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You created a new chat room "I hate this world"

You set up a searching area: 25 miles

USER @PinkGirl🌸 IS NOW ONLINE!

User @MoodKiller🕷 has joined the chat!

11:11 PM
MoodKiller: Hi

PinkGirl: Hi

PinkGirl: Are you a boy, girl, or how should I address you?

MoodKiller: I'm a boy.

MoodKiller: I see I'm dealing with a huge optimist.

PinkGirl: I came here to complain a little about the evil and injustice in this world.

MoodKiller: I didn't expect such a great match. In that case, I guess I ended up in the perfect room.

PinkGirl: How old are you?

MoodKiller: Why is that important?

PinkGirl: You know, my dad is a police officer. I don't want him to have to arrest you for talking to a teenager, so if you're over 18, then...

MoodKiller: No worries, I'm not 18 yet.

PinkGirl: You swear?

MoodKiller: I never lie.

MoodKiller: You wanted to complain?

PinkGirl: Yeah, you too?

MoodKiller: Sure, but ladies first.

PinkGirl: As you wish.

PinkGirl: typing...

PinkGirl: Why is it that some people are born with a full package? You know, they are beautiful, rich, smart, and they don't even try because they don't have to put any effort into things. People go out of their way for them, they are respected without question, and on top of that, they are very charismatic. Damn, after just a few seconds of talking to such a person, you dream of being their friend. And why are all the rest of us either losers or people who are simply unlucky? Despite being intelligent, we don't have a chance to show ourselves to the world, and all this wonderful potential is wasted?

MoodKiller: Damn, girl.

PinkGirl: Haha, sorry.

MoodKiller: I thought it would be something like: why are the fries in the cafeteria always so rubbery or why can't I find a boyfriend? But here you've started a real conversation.

PinkGirl: I planned to get to the boyfriend part eventually, lol.

MoodKiller: So... I won't answer the first question. Not that I don't want to, I've just never thought about it. All in all, I feel a bit like I belong to this group with the package, so...

PinkGirl: Really?

MoodKiller: Yeah, I'm handsome, rich, smart...

PinkGirl: Okay, okay, got it. What about the second question?

MoodKiller: So you expect love advice from me?

PinkGirl: Yes, for free. You're rich, you can afford it.

MoodKiller: Funny, but okay. My advice is: DO NOTHING.

PinkGirl: What do you mean, "do nothing"?

MoodKiller: Just that. Do nothing. Whatever you wanted to do—let it go. Don't push yourself into any relationships; it doesn't help. Statistically, half of marriages end in divorce, so you only have a 50% chance of being happy. For me, that's not enough.

PinkGirl: Maybe for someone, a 50% chance of happiness is enough?

MoodKiller: And a 50% chance of divorce.

PinkGirl: But I'm only 15! Who's talking about marriage? I just like this boy...

MoodKiller: Like I said, do nothing. Do you want to be heartbroken?

PinkGirl: Nobody wants that.

MoodKiller: Are your parents still together?

PinkGirl: Theoretically yes, practically no.

MoodKiller: You see?

PinkGirl: But it's not what you think. It's, in fact, a very long story...

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"I forgot about today's trigonometry test."

I lift my head and look at Jen, who first sets the tray of food on our table, then throws her bag into one of the empty seats, and finally collapses resignedly into the chair across from me. She can do that. Nobody will sit next to us anyway.

"Welcome to the club. As the worst daughter in the world, I took advantage of the fact that my father had a night shift last night, and instead of studying, I watched Riverdale until one in the morning," I say.

Exactly. Not only am I an outcast, but I'm also struggling in school. I don't even qualify for the circle of the gifted—I'm one of those lazy people. But that's fine. I don't feel pressured because I can't afford to study, so I've long since accepted that I'll probably end up selling Mary Kay cosmetics in our neighborhood. When old Mrs. Peterson dies, of course, because I'm not going to steal her clients.

But back to the point: Jennifer is a head taller than me, has long blonde hair always tied tightly at the back of her head, and she's the only one in school who has never called me crazy. Well, unless it's in jest, but that's different. She moved here from Cleveland three years ago, and with no idea she was smiling at a social outcast, she crossed herself off the list of potentially popular girls at school forever.

I'm glad her parents decided to move here. Jennifer, with her puppy disposition, didn't belong in the most depressing city in America. Although she doesn't fit as my friend either, she seems not to care about that at all.

