Hi. I don't like little Author's Notes either but I didn't want to cram everything into the summary. I'd really like honest opinions on this entire thing, since it's my first true attempt at reaching my goal of being published before I graduate from high school. I'd really love it if you gave me feedback and told me what you liked/loved and disliked/hated. It would mean the world to me. And now, to the story. I hope you enjoy it.

"Why are you so angry at the world, Ivy?"

Now really. Who asks that kind of question? It sounds like it was lifted from some over angsty TV drama about your typical Angry Rebellious Youth. I am not angry. Nor rebellious.

"I'm not angry at the world. I'm amused by it." And you, Guidance Counselor, are a perfect example of why.

The counselor raises a drawn on eyebrow at me. There's no need. She's drawn the arc so high it already looks like she's lifting it. "This isn't your first time in here."

Gee, really?

"I'm almost used to your antics by now," she continues, tapping her fingers on my file. I have a very big file. "But you've never exhibited a display of anger quite this large."

So? Silence. More finger tapping.

"Do you want to talk about this?"

Oh no. You're not going to try to guide me again, are you? "Um. No ma'am. But please, if you'd like to, by all means, please. I'm missing an Algebra test I'm not really prepared for."

Counselor frowns. Oops. That was Wrong Thing to Say number 429 today. I wish I could take my words back sometimes. Why can't I? They're mine, anyway.

"I'll let you go back to class, then." She begins scribbling on a pass while I think of ways to prolong my time away from the smelly stuffy classroom.

"You will be suspended, you know." Fun.

"I don't see the big deal," I sigh, taking the pass. "I mean, Bethany's dad will buy her a new nose."

Both eyebrows raised. The left one, I notice, is drawn with a better arc. To point this out would be Wrong Thing to Say number 430, and I like even numbers more anyway, but I decide against it. "A better nose, even!" I smile and give her and her magnificent eyebrows a small wave, and leave. But not before thanking her for, as usual, excellent guidance.

I take my time in the hallway, counting my steps and avoiding stepping on my untied laces. As my fist gives a small throb of pain, I ponder Bethany's nose situation again. All bloody and bruised. The crack it made. Her nose really was a little too pointy. Kind of crooked. I have most definitely done that poor girl a favor.

I hope she appreciates it.

I didn't mean to punch her, really. And by that, I don't mean my fist accidentally crushed her nose, but that I hadn't planned on it. I hadn't even planned on talking to Bethany. My best friend. I hadn't spoken to her in about three days. I mean, I love the girl really, but she can be terribly annoying. And clingy. And prissy. And whiney. And thinking about it now, I don't love her at all. I need her though. I'm a wreck without friends.

Which is why it was so totally necessary for me to punch her when she accused me of being bitchy towards her. That wasn't very friendly of her.

But me helping out with her aesthetics? That's best friend 4evr behavior, right there.

I stop in front of a storage closet to tie my shoes. I notice the door slightly cracked open and smile. I have a terrible habit of stealing supplies from the school. Terrible for the school, that is.

Quickly, I slip inside and turn on the light. I hear a gasp, or maybe a whimper, behind a stack of boxes. A nice big stack of boxes full of rubber cement or something else you wouldn't expect to need boxes of.

"And who is that?" I ask, sticking a pack of construction paper in my bag. Neon colors. Pretty. I almost expect the phantom whimperer to reply "nobody". It would've been oh so sitcom.

"Who is that?" a deep voice whispers. I certainly wasn't expecting a deep voiced male to be the whimperer.

"This," I reply, while trying to decide whether I need (more like want) the box of paperclips I'm holding, "Is Ivy."

"Ivy who?"

"Who the fuck are you?" I snap, knocking the boxes out of my way. A boy, slightly shorter than me.

"I'm Mike. Lanuti."

I laugh. "You mean, 'Fruity Lanuti'?"

He glares at me, still attempting to cower in the corner. "Fuck you."