the superglue from his fingers.  As he ran his hand under the warm, soapy water, a troop of football players walked in, all wearing their purple and black varsity letter jackets and wolfish grins.

"Sup, Snowflake!" said Connor, one of the team captains and his worst tormenter.

George sighed, "Hello, Connor."  George could only guess what would happen next but knew he wouldn't like it.  Meanwhile, his pain was only getting worse.

However, Connor couldn't be happier.  "I can't believe it's that time of the year already.  Happy birthday, buddy!"

The insincerity was so thick it was practically suffocating.  "Yeah, thanks," replied George as he mentally prepared himself.

"Oh, hey man, you okay?  You look like you're gonna vom," he said, doing his best to sound concerned.  A couple of his friends giggled amongst each other behind him.  "What's the matter?  Another tummy ache?" he asked condescendingly.

Most of the glue had come off, and George was ready to get out of there.  As he dried his hands, he said, "Connor, can we just get this over with?"

Connor feigned indignation.  "Aww, my dude, my guy.  Look, I know we haven't always got along.  But for real, we're just here to wish you a happy birthday.  Right gang?"

One of the linemen, Tommy, counted down, "Three…two…one," the group began singing the happy birthday song in the loudest, most obnoxious way possible.  George stood there awkwardly while they took their time, enunciating every shrill syllable.  

When they finished, Connor clapped George on the shoulder and said, "Enjoy your day, bro!" Then, he and his crew strolled out of the bathroom, leaving George alone.  

As soon as they were gone, George let out a sigh of relief even as his pain kept ramping.  Then he winced as something sharp pierced his guts.  He looked down, expecting Connor to have shivved him before he left.  But it was all in his head.  He gave himself a few minutes to calm down but couldn't.  The pain was becoming unbearable.  He waited until the warning bell sounded before grabbing his bag and heading to his first class.

However, as he exited the bathroom, a row of his classmates in a semi-circle awaited him.  They yelled out, "Surprise!" Then, they let loose a volley of water balloons directly at him.  George raised his hands to defend himself, but it was no use.  Each balloon hit its mark and exploded in a deluge of white shaving foam.  

The hall erupted in laughter.  It seemed as though the entire school was there to witness the event.  A multitude of camera flashes went off, and when George wiped his eyes, he could see dozens of phones recording him.  Connor and his entourage were in the back, high-fiving each other.  Outwardly, George made no expression.  He barely moved.  In moments like this, George remembered a piece of his father's advice.  "Never let them see you cry." He just stood there, enduring their nasty jeers, and waited for it to end.

Suddenly, a high-pitched whistle silenced the crowd and sent them scattering like cockroaches.  A man's deep, gravelly voice roared over the commotion, "Have you monkeys lost your damn minds?  Get to class now!"

The voice belonged to the school's revered football coach, Mr. Veiss.  He was an enormous man, built like a linebacker, with a well-groomed salt-and-pepper mustache and short hair.  He never went anywhere without his trusty whistle.

He scanned George up and down and asked, "What the hell happened to you?"

George sighed.  "It's my birthday," he said.

Mr. Veiss took a moment before he fully understood.  "Ohhhh," he dragged out.  "So, you're the one my boys are so entertained by." He stepped closer and brushed some of the foam off George's shoulder.  "Well, that's gonna stain," he muttered.  "Get in there and clean yourself up.  I'll escort you to class."

"Thanks," was all George could say.

The remainder of the morning could only be described as a series of unfortunate events.  Everywhere he turned, it seemed like there was someone ready to pounce.  George did his best to sneak through the halls between classes and avoid the constant tripping and shoving, but it was as if the entire school was after him.  He couldn't even escape the bullying during class in the presence of a teacher.  During sociology, Mrs. Tanner had George stand up and read a passage from their textbook.  She scolded him the entire time, telling him to speak up and stand straight.  Meanwhile, she ignored his classmates as they threw balled-up pieces of paper, erasers, and rubber bands at him.  