I'm not saying that Berkeley City is any better, of course. In a city where if you sneeze at one end, someone from the other says "bless you," you can't be anonymous. I felt that quite painfully. Everyone knew about what had happened in the Parkers' house within half an hour of the incident. Our family was the talk of the town for a good six months. You know how it is—what parents say at home gets repeated by their children at school. That's why my world, although it suddenly collapsed, also became a nightmare. And I don't know what would have happened to me if it hadn't been for Jen. Jen, who brought pink hair dye to school one day because she thought I'd look nice with a new hairstyle and that with a new hair color, I'd definitely be able to face adversity.

Jen, who defends me from being pushed, pointed at, and having trays of food thrown at me. Jen, who wipes my tears in the third-floor bathroom, where no one goes because of the perpetually clogged plumbing. Jen, who always remembers my birthday. Jen, who is the only one who likes my posts on Instagram. Jen, who shares my admiration for Ben Barnes. Jen, who is the friend I couldn't even dream of—she's the best.

"Registration for the drama club for next year is underway. Wouldn't you like to sign up?"

I look at Jen in disbelief.

"It's enough for me that I play a tree every day. I also play the walls in the corridors, and sometimes even the floor. No thanks."

"I think I'll sign up," she says.

"I'll be at every show you're in. I can also send you flowers to the backstage."

Jennifer gives me a forced smile.

"My mother pressures me and claims that I don't have any hobbies, so she has nothing to brag about to her sisters. She wanted to sign me up for dance, so this theater thing saves me a bit. Too bad you don't want to, it would be cool."

"I don't think so. My dad, on the other hand, would be disappointed that he doesn't have time to come and watch me on stage."

"Sadie, if you change your mind, are you aware that you could be the next Sarah Parker, ACTRESS?"

"Stop, I'm counting to three," I warn Jen loyally.

"Just like..."

"ONE."

"... Sarah..."

I roll my eyes.

"TWO."

"... Jessica..."

"Don't you even dare."

"... Parker!"

"THREE. I warned you. Give me your chicken."

With a quick movement, I scoop out the breaded strips from Jen's tray, which she hasn't even touched yet. Someone should have taken care of what we're served in schools a long time ago, but as long as no one has decided that Coca-Cola and French fries are an inappropriate diet for the young, enlightened minds of America, I will not limit myself.

Jen's eyes suddenly widen.

"Sadie, ten o'clock!" she whispers. There is no trace of her playful tone.

We both lower our heads at the same time and stare at our trays. He can't see me. I wish he would one day discover that I exist, but every time he's near, I feel worse than bad, and it never seems like the right time.

Kyle Chew walks past our table without even giving us a passing glance. Only then do I look up to admire the perfect back of his head for a moment. Or the other parts of his body, which are certainly more appetizing than this chicken.

I love him. My hatred for everyone in the world (except Jen, my parents, and Ross from Friends) is matched only by my love for Kyle. He's the smartest, most handsome, coolest boy in the whole school, and I certainly don't deserve him. He's the president of the school council, belongs to the science club, won the international math Olympiad in Washington as a freshman, and, as if that weren't enough, he is simply the most handsome. Oh, didn't I already say that?

While I don't even know if I'll get into a local community college, Kyle is guaranteed a spot in all Ivy League universities and doesn't have to worry about his future. He is helpful, organizes many donations for our community (thanks to which they renovated our city library), volunteers two days a week at our dog shelter, one day at a care center, and after school, he willingly helps less talented students with their struggles. Is there anyone more perfect? And when he smiles, he gets a dimple on the right side, as if his face can't decide if it could be more adorable. And I'm not some psycho stalker who starts the day by typing his name into Google to find out something new. I swear I don't do that.

"You're drooling."

"Eff off." I give Jen a murderous look, which only makes her laugh. She doesn't share my admiration for Kyle, because, as she claims, he's absolutely not her type.

"Really, Sadie, I don't understand what you see in him." She rolls her eyes. "He can't even tuck his shirt into his pants. And he has braces."

"Braces will probably be gone in a year, and that protruding shirt is quite cute."

"No, it is not."

"He just has more important things on his mind than worrying about his shirt. It's a rebellion against common stereotypes," I say emphatically.

"Come on, he looks like his mother dresses him! Sadie, you need someone who understands your quirky sense of humor, not someone who will dictate your abbreviated multiplication formulas during your first time!"

"Jen, it's not my fault your perfect guy exists only in your imagination. Maybe it's time to stop comparing everyone to Ryan Gosling. Romantic love like in The Notebook does not exist."

"I know. I just think he's extremely boring. What would you do with him on a date? Solve Sudoku?"

I open my eyes wide and lean back in my chair. I can't count how many times we've had this conversation.

