I’m not the most graceful gazelle in the herd. I’ve cut myself on garlic, for frick’s sake. I’ve choked on my own spit. But at fourteen, you’d think I’d know how to avoid your more obvious hazards, like hot stovetops or Ebola. Well, think again, friend. Today is my first day of high school, and on the way to the bus stop, what happens? I step in a big pile of dog poop. On our driveway, no less. The driveway. To my dad’s veterinary clinic. Where we live. You’d expect to meet a turd or two on a vet’s property, but a snow-blind Sherpa choking back a blood clot could have dodged this bullet. It was HUGE.

I’m busy scraping my shoe against the curb when the bus comes. As I tread lightly down the aisle, all I can do is pray that no one smells me or notices the brown smear I’ve left at the front of the bus. I nod at familiar faces from middle school— people who were small and hairless last year but are awkward and troll-like today—and then I spy my best friend, Jason Vronsky.

“Hey, Audrey.”

The Boy speaks. He is way too alert this early in the morning. He really needs to tone that down.

“Hey, J,” I say, yawning, and settle into the seat across from him. I catch a whiff of what’s on my shoe. Ugh.

He leans in and says, “Ready for the big leagues? I hear seniors show no mercy.”

“I’m not even ready to walk to the bus stop. Look.”

I display the bottom of my black Chucks.

“So that’s what I smelled,” he says, grimacing.

Sweet corn on the cob, even his grimace is cute. Jason is the hot fudge on my McDonald’s sundae. Sweet and delicious, and I can’t get enough of it/him.

This is Jason on the outside: spiked brown hair, green eyes, ridiculous lashes that defy the laws of Maybelline, and these weirdly dark, expressive eyebrows. This is Jason on the inside: a fantastic artist, sensitive, loyal, and just plain kind.

Now, this is me on the outside: freckles, straight black hair that is so black it’s practically blue, and anime-size eyes. Like Anne Boleyn’s.

Fact, courtesy Wikipedia: The very late Anne Boleyn was King Henry VIII’s second wife. Supposedly, Anne wasn’t much to look at, but she did have beautiful eyes. Big and black. Just like mine. Unfortunately, her eyes couldn’t save her neck. Henry chopped off her head so he could marry someone else. Nice.

Also: Everything below my neckline these days is drenched in black. People think I’m Emo and cut myself in soft, secret places to relieve my inner angst. They think this, but no one bothers to ask whether I’m actually okay or need a room reserved at a psych ward. What they do ask is, “Are you Emo or what?” I’ve come to the sad conclusion that most people are either too oblivious or too scared to get involved in anything a) unpleasant, b) unrelated and/or c) uncool. However, if anyone did bother to ask the right question, I’d tell him or her not to worry and that

I’m about as solid as any teenage girl can be under the shadow of global warming and terrorism.

The truth is I’ve been a practicing monochromatist (a term I coined, thank you very much) since the second grade. Each year I’ve chosen a signature color and worn nothing but for twelve months. First I wore only pinks, but the baby-butt preciousness of it got old quick. Next were yellows, which clashed with my fair complexion. Also, I looked far more upbeat and optimistic than I could ever hope to be. Whites were the worst, but only because they made Mom’s laundry life a living hell. She went through bleach like football players guzzle Gatorade. After that I switched to blues, then greens, then purples, then oranges.... You get the idea.

This year I opted for black and really like it. I like it so much, in fact, that I may skip reds altogether next year. Black is easy, it’s a little scary, it’s sophisticated, and I hear it’s quite slimming; I could hide anything under one of my tunics. When I wear leggings, I feel like a spider. Jason says I’m kind of like a spider anyway, because I’m much stronger than I look. I’ve got spindly limbs and abnormally long fingers and toes, and I use them all to terrifying effect. Just ask my older brother, Angus. Those scars won’t fade.

And finally, this is me on the inside: OCD about books (like spines out and alphabetized), ALWAYS anxious, pretty darn funny, and “intellectually curious,” as my mom says. Ever since I was a little kid, my mom has made me watch movies and read books that she fell in love with at some point in her life. Instead of blowing me off when I ask a question or spoon-feeding me info like I’m mentally challenged, she hands me Webster’s or points me toward the computer when I’m stumped on something. I used to hate it, but now I’m glad she pushes me. As for Angus, she might as well have been chatting to that now-flat pile on our driveway.

“Plan on doing anything about that?” Jason asks, eyeing my foot.

“I plan on harvesting whatever I pick out with a stick and planting it in your back yard.”

Then I tell him I’ll kill him if he says a word to anyone about the morning’s unfortunate event. I also tell him about the puppies my dad delivered by C-section last week and how stupid Angus looks practicing turns in the RAV. I tell him Angus should be shot before being allowed behind the wheel of a car. I tell him instead of that, all passengers should be shot in advance. A mercy killing, if you will. But what I really want to say is, “I love you. Can I sit in your lap?”

Jason is the only person on the planet who really gets me. We became best friends in fourth grade, which makes the fact that I love him now even more unbearable. Back in our elementary years, Jason was far from boyfriend material-- braces, zero body fat, an abnormally large head, and poor hygiene. One or two of these features is fine. Having them all at once is a disaster.

Also, he was a crier. He cried a lot. Like, half the year. One time at recess, someone accidentally elbowed him in the solar plexus. The teacher sent him home because he couldn’t stop crying, which to me was both annoying and endearing in a chipmunky, wounded animal sort of way. I got so sick of watching kids tease him after that. So I punched a couple of them in the stomach and threatened to destroy another’s bits and pieces if he didn’t knock it off. I was sent home for fighting, and I didn’t see many birthday parties after that. But I didn’t care. Those kids deserved what they got.

By eighth grade, Jason had suddenly become all golden. It was like, literally, overnight, he grew into his head. The braces were gone and he had showered. I smelled the soap.

Despite this major growth spurt, a few kids from elementary school still wouldn’t leave him alone. All I can say is it was like Chinese water torture of the soul. And man, they worked it hard. They picked at him until he cried, which didn’t take long. It didn’t happen every day, but it was enough to make his life sucky. The thing that bugged me most was that there was nothing particularly offensive about him to justify the abuse. Not that genuine freaks deserve daily torture. I mean, some personalities and body parts (or lack thereof) can’t be helped. But other than his ability to cry on cue, which I admit can be trying at times, J was, and is, a dude. So what gives? Anyway, it doesn’t matter. Bullying sucks no matter what the reason.

My fingers are crossed that this year will be different for Jason, but I’m prepared to take those goons O-U-T if they start in on him again. If only they weren’t so big now. What is it with boys and their speed-racer hormones?

Aside from all of that, the other ginormous problem is this awkward, sweaty secret love thing I’ve got going on. The weird thing is that my feelings for Jason are something I would share with my best friend. Only, Jason is my best friend. And since I have no immediate plans to tell him ANYTHING, I’m kind of screwed.

Before I know it, we’re at Boone, home of the Warring Roosters. A giant, badly painted chicken with rooster parts is on the brick building’s front wall. It’s kind of faded, but you can still make out the beak, comb, and tail feathers. The courtyard is crazy crowded and I’m terrified. I look at Jason, who’s as white as Wonder Bread without the crust, and he looks at me, probably thinking the same thing. We stand, bumping shoulders as we step into the aisle at the same time. I wedge myself in front of him and shuffle toward the next phase of my life, carefully avoiding the smear. Before our descent to the Boonedocks, I hear someone behind us blurt out, “What’s that smell?”

Great. Nothing like starting off on the wrong foot.