George was used to being bullied, but not usually this openly.  And all the while, his insides felt like a wet towel rolled up and wrung out.  He wanted to escape, but he couldn't leave.  He was already on probation for his poor attendance, mainly because his bullies made it challenging to get to class on time.  Vice Principal Rodriguez had already threatened to expel him if he skipped entirely.  He'd brought his grievances to authorities several times but was always dismissed and accused of faking, embellishing, or outright lying about his circumstances.  He'd even been banned from the nurse's office.

He was in desperate need of a distraction.  So, while he had some free time during chemistry class, he pulled out his new tablet and sought safer stimulation online.  But the bullying had already spread into cyberspace.  The videos of him getting assaulted with water balloons filled with shaving foam had spread through the school's network and beyond.  There were already hundreds of hurtful comments from people he'd never met.  He was practically going viral, and the day wasn't half over.

Unable to find respite online, George found the picture he'd taken of the stone orb his father had given him.  His mother had dismissed it as an unremarkable rock, but something told him there was more to it.  He plunged down the rabbit hole, looking for information about stone spheres in history, literature, and art.  But beyond brushing up on his geometry and a bunch of spiritual lingo like wholeness and unity, he was far from unlocking the secrets of the enigmatic object.

Sometime later, at lunch, George debated even trying to eat.  There was no possibility he could get through the lunch counter without food in his hair or down his shirt.  But he hadn't eaten since the day before, and though nothing seemed appetizing, he had to eat something.  George knew their school's cafeteria was alright, but lately, food started tasting more and more like ash.  Nobody else seemed to notice, so he assumed it was just him.  He grabbed a bag of chips and a bottle of water and made his way to the register. 

In front of him was a mousy, redheaded girl that he recognized from his senior art class.  Her name was Piper.  She transferred to Stafford Regional a year before.  He hadn't interacted with her much, which suited him fine since interactions with others were always dicey.  But Piper might have been one of a handful of people at Stafford Regional who hadn't openly expressed disdain for him.  By that metric, they were practically best friends.  

Her hair always stood out - near waist-length, with streaks of gold, tucked into an elaborate braid.  She wore thick, black-framed glasses over her deep blue eyes, a baggy yellow sweater, and unflattering jeans.  Despite knowing next to nothing about her, he always enjoyed seeing her.  For whatever reason, the colors of her hair and clothing just popped better, as if he was seeing her through some kind of image filter with the saturation turned up.  

She was frantically swiping through her banking app on a chunky, outdated, and well-used tablet device, looking for funds to add to her wallet.  With the line backing up and her desperation mounting, George held his phone to the scanner to pay for her lunch without a word.

"Oh," she said, surprised.  Piper looked at him curiously and struggled to find the right words.

The cashier quickly rang him up, and George left swiftly afterward.  Some other more adventurous person might have used an opportunity like this to segue into a quippy meet-cute like in a romantic comedy, but he was happy to make himself scarce before Piper realized who he was.

He avoided the cafeteria and found a secluded bench in the adjacent commons, an open nexus of intersecting hallways leading to various wings. It was full of carefully curated vegetation and decorated in the school's signature purple and black.  Even though he was hungry, he couldn't get through a few chips before washing his mouth with water to eliminate the chalky consistency.  Even then, the water tasted metallic, almost rusty.  His pain was still ramping, and he wondered if his silent phantom friend would ever come to comfort him.  But the commons were mostly empty.  

He was getting more desperate for relief by the hour, so to conjure her, he turned to his tablet and began scribbling a hasty sketch of the enigmatic girl.  And for a moment, he forgot how hungry and tired and tortured he was.  He focused on his art, on her, his imaginary friend.  He felt stupid when he thought about her that way.  But if his choice was between feeling silly or broken, he'd be content with silly.

However, that reprieve was short-lived.  He'd just finished the girl's eyes when a young woman hopped onto the bench and collided with him.  "Sup, nerd!" she shouted.  

Already on edge, George jumped and yelped, "Gah!"

The young woman giggled mischievously.  Her name was Lacy Summers, and she epitomized the blonde bombshell look, with big fake boobs and lips, thick thighs, and the owner of what was widely considered the best ass in three counties.  She was dressed for gym class, with black and gray yoga pants and a red hoodie with the midriff exposed and the neckline cut as far down as the school's dress code would let her get away with.