"And even if we did, so what?" I glance furtively at Kyle, who's just high-fived the other members of the science club. I can't take my eyes off his wonderful smile for a moment. His buddies may seem like self-righteous, science-obsessed Sheldon Coopers, but not Kyle. Kyle is not like that, and that's why I fell in love with him so much. "You have no idea what you're talking about."

The pity painted on my friend's face couldn't be more obvious. I feel like taking one of her fries and throwing it at her.

"Of course. How many boyfriends have you had in your life? Wait... this number is... zero?" she asks.

"Jen, the fact that you kissed at camp in the third grade, and next time was two years later, after the holidays at your aunt's, and that you exchanged letters with some friend of your cousin in which you professed your love for each other, but it didn't even last two months, doesn't make you any more experienced than me," I say, as I've said many times before.

"Of course it does. I would like to remind you that with Hunter it was something serious; it was just the distance that killed the feeling."

I roll my eyes. Again.

"What kind of name is that, anyway?" I snort. Jen's old love story invariably makes me laugh.

I push the empty tray away from me and give another furtive glance at Kyle, who remains blissfully unaware of my existence. He certainly doesn't feel that I'm practically drilling a hole in his back with my eyes. I'm sure he has no idea that there's a sophomore named Sadie walking around the world, who'd give anything for even five minutes of conversation with him. He doesn't know that I have the purest and truest love for him and that there is no one else for me but him. In this huge cafeteria, where the smell of cooked pasta and vegetables wafts through, and it's louder than in a stadium during the Super Bowl, I disappear among all these beautiful and charming girls from good homes. They don't have to worry about their car breaking down again or that their father won't let them go out after ten o'clock in the evening. I'm so gray that it couldn't get any worse, even with my pink hair and the name everyone in this town knows.

"Parker. Is that the one with the mother from the madhouse?"

"Psychic Parker."

"Parker the weirdo."

How much I would give for the past not to have marked me with its cruelty. I used to pray every day to go back in time and somehow change what happened. Maybe I could draw my dad's attention to the fact that my mother needed help. Maybe I would call my grandmother, or maybe the only aunt who fled to New Zealand years ago. Maybe I would tell them that something was wrong with her. Maybe today no one would know that my own mother...

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Honestly, I could name very few things I'm good at. For example, I supposedly sing nicely. A few years ago, the music teacher told us to perform the anthem in front of the whole class and when it was my turn, she was really impressed. This gave me a momentary sense of self-worth. Unfortunately, shortly thereafter, the captain of the school's lacrosse team snatched my backpack and dumped its contents in the middle of the hallway, and all my confidence went to hell. Everything is back to normal.

A list of things I'm good at certainly doesn't include physical activity. I've always treated all kinds of exercises as the ultimate evil and I still wonder why my father can't alleviate my suffering and get me some kind of exemption from PE. After all, he is a policeman. He certainly knows a doctor, because people in professions such as a policeman and a doctor always know each other. That would solve a lot of my problems: no one would laugh that I can't hit a tennis ball or score a goal properly. Okay, maybe it's pretty cliché for all these normal teenagers, but not for me.

When I get hit in the face with a basketball, I painfully realize that I don't think I can hate this place any more. Two more years. I'm only halfway through and nothing worries me more than the fact that the end of the end of High School is not even on the horizon.

"Watch out!"

Massaging my sore cheek, I glance at Caroline Booth. She is unnaturally tall and thin, as if her parents had stuffed her with growth hormones. Someone like her can play basketball for the rest of her life.

"Psycho," she hisses under her breath when she realizes that I didn't even flinch to pick up the ball thrown at me, which is just rolling towards the exit of the gym.

I roll my eyes. Standard.

"I'm not going to play this stupid game," I shrug and cross my arms over my chest. In my mind I add: Not with you.
"Unfortunately, you are on the team with me and you have to."

"I don't care."

Caroline turns to our PE teacher, Mr. Whittemore. Her eyes full of tears like it was her face that was hit by the ball, not mine. Well, I'm not surprised at all. Even I wouldn't want to have myself in the team.

"Mr. Whittemore! Crazy Parker doesn't want to play again!

I squint. I would gladly kick her in the bony ass for these rude words.

"Sadie, please..." Annie Lawson runs up to me and looks at me imploringly. It's an oasis of kindness, and it's only because she's never treated me badly that I can't be so mean to her.

"I hate basketball," I say emphatically.

