Free XGeneration 1: You Don't Know Me by Brad Magnarella

could belong, for a change. He looked around again. Maybe he could be a part of this, a part of them. He felt he was already being accepted by his lunchtime peers for the simple reason that, like with Polo Shirt, they were tolerating his presence. They weren’t singling him out, anyway. Not like in middle school. Scott’s back stretched straight, and for the first time that day, he experienced his full height.
    Maybe he could—
    The thought fell apart. A black 1970 Chevelle was parked on Titan Terrace ahead of the food trucks where the road curved near the tennis courts. Scott hadn’t noticed the car when he was waiting in line, hadn’t been looking for it. But now he held his aching wrist as Jesse’s recollected voice rose over him.
    Bring him over here. Let’s see how well he pulls his bullshit phone pranks with one arm.
    The Chevelle lurched. Creed, with his narrow face and black bowler hat, leaped from the passenger’s side. Tyler emerged behind him. The car was leaning way off kilter, as if it was trying to kiss the curb. Creed and his brother sauntered around to the driver’s side, where an elbow the size of a pig’s rump propped on the windowsill. Above the elbow, smoke steamed out in a jet. Scott couldn’t hear what they were saying, not from his distance. Jesse heaved his arm up, cigarette smoke trailing from his fist. Creed and Tyler lit their own cigarettes, hands cupped to their mouths. The other students gave them a wide berth.
    Scott tightened his grip on his wrist as though willing himself to hold his ground, to not care if they spotted him.
    But when Creed’s face turned in his direction, Scott dropped his pizza. He scrambled to rescue it from the sandy ground, but managed only to knock over his grape soda, which promptly fizzed away. He left everything where it fell, found one of his pack straps, and pulled it over his shoulder.
    His knees jimmied like loose hinges, but he didn’t stop until he reached his fifth period class—honors trigonometry—fifteen minutes before it was scheduled to begin. He took a seat in the rear corner of the empty classroom, the front of his shirt spotted with sweat, his lungs wheezing for air.

7
    The start of seventh period found Janis speed walking down A-wing, scanning the room numbers above the doors for her final class. She’d gotten turned around and started her search on C-wing, only realizing her mistake when she showed her schedule to a hall monitor and he pointed her in the right direction.
    And English was the one class she’d actually been looking forward to. Well, she’d also been looking forward to P.E. until Coach “Two F’s” murdered any and all hope that the class might actually be fun. So she didn’t get her hopes up now even though she enjoyed reading almost as much as she loved sports. She had actually gotten into 1984 , creepy though it was. A world in which the government watched everything, controlled everything, all the way down to the thoughts in your head.
    Turns out it’s big business.
    She broke into a jog, notebooks braced to her chest. First day or not, she felt the pulse-pounding dread of being the only one wandering the hallways after the final bell. And with that thought, an image of a barren beach came to her mind. The dream last night? Room A-14. She’d have to think about it later.
    Janis stepped past the threshold and stopped. She’d expected to find the entire classroom seated and silent, the teacher suspending her lecture for the latecomer. Instead, students stood around the rear of the room, backpacks slung over shoulders, books still in hand. Janis followed their bemused gazes to the chalkboard, where in great big letters a message read DO NOT SIT!
    The first two words were underlined twice for emphasis.
    Mrs. Fern—the teacher Margaret’s friends had said was weird—was nowhere to be seen. Janis scanned faces, disappointed to find another class without any of her friends. That was the thing about taking almost