"Can I help you?" he asked sarcastically after regaining his composure.

"Ugh, you need to lighten up, George.  You are turbo lame, I swear."

"So you've said," he replied.  He was never in the mood to deal with Lacy.  "What do you want?"

Undaunted, she continued.  "Well, I couldn't help but notice that you're using a Van Gogh DX Workstation Pro.  That's a pretty impressive piece of tech." Then she nudged him and said, "And I see you're using one of the most advanced portable devices on the market to draw a girl.  Typical."

George was caught off guard, both by her knowledge of niche mobile devices and how deep her cleavage was when she leaned forward.  He quickly locked the screen and shoved the device in his bag.

"Aww!  Did I interrupt happy time?  I'm so sowwy," she pouted.

George looked away and said nothing.  He knew better than to indulge her.

"Anyway, I'm actually here on business.  You know Farah, right?"

George's ears perked upon hearing the name of his first crush.  

Lacy giggled, "What am I saying?  Of course you do.  Well, her birthday is coming up soon." She leaned closer and pressed her breasts into his arm.  When she caught him looking, she chewed her lip suggestively and said, "Happy birthday, by the way."

George scooted further away from her, but she pretended not to notice.  "I've heard that you're quite the artist.  And since we both know how much of a fan of hers you are, I thought you might like to be a part of my surprise for her."

"No," he said immediately.

She laughed.  "You haven't even heard my plan yet."

"I've had enough of your plans, Lacy."

She rolled her eyes.  "Oh gosh.  Are you still sore about getting stranded on the roof?  That was, like, two years ago, dude, get over it."

"It was less than four months ago, and I had to retake Spanish 201 over the summer because you made me miss the exam." He didn't bother bringing up the heat exhaustion or the blistering sunburn that not even his genetics could protect him from.

She laughed.  "Why didn't you just reschedule the test, stupid."

"I tried," he sighed.  "But Mrs. Esposito hates me."

"What, did you draw nudes of her, too?"

George grabbed his bag and was about to get up when Lacy held his arm.  "Wait, wait, wait.  I'm sorry, okay?  Just hear me out.  Gosh!"

George ignored her and kept trying to get up.

"I can fix your relationship with Farah," she said enticingly.

That gave him pause.  One of his biggest laments was being unable to get closer to Farah.  There were many reasons for this, the biggest one being her boyfriend, star middle linebacker and captain of the football team, Connor Reckman.

"Ahah!  I knew you'd be interested." She continued as if he'd already agreed.  "I've been trying to get that girl out of her shell for years.  She's smart, she's sweet, she's popular, she kicks ass on the soccer field.  And most importantly, for our purposes, she's hot as fuck.  The girl has it all."

"Uh-huh," he said skeptically.

"Sorry, I forgot I was talking to her biggest fan," she said as she nudged him.  "The thing that most people don't know about her is that she's super shy.  I mean, sure, she has nice expensive clothes, and some of them show off a belly here and there, but you can't get her in a bikini to save her life.  So I thought, maybe, perhaps, I could make her feel more comfortable with her body if she saw what she looked like in a sexy photoshoot or something.  But she won't even pose for me, and I'm her best friend!  Can you imagine?"

"Yeah, imagine," he muttered.

"So then I had this brilliant idea.  Maybe she'd reconsider if I could make a piece of art with her posed all sweet and sexy.  Problem is, while I am a highly evolved woman with many skills and talents, drawing isn't one of them."

"So, you want me to, what?  Make a pinup of her?"

"Yes!  You got it!"

George rolled his eyes.  "Yeah, that'll go over well.  Hey Farah, I know we haven't said a word to each other since I wrote you a stupid love letter in seventh grade, but here's a picture I drew with your boobs out."

"Don't be so crude," she scolded.  "And don't you think I already thought of that?  I'll explain why we did it, that I commissioned it from you, and we just wanted to show her what a babe she is.  As long as you make it your best work, I'm sure she'll love it, and then she'll have you to thank for it."

