2

I arrived at the school parking lot at seven thirty, twenty minutes before my first class. The drive to school was usually the best part of my day. It was just me, alone with my thoughts. Most mornings I blasted music to hype myself up, but today I drove in silence. Nothing is more peaceful than silence.

I thought about my childhood and how happy I used to be. Not a single bad moment stood out. Every day felt full of color, full of a kind of joy that’s impossible to explain once it’s gone. I really had everything growing up—friends, family, a nice house, a dog—but most importantly, happiness. Somewhere along the way, I lost it.

Where did everything start to go downhill? Am I blinded by nostalgia? Am I ungrateful? Why do I feel like this?

I wished I knew the answer to any of it. All I knew was that the bright, full colors were gone, replaced by grey.

As I sat in the parking lot, I fought to stay awake. Waking up early every day was finally catching up to me. To keep myself alert, I watched my classmates walk into school.

Most of them looked the same. White, blonde or brunette, tall, strong, with green or blue eyes. They wore the same clothes, the same shoes—fake Air Jordans they swore were real. As they walked toward the entrance, I heard them talk about how good they were at sports, how the basketball team was definitely going to win state, even though we had only won six games all season.

At this school, nearly every boy played a sport. If you didn’t, you were automatically labeled weak or irrelevant. Most of them weren’t exactly sharp, and the ones who were learned quickly to hide it. They dumbed themselves down just enough to fit in. You could see the frustration in their faces when they laughed at jokes they didn’t find funny. Still, they were mostly harmless. As long as you went along with them, they wouldn’t bother you.

The girls were different. They were the ones you had to be careful around.

They all played the role of the “good Catholic girl”—innocent, polite, perfect. Blonde or brunette, blue or green eyes, expensive jewelry that looked like it came straight from Gucci. A Starbucks drink is always in their left hand. The same white sneakers. Even the way they walked felt rehearsed.

They talked so loudly it felt like my ears might give out. They went on about tans, vacations, and how amazing their boyfriends were. They showered each other with compliments—too many, too forced. It sounded less like kindness and more like a competition, a passive-aggressive standoff to see who would stop first.

None of the compliments were real. You could tell by the looks in their eyes. They didn’t like each other. They talked behind each other’s backs, smiled to their faces, and kept the group together for reasons that had nothing to do with friendship:

A. It kept them relevant. B. It fed their need for validation. C. It inflated already massive egos. D. Their boyfriends were friends, so they had no choice.

The school felt like something out of High School Musical or an old Disney Channel movie, where everyone fit neatly into stereotypes and no one ever stepped out of line. At first it almost felt funny. After a while, it felt disturbing.

Eventually it stopped feeling like a Disney movie and started feeling more like a Jordan Peele film—where everything looks normal on the surface, but something is deeply wrong underneath. Just standing there in the parking lot, I half-expected someone to jump out and scare me.

I checked the time. Seven forty. Time to go in.

I grabbed my backpack from the passenger seat and reached for the door handle. Before I could open it, I saw Mason staring at me through the window, wearing a wide, unsettling smile. My heart jumped as if my soul had briefly left my body.

“My bad, Juan,” he said, laughing as he ran off to catch up with his friends.

Juan isn’t my name.

He never remembers it. Every week it’s something new. Last week it was Alex. The week before that, Diego. I guess this week I’m Juan. The worst part is that no one ever corrects him. They just laugh, like it’s harmless, like it’s a joke I’m supposed to enjoy.

You probably think I’m a jerk for judging everyone, for acting like I’m better than them. I used to think that too. But after four years of this, the sympathy wears off. All that’s left is emptiness, counting down the days until it’s finally over.

Or maybe I’m just jealous.

They’re good-looking. Popular. Set up for success before they even realize it. Maybe their lives will really turn out perfect. Maybe that’s what hurts the most. They are everything I’m not.

After Mason disappeared, I stepped out of my 2014 black Kia. I love that car. It’s nothing special, but it’s mine. Still, it looked completely out of place next to the rest of the parking lot.

Teslas. Jeep Wranglers. Mercedes. Cars were so expensive they looked unreal. The most luxurious vehicles all sat side by side, spotless, untouched, as if rain and snow didn’t apply to them. It felt less like a school parking lot and more like a museum.

Sometimes I wondered what some of these parents actually did for a living. Drug dealers? Mafia leaders? It was probably nothing that dramatic, but it was hard not to imagine something dark behind all that money. Even the school priest drove a Lamborghini.

I pushed the thought aside. I had bigger things to worry about.

It was a new semester, which meant new classes filled with people I didn’t care about. I made sure my schedule was easy—my reward for surviving the last three years. The classes didn’t scare me. The people did.

As I walked toward the entrance, I took a deep breath. It was time to put on an act.