"She's crazy, don't bother." Vivienne, a tall blonde with eyelashes to the sky, looks at me with a look full of disgust. "Mr. Whittemore, we'd rather play without her, she's just getting in the way"

Mr. Whittemore must've been certainly from a Shaolin monastery or something. Not only is he incredibly flexible, but he can also dig out a lot of patience. How much I would like to have the ability to keep a cool head in a situation where someone calls me crazy. Or a psycho.

He gets up from his seat unhurriedly and approaches us. His hairless head reflects the light coming through the huge windows of the room. If he had been a little taller, he might even have been handsome; unfortunately, next to Caroline Booth, he looks like a goblin. Anyway, with Caroline Booth, everyone looks like that.

"What's the problem this time?" Why don't you play? "He has a voice that would put even the most hyperactive kid to sleep. He looks around the girls gathered around me, and they shout over each other, pointing their fingers at me. "But not all at once, please."

"Parker is standing up again," Vivienne says.

"I can't play it and I won't play it," I repeat stubbornly.
"You have to play it! Any moron can bounce the ball off the floor!" It's Alex. School star. I mean, almost, because like me, she's only in the second grade and she has to wait until the stars that shine a little brighter than she leave the school.

I wince at her, seeing the teacher squeezes the bridge of his nose with two fingers. This is probably one of his method of staying calm. I'll have to try it sometime.

"Girls, please calm down. Miss Parker, the fact that you can't play doesn't excuse you from attending classes."
"This game is stupid." Maybe if I refuse long enough, Mr. Whittemore will let it go, make me sit in the seat and wait until the bell rings? It would be a dream come true.

"Miss Booth, please give the ball to Miss Parker. We will teach her how to play."

"But Mr. Whittemore," moans Caroline, and with her the twelve other girls who were just hoping to play some game today.

"The ball, Miss Booth".

Caroline approaches me reluctantly and pushes the ball into me with such force that it takes my breath away for a moment. If I had breasts, it would probably crush them, so right now I'm glad that nature spared me the extra pain.

Mr. Whittemore heads to the center of the court and stands at one of the lines, which is far too far from the basket if you ask me. If he wants to humiliate me in front of all these girls, he's doing well.

I grit my teeth and join him. I can feel that yogurt and Jen's chicken that I had at lunch overflowing in my stomach. I regret that I didn't get into the car immediately after lunch break and run away from this lesson. I'd rather face my father's anger than the mocking looks of the girls in my class.

"Please stand here." Mr. Whittemore takes the ball from me and throws it neatly into the middle of the basket. I will not repeat it in my life; he is a PE teacher, and I am just a loser. He collects the ball and passes it to me.

"It doesn't make sense." I shake my head. Mr. Whittemore sighs. I can feel the eyes of the irritated girls on me and it makes me even more nervous.

"Okay, we can try something different. Please follow me." The teacher comes closer to the basket and stands a little to the side. He points to the blue square on the board above our heads.

"Parker, please aim at the top right corner. You will see that the ball will go into the basket by itself. We practiced it last year."

I know damn well that we practiced it last year, but I didn't manage to succeed even once back then.

I grit my teeth again. I pick up the ball and try to throw it as Mr. Whittemore advised, but it only lightly brushes the strings under the hoop. I said it didn't make sense.

"Once more time. Lewis, pass the ball!" he calls to the girl standing closest. "Parker, focus."

Of course, I don't hit the second or fourth time. Not for the tenth either, it doesn't matter if I'm standing on the left, right or in front of the basket. For me, it's just too tall and with my measly five feet unattainable like Kyle Chew.

I feel bad. Humiliated in front of a dozen girls who don't even hide that they have a good laugh at me. Anger mixed with shame grows in me and I will either cry or explode and then cry.

Anyway, I already know that I will not avoid tears.

"Try to use more force," the teacher suggests, but I've had enough. I'm not going to play this game. I'm not made for basketball and I can't help it!I. Don't. Care.

"More force?"

I squeeze the ball and throw it with all my might, and instead of hitting the basket, it hits the face of the only person in this room who is as tall as me – Mr. Whittemore. I don't know if you can hear the sound of a broken nose from six feet away, or if I imagined it, but one thing is certain—Mr. Whittemore doesn't look like he's okay at all. Cowering in pain, he squeezes... I don't know what exactly he is squeezing, because he hid his face in his hands.

I swallow. The girls behind me, shocked, stand still, their mouths wide open. I know I'm screwed, but I don't think I've ever been scared like the moment when Mr. Whittemore says three words in a strangled voice:

"Principal's office. Now."

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USER @Pinkgirl🌸 IS NOW ONLINE!

3:13 PM
Pinkgirl: Hello, you there?

3:17 PM
PinkGirl: Nope, you're not.