There had to be a catch.  There was always a catch with Lacy.  "Why me?  And how do I know you won't just take this to Mr. Rodriguez and accuse me of stalking her or something?"

"Oh, come on!  How petty do you think I am?" She thought for a moment and then said, "Don't answer that.  Look, you're the only person I know who can draw people well.  And really, who better than her unrequited love?  I mean, think of the redemption arc."  She framed an imaginary banner in the air.  "From the outhouse to the friend zone, the George Everhart story."

"Inspiring," he said dryly.  "Thanks, but no thanks.  Get an AI to do it for you." He turned to leave and took satisfaction in knowing he'd avoided another one of her traps.

"Please," she said quietly.

George stopped.  He thought he might be hearing things, but she said please.  And she sounded sincere.

She continued.  "I have the cash.  I could just go online and get some stranger to do it.  But I want it done by someone who…cares about her.  I know you hate me, and I get it.  But you see her the way I do.  That's what I want for her."

"I don't hate you," George huffed.  He couldn't believe he was actually considering her proposal.  This was the same Lacy that ensured everyone knew every sullied rumor about him, regardless of the truth. But perhaps this was the opportunity he was looking for, the chance to be something other than a pathetic whipping boy.  If he put his heart and soul into it, and Lacy backed him, he might come out ahead for once.  It wasn't as though he had anything to lose.  "It'll be tasteful?" he asked.

"Absolutely!  Just her in something a little revealing, like a swimsuit or some lingerie, in a sexy pose.  Less fap and more tact.  I'll even pay you."

He thought about it, then sat down and said, "Counter-offer."

"I'm listening," she said excitedly.

"Keep your money.  Instead, will you get the football team off my back?  You're the team manager; they would listen to you."

"Oof," she groaned.  "That's a really big ask, George.  Are you sure you don't want something else?  Something easier, like, I don't know, a new car?"

"Those are my terms," he said adamantly.

"Ugh!  Fine!" she whined.  "But it better be your best work."

"Deal," he said.

"Yesssss," she said, pumping her fist.  "Can we start now?  I have, like, a bajillion ideas!"

And so, the two began collaborating on Farah's pinup.  Lacy brought up some pictures on her phone of the two of them at the beach for reference.  At the same time, George started to create a rough preliminary sketch of what would eventually be the final product.  Lacy had plenty of input, from the outfit Farah would wear and her hairstyle to more esoteric details like lighting, shading, and color palette.  Despite his misgivings about Lacy, he was actually having a good time.  His pain still lingered and made his hands shake during vicious spikes, but he was thankful to finally have an adequate distraction.   

And he could hardly ask for a better subject.  Farah was a beauty by anyone's standards.  She had straight black hair, bronze skin from her Middle-Eastern heritage, enchanting gray eyes, and a delightfully athletic build.  Her long, contoured, and well-built legs were perhaps her most well-known feature, but George was spoilt for choice on what to make the focus of the piece.  

By the end of lunch, the two had ironed out all the details George would need to finish on his own.  They settled on a simple full-body shot, with her hand on one hip and holding a soccer ball against the other.  She would wear cleats, knee-high socks, bikini briefs, and a matching sports bra, all in the school's colors, purple and black.  Lacy wanted her to look coy and flirty, and they spent most of their time together getting the expression just right.

"This is gonna be so awesome," marveled Lacy.  "Send me a copy of this, will you?  I'm gonna document the process.  You have my email, right?"

"If it's in the registry, yeah."

"Are you gonna be able to make the deadline?  I need it in two weeks."

Two weeks was plenty generous, but George didn't want her to know that.  "It'll be tight, but I'll do my best."

"Sweet.  I'll see you later, nerd.  And don't show that to anyone!  It's a surprise."

"Who would I even show it to?" he muttered.

She stuck out her tongue in disgust.  "Don't be so lame, Snowflake.  No girl likes that." Then she got up and bounced away.

