"Um… probably spiders," a girl with hair that looks like chopped carrots perched atop her head says, twirling a strand absentmindedly in her finger. She does that a lot, as I've come to notice.

"Me?" The idiotic basketball team captain leans back in his chair, trying oh so hard to look cool. "I think… tearing my ACL right before a game against Smith Hill." Smith Hill is another local high school, and our school's rival in everything from football to fornication.

"I remember that," the blond flag twirler in the letterman jacket fixes her flawless ponytail for the ninetieth time that class. "Last year. That sucked." I don't remember it; I could care less about school competition.

"Yeah, and I don't want it to happen again," he chuckles. I finally vaguely remember seeing the basketball team captain in crutches last year, but I don't comment about it. I've given up on inserting myself into their conversations; they always, always, always, without fail, manage to edge me out.

"I guess I'm most afraid of losing my parents," the flag twirler's friend, identical in face, hair color, ponytail, flag twirler status. I remember her from when we were in elementary school. She was a bitch then, and she's the same bitch today, just taller. "I mean, like, I know it's going to happen, like, when I'm older, but like, I guess, like… I don't want it to happen, like, too soon, you know?"

I groan. Her constant use of sentence cloggers baffles me. Does she do it on purpose, or has she dropped her flag on her flag on her head too many times during pep rallies, I wonder?

"Yeah, I know what you mean," the carrot-haired girl agrees, still twirling her damn hair. She disgusts me just as much as the Flag Twirler Twins and Basketball Boy, but in a different way. She's the girl in the indie films I watch at my local artsie-fartsie theater, the girl I see at Starbucks sipping Chai lattes with soymilk. She's the girl wearing so many different layered shirts piled one atop another you'd think she was preparing for a role in a play that required many different costume changes, and jeans so tight you wonder how she can breathe, and flats so flat you wonder if they're really house slippers. The girl that's so imperfectly perfect you just want to strangle yourself with her impractical skinny striped scarf.

"I'm afraid of having to move again," Flag Twirler #1 says, in a slightly wary tone. "My dad's in the military, so we move around a lot. But I like it here. I don't want to move."

Everyone at the table makes Sweet-n'-Low comments about how they like her too, and how they hope she can stick around a little bit longer too, at least until graduation. She thanks them, in a sugary voice that makes me want to strangulate a baby.

I roll my eyes. I hate this town more than anything in the world. I long to travel to faraway lands, to move to a different place every year. I long for change. I seethe with envy of this girl who has no appreciation for what the good Lord gave her.

Our teacher strolls by, and stops at our table. "Has everybody here discussed their biggest fears already?" I still don't understand why, in an honors English course, we are participating in an activity so juvenile. I assume it's due to the fact that Mrs. Biloxi, our teacher, is what the Spanish call "straight-up loco".

Knowing that if I don't make the first move and honestly say that I haven't taken part in the discussion yet, Basketball Boy or the Flag Twirler Twins or Starbucks Babe will bring it to her attention, I raise my hand just as Basketball Boy opens his mouth and glances in my direction. "I haven't yet." It's only when Mrs. Biloxi enters our discussion group that I am forced to enter in the discussion. Otherwise, these sorry excuses of humanity don't even acknowledge my existence.

"Oh?" Mrs. Biloxi is an older woman, one of those older women that seems thoroughly interested in everything going on around her. "Well, what's your biggest fear?"

The entire group turns to me, and I can feel their eyes piercing through my psyche. I'm the girl with the not-so-extraordinary hair, the not-so-extraordinary wardrobe, the cheap shoes I stole from my mom's closet. I'm not on the basketball team, not a Starbucks addict (per se), certainly not a flag twirler. I'm only talkative with the people I've known since my diaper days, people I have anything in common with, but with anyone else talking to me is like talking to a wall. I'm not so interesting. I'm not that special.

"I'm afraid of a steady nine-to-five job where I'm stuck in a cramped cubicle and the only thing I have to look forward to in life is Casual Friday," I say, devoid of an "umm", or an "I guess", or any sentence cloggers whatsoever. I don't guess my fears. I know them.

The group gives me a blank, distant look, and I can tell that they are only half-listening to me by now; their tiny attention spans probably gave up at "of". Mrs. Biloxi smiles, gives me a "very good", and walks away, to converse with another discussion group. Basketball Boy, the Flag Twirler Twins, even Starbucks Babe, all quickly avert their eyes from me, and engulf themselves in conversation about Friday night's big game against Smith Hill. I'm not worth looking at, not worth listening to, certainly not worth engaging in conversation.

After all, I'm not that special. But that's just what they know.