PinkGirl: Just wanted to give you a heads-up that I'm currently sitting at the gates of hell. You're invited to my funeral.

USER @MoodKiller🕷 IS NOW ONLINE!

3:18 PM
MoodKiller: I'm here, what's up?

3:19 PM
PinkGirl: I think I might have broken our gym teacher's nose. I'm sitting in the office right now, waiting for my fate. When I get home, my dad will ground me from everything, so I don't know when we'll talk again : (

MoodKiller: Oh no, who will I complain to about how terrible things are now?

PinkGirl: Moments like this make me wish I knew who you are in real life...

USER @MoodKiller🕷 IS OFFLINE

3:25 PM
PinkGirl: Alright, forget it. The principal is calling, goodbye cruel world!

USER @PinkGirl🌸 IS OFFLINE

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"TWO MONTHS?!"

"Every day until the end of the school year."

Principal Hudson is adamant. The chair under me suddenly feels incredibly uncomfortable, and the air smells of all the tears shed by students who had to go through the same thing I'm facing now.

"But... you can't..." I whimper, trying to get some sort of response.

"I don't think you're in a position to tell me what I can or cannot do, Miss Parker." He looks at me with seriousness, his arms crossed.

Goodbye Netflix shows. Goodbye afternoons spent lounging on the couch with a bowl of popcorn. Sadie Parker will now be renovating the school. Yes, you read that right. I will be the damn Bob the Builder, except I already know that I'm hopelessly unqualified.

"I have to do all this... by myself?"

I need to make sure. It's impossible to restore the theater hall on my own. Even during my dad's times, the stage was covered in cobwebs. I can't even imagine what it's like now.

"Not entirely."

The principal twitches his mustache. He looks like a steroid-abusing gym guy, I swear. "To be honest, I have a few other students who, instead of having a detention after class, could use a real punishment. It will do them good, and we won't have to spend money on a renovation crew. Isn't that brilliant?"

I look at Principal Hudson, wondering where evolution went wrong. This can't be real. A person like this should not be in charge of an entire school. He's old, buffed up, and knows nothing about anything. His only job is to instill fear, and he does that perfectly.

"My dad is going to kill me..." I mutter to myself. I can already picture his disappointed look when I tell him that, in a fit of rage, I might have broken the poor teacher's nose – who was just trying to teach me something – and now I'll have to stay after school every day until 5:30 for the rest of the year to deal with some nonsense. I mean, renovate the theater hall. I'm completely unqualified for that! Oops, I think I said that out loud.

"Your father already knows. I finished talking to him just moments before you came in. We agreed that this is a sufficiently harsh punishment. But of course, as I said, the choice is yours."

I groan inwardly. It's all a lie; I know David Parker too well to believe these fairy tales. I'm definitely grounded until I'm sixty, and my dad will also take away my laptop and freeze all my money. Being grounded isn't a big deal, since it's not like I'm invited to parties every weekend. But I will really miss my laptop and money because without them, I won't find out what happens next with Emily in Paris, whether Jonas has saved the world yet, or watch the last three episodes of Birdgerton.

"I'll let you off the hook today, you start tomorrow."

The principal claps his hands and then stands up from his chair. That's probably a sign that it's my turn to go. "You should be grateful. My first thought was to have you help our janitor," he adds with a grin on his face.

I roll my eyes. Oh, I'm thrilled. I'm just ecstatic.

"This is slavery..." I say so quietly that Principal Hudson shouldn't hear me. However, he smiles to himself, looking at me expectantly. I imagine his pumped-up biceps exploding, and for a split second, it slightly lifts my spirits.

I grab my bag because if I stay in this office any longer, I'll start crying and begging the principal to change his mind. Who knows, maybe his next idea will be even worse.

"Fine," I mutter, heading towards the door.

"Tomorrow after school!"

The principal shouts at my back, but I don't respond. I rush out to the secretary's office, with anger and disbelief filling every cell of my body. Two months. Two months is really a long time, and even though I hate this place so much, starting tomorrow, I'll have to spend even more time here.

The secretary gives me an unfavorable look when I accidentally knock some files to the floor. I have no intention of helping her collect them. I rush towards the glass door, but instead I bump into the school's biggest school rebel – Aiden Woods, who is just heading towards the principal's office.

"What about I'm sorry?," I ask furiously, but Aiden, of course, doesn't care. He doesn't even look at me, but passes me and disappears behind the heavy oak door. "Asshole," I mutter under my breath and leave the secretary's office. When I look back, I can still see the poor woman kneeling on the floor because of me, picking up scattered documents.

I'm hopeless.