George feigned illness to get out of gym class so that he could start working on Farah's piece.  He spent all period on the top row of the bleachers, flanking the basketball court, scribbling on his tablet in a flurry of creativity.  In truth, this wasn't the first time Farah was the subject of his art, but those were hidden away on sketch pads deep in his closet.  Even though Farah's sketches were far more tame than the ones he'd made of Ms. McCoole, he didn't dare upload them, fearing they would get into the wrong hands somehow.

And for the following few periods, the bullying seemed to calm down.  However, as George hurried through the halls to his locker, he noticed that the other students gave him a wide berth.  He was initially relieved, but the hushed whispers and obvious staring unsettled him just as much.  It was as if they were watching a criminal being led to the noose.  Doing his best to ignore them, he arrived at his locker, expecting to see a new sticky note waiting for him, but there was none.  

Then he noticed that the hall had gone quiet despite being full of students.  The pain in his abdomen spiked suddenly and shot up his spine to his brain, making him feel lightheaded and foggy.  But even as the sudden stupor took hold, the hairs on his neck raised in alarm as he felt the presence of something big and violent approaching from behind.  A hand grabbed his shoulder and spun him around, and there was Farah with white-hot fury in her beautiful gray eyes.

"What the hell is this?" she growled through angry tears.  She held her phone up to show him the rough sketch he and Lacy had made of her during lunch.

George's eyes darted between the image on screen and the heart-wrenching sight of Farah's ire.  He understood what had happened immediately.  Lacy must have shared it, if not with Farah, then with someone else who spread it around the school.  He sputtered, "I-I didn't…it was just…"

"Just what?  Another one of your fucked up fantasies?  Huh?" she shouted as she pushed him against the locker. 

George panicked and let slip his only defense.  "W-wait!  Please!  It was supposed to be a birthday present!"

"Well, happy fucking birthday to you, pervert," She spat.  "I'm not some thot!  Okay?  I'm not a model, I'm not your muse, and I'm not your friend!  So get over your stupid crush and leave me alone!"

His devastated heart hung by a thread.  But it was about to get worse.  Behind Farah, from the crowd of students that had gathered to watch the scene, approached several large men dressed in their purple and black varsity letter jackets.  They were led by her boyfriend, Connor, who looked delighted with the scene unfolding before him.

He placed his hand gently on Farah's shoulder, making her jump.  "Whoa, Farah, babe, chill out."

"Connor, I can handle this," she stated firmly.

"Oh, I can see that.  Ol' Georgie boy is spooked.  I mean, just look at him." Connor placed his hand on George's cheek, then pushed his face away.  "But I'm sure this is all some big misunderstanding.  Isn't it George?"

"Y-Yes.  I can explain."

"See, babe?" Connor took Farah's hands and carefully guided her away from George. "Here, why don't you go back to my locker and wait for me?  Take a few deep breaths and clear your head.  I'm gonna have a chat with the G-man, and we'll work it out.  Don't worry about it."

Meanwhile, the rest of his comrades formed a blockade around them in a semi-circle, preventing anyone else from getting close.  Farah noticed it, too, and realized what was about to happen.  "Connor, don't," she pleaded.

Connor said nothing but simply raised his arm and pointed down the hall.  Defeated, Farah exchanged a sorrowful glance at George before squeezing past the footballers and disappearing into the crowd.  Connor glared menacingly at George while Tommy spoke to the crowd, "Time to get to class.  Nothing to see here."

A low murmur passed through the gaggle of onlookers, and then they slowly began to disperse, leaving George alone with Connor and several other seniors.  There was Tommy Ritcher and Joey Bengal, the left and right defensive tackles, as well as a few other members of the Dragons' defensive unit.  They all wore their jackets and a brown leather bracer on their left wrist with the team's logo burned into it.  It was a mark of honor senior members of the storied team wore with pride.

Once they were gone, Connor rolled his eyes and shrugged, "Fuckin' bitches.  Am I right?" Then, without another word, Connor reared back and threw a right hook at George's eye.  But George got his hands up just in time to deflect the blow.  Even still, Connor was one of the top athletes at a school full of top athletes and hit like a freight train.  The impact knocked George off balance, and his back banged against the locker-lined wall with a loud metal rattle.  Connor didn't let up.  He launched a barrage of attacks, each battering George's weakened defenses like a hurricane.  With his pain flaring up and his head foggy, all his father's training was useless against such an assault.  One of Connor's blows finally connected square across George's cheek, and he slumped to the floor, his ears ringing and his vision blurry.  Connor seized the opportunity and kicked George hard in the stomach, knocking the wind out of him.  George was left defenseless as he struggled to breathe and not vomit at the same time.

