[this is my first attempt at a teen angst novel...I feel there's one in me somewhere..seeing as how I was once a teen and had plenty of angst]

There she is.

Holy cow. Are you serious? She has to be a model. She must be a model. Her blond hair, those lips. Every hormone in my body begins running laps around my stomach. I must talk to her. She must be new here. I've only seen her one other time. I was walking down the main hallway between 2nd and 3rd period outside of Mrs. Walker's room. I nearly ran right into Mrs. Walker's second fold of fat protruding from under her elbow. Gross. She's massive. I swear when she wears purple, it's like Jabba the Hut ate Grimace. Gross.
Anyway, back to this girl. I must speak with her. She's new which means she's so accessible to me right now. She has no idea what kind of person I really am. No one has read her the book of my dork-filled life written by the most popular and with contributions from every girl I ever asked out and rejected me without taking a breath. I'm not a dork, though. I play sports, I don't buy into the whole Dungeons and Dragons thing. But, I'm not popular because I don't wear the clothes that Joe Celebrity wears. I don't party and I don't hang out with people. I'm not a loner because I do have friends. I'm basically nothing. A blank slate. It's like I fit in everywhere, but I don't fit in. It's hard to explain.
By the way, my name is Telemachus. Yes, Telemachus. Telly for short (although through grade school, this informal version of my name inevitably lead to "Smelly Telly"). My parents were big Homer fans. No, not Homer Simpson. Homer the poet. The blind poet. Don't ask me why they named me after Odysseus's son that was almost plowed over by his father in an attempt to test his sanity. My dad's name isn't Odysseus, it doesn't even start with an O, he doesn't even own a plow, nor do we own a farm. I think my dad went through an epic phase. My dad goes through a lot of phases. He catalogues them. He passed that along to me. Now, my phase is this girl.
I have to go speak with her. Me and my Transition Math book with a dude's sneakers on the front cover. Yeah, nothing says "mathematics" like a pair of 80s sneakers. It's like that on every text book. I'm pretty sure my english book has a picture of some dude riding a tractor..an oil painting of a dude riding a tractor. Somehow, a dude riding a tractor becomes classic and worthy of the cover of a textbook because someone used oil on canvas.
Seriously, look. At. Her. She doesn't smile. That intrigues me. I could be the one to make her smile. I could show her the meaning of true love here in first period Transition Mathematics. Holy cow, what's wrong with me? I'm already dreaming of our family before I know her name? What is her name? Something simple like Amy? Something polysyllabic like Adelaide? Maybe something Greek like Persephone (which I thought for the longest time was pronounced purse-phone). Ok stop imagining. First step: Find out her name.

[to be continued]