"You know, Snowflake," Connor said casually, "I don't usually care about fat losers ogling my girl.  Hell, I figure it's probably the most action they'll ever get." He bent down and grabbed George by the white in his hair, yanking his head back.  "What I don't like is when some basement dwelling incel draws lewds of her to share with the rest of the fucking weebs."

"Attic dweller," winced George.

"What's that?" Connor asked.

"I dwell…in the attic…not the basement," George managed between wheezy breaths.

"Hah!" Connor laughed.  "My mistake."  

Meanwhile, Joey had dug through George's bag and found the tablet.  "Look what I got," he said with gleeful menace and handed it to Connor.

"Ooh, what do we have here?  Birthday present?  Nice…”

George knew what was coming and struggled to speak.  "Connor, please.  It was Lacy's idea.  She asked me to do it."

Connor grinned.  "I know.  Who do you think suggested it to her in the first place?" Then, he threw the device on the ground and stomped, shattering the screen and cracking the case open.  "Oops," he said flippantly.  George squeezed his eyes shut as if forced to watch an execution.

"'Kay guys, it's time to give George his birthday gifts.  That's eighteen years, eighteen licks, three for each of us.  Joey, you're up first."

What followed was the worst beating George had ever taken.  The five of them took turns kicking him, pulling him to his feet, hitting him a few more times, throwing him on the ground, and kicking him some more.  He'd lost track, but it was far more than eighteen licks.  His pain intensified with every strike, their laughter punctuating every sickening thud against his skull.  He didn't bother fighting back and hoped that the next attack would be the one to put him out of his misery.

Suddenly, the lights flickered, and the doors on the lockers rattled around them.  George could hear a young woman's voice screaming at them but couldn't make out what she was saying through his delirium.  She knelt beside him, and George could barely distinguish the blurry features of his dream girl's lovely eyes and face.  Only this time, she looked to be his age and was neither passive nor calm.  She was frantically manipulating her tablet device: an old model with a Sailor Moon sticker.

"George, it's okay.  You're gonna be okay, don't worry," she assured him, though it was clearly for her benefit as much as it was his.

George was losing consciousness.  But before his vision went completely dark, he murmured, "It should have been me."

He awoke to the sound of thunder rumbling in the distance, and for a brief, terrifying moment, he thought he was that scared twelve-year-old boy again, waiting for help to arrive while his father bled out.  He clutched his stomach and groaned as his pain asserted itself.  He could hear the rain pelting against the windows and feel the caustic chemicals in his nose.

With his breathing ragged and frantic, he raised his head off the desk and took in his surroundings.  He was sitting on a stool by himself at a large table, and all around him were other students quietly working alone or in pairs.  Finally, he realized where he was.  It was the final period of the day, art.  The storm had come back for round two and hammered the third-floor windows.  The chemicals he smelled were paints and fumes from the kiln.  His breathing slowed, and he gradually calmed down.

He searched his memory and couldn't figure out how he got there.  The last thing he remembered was being kicked repeatedly by five massive football players.  And now he was sitting on a stool, still in pain but without significant injuries.  He could have sworn they'd broken a few of his ribs.  However, the worst thing he could find was bruises.  He hurt all over like he'd been in another car accident.  But, somehow, he was relatively okay.  There was a brief flicker of hope as he tore open his bag, looking for his tablet.  It was there, but to his horror, it was just as broken as he remembered.  The screen was utterly shattered, and the case had been snapped open, a cracked circuit board protruding like a fractured bone.

George sat in a melancholic daze at his table, staring off into the middle distance, expressionless.  It was as if he was a ghost haunting the room, unable to move on.  His pain continued to boil over inside his abdomen.  It would intensify, then diminish, then come back worse, again and again.  The rest of the class worked on their portfolios, oblivious to what George was going through. 

However, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Piper looking at him.  She had been painting a series of fantasy minis with her friend, a colorfully dressed pastel goth girl he could never remember the name of, but her attention had shifted to him.  His heart broke as their eyes met.  She looked just as miserable as he felt, and seeing her like that only made him feel worse.  He considered reaching out to her, but then, he thought better of it.  He'd only screw that up just as he had years before with Farah.  So, instead, he put his hood up, laid his head on the desk, and huddled his face in his arms.

Finally, the school day was mercifully over.  He didn't bother stopping at his locker; he just set off for home through the pouring rain.  The streets were already flooded by this point.  Without his jacket, his hoodie wouldn't do much to keep him dry, but he couldn't find the energy to care.  

About halfway through his march, George heard rapid footsteps splashing along the sidewalk from behind.  Piper had caught up with him.  She had a long red raincoat and an umbrella resembling an orange slice, the only colors in the world in that dreary September rain.  

She lifted the garish umbrella above them and said, "Hi, George."

"Hi, Piper," he mumbled.

She looked awkward and uncomfortable but did her best to keep a positive attitude.  "Can I walk with you for a while?" she asked carefully.

"Yeah, sure, I guess," he said.

Piper seemed shy as they walked in silence for a bit.  She would turn to look at him periodically, seemingly at a loss for something to say.  Then, finally, she blurted out, "I, um... just wanted to thank you for buying me lunch.  My mom forgot to send me lunch money again."

"It's no big deal," he said.

"I know, but..." Piper paused, searching for the words she needed.  Eventually, she asked him, "Why'd you do it?"

It was an odd question, and he wasn't sure what answer she sought.  "I dunno," he shrugged, "can't have you going hungry, I guess."

"...Y-Yeah," she said, her voice breaking.  "Thank you.  I'll get you back someday."

Suddenly, George clutched his chest as a dull knife slowly cut his heart out.  The pain forced him to stop and lean against a nearby telephone pole to catch his breath and wait for the pain to soften.

"What's wrong?" she asked cautiously.

He let out a dry, wheezy cough and caught his breath before answering her.  "I'm fine," he grunted.  "Just a heart attack, nothing to worry about."

She reached up to put her hand on his shoulder.  Even hunched as he was, it was still a stretch.  "I saw what those jerks did to you.  Do you need a doctor or something?"

He shook his head and dismissed her concerns with a wave.  

"Are you sure?  You always look like you're in pain.  But I've never seen you this bad."

"Piper, can you please just..." George stopped.  

Several school buses were coming up the road, and the street nearby was practically flooded.  Without another word, George positioned himself between Piper and the bus.  It hit the massive puddle and splashed a wave at them, but George could easily shield her from the deluge thanks to their size difference.  Piper yelped in surprise, but George held fast until the other school buses passed by.  The first had displaced the water enough that the others didn't get him as much, but he was still soaked to the bone.  He heard jeers and laughter from the bus as it continued down the street.

George spat out the dirty street water that made it into his mouth and resumed his walk.  Piper was still shocked.  "Assholes!" she yelled after them.  She then noticed that George was leaving without her and trotted forward to catch up.

"George!  Wait!" she said nervously while raising the umbrella above him.  "I don't want to leave you alone right now.  Please?  My house is close by.  You could come over and..."

"And what?  You have some magic spell that can make everything better?"

"No, I… I have a washing machine and a dryer." She was starting to get annoyed, and George noticed.

"Thanks, but I have those at my house, and I'm almost... there," he groaned as his stomach shook from a phantom punch.  "Save your charity for someone else."

"Stop!" she shouted and jumped in front of him, doing her best to keep him under the umbrella.  "Just stop already!"

George tried to get around her, but she just moved to bar his path.  "What?" he said, raising his voice.  "What do you want from me?"

"Just just look at me for a second!"

George avoided her gaze, fearing what she'd say if she could see how much he wanted to go with her.  Perhaps they could've been friends, with a better version of himself in another life.  A part of him wished he had a companion like her, but the idea of someone wanting to be his friend was beyond him.

"Please," she pleaded softly, her voice straining to stay composed.  "Please just look."

Realizing he wasn't getting out of this, George reluctantly raised his eyes to meet hers.  He expected Piper to be angry with him for his shitty attitude.  But instead, she took off her glasses to reveal her dazzling blue eyes, cute freckles, and soft, hopeful smile.  Her bright red and gold hair, slightly damp from the rain, framed her face like a photograph.  For a brief moment, George could feel something familiar about her, as if he'd seen this look before.  But suddenly, the pain came at him as a splitting headache, just like the one he received the night of the accident.  

By now, Piper was on the verge of tears.  Finally, after a few brief moments, she asked, "Can you see me?" She gently held his cheeks with both hands and looked deep into his eyes.  "Please, tell me you can see me," she pleaded.

He did his best to do as she asked.  Aside from realizing how pretty she was, he couldn't understand what he was supposed to get from this.  Frustrated, George shook his head and looked away from her once again.  "Yes, okay.  I can see you.  So what?"

"No!" she cried.  Piper seemed determined to get the reaction she needed and forced him to look at her, startling George with her assertiveness.  Her eyes pierced through his pain, begging for recognition.  But she found nothing.  George watched as the sadness that had been welling up in her eyes began to fall, the tears staining her cheeks through the rain.  She was crushed, utterly.  "What happened to you?  Why can't you see?"  she said more to herself than to him.

Unable to bear her disappointment any longer, George pushed her hands away.  "I'm sorry, alright!" he shouted, and Piper jumped back in surprise.  "Whatever I did to you, I'm sorry!" The pain in his head intensified three-fold, and the rain dripping from his hair felt hot.  

And then he heard thunder rumble in the distance.

Immediately, George was beset by flashbacks.  His breathing, already labored from the pain, became heavier with each distant boom.  A large truck approached, and George thought it would smash into him.  As it passed, he saw his father's mangled body splayed out on the pavement, partially crushed by the impact.  He felt faint and stumbled onto the wet sidewalk, trying desperately to catch his breath.

Piper dropped her umbrella and quickly knelt by his side.  "Oh my gosh, George, are you okay?  What's wrong?"

"Stop," he cried.  "Please stop.  Please..."

Thunder rolled through the clouds in response. The truck smashed into their car and crushed his father over and over. A single terrible moment in time held George prisoner as a scared twelve-year-old boy with blood splattered across his face.

Piper shook him.  "George, talk to me!  What's happening?"

"It… should have been me," he whispered.  

With a soothing tone, she got closer and asked, "What should have been you?  What do you mean?"

George felt as though he was on the verge of passing out.  He needed to get home, away from her.  It was a little further down Carpenter Street and a left on Mason Way, half a mile between him and his sanctuary.  If he had his way, he'd never leave.

"George, c'mon.  You're scaring me.  Just let me..."

George snapped.  "You can't do anything!  Nobody can!" He struggled to get up, and now frantic, Piper tried to help him stand.  But he wasn't having any more of her pity.  He had meant to push her away, but he pushed too hard and knocked her to the ground.  

Piper began sobbing with her beautiful hair now soaked from the rain.  "Don't go," she begged.  "Please... please don't let it end like this."

George had no idea what she was referring to.  To his knowledge, this was the most they'd ever spoken to each other.  Still, even in his elevated state, he knew he'd gone too far.  Seeing her there, soggy and defeated, was just another example of how toxic he was to everyone around him.  Piper might have been his last chance for something better.  But now, he'd ruined that too.

His headache intensified briefly, making him grab his forehead.  "Just...forget about me.  Forget I ever existed.  Just... just leave me alone." With that, he turned and shuffled away from her.  

He didn't get far before he heard Piper's voice from behind.  "Fine," she screamed.  "Just walk away from me!  I don't care anymore!  You hear me!  I don't... I don't..."

George didn't look back even as Piper's tirade suddenly stopped.  Alone once again, George apologized to her silently.  She deserved better than a wreck like him.  Things might have been different if they had known each other years ago.  But he had made up his mind.  It was better this way.