Love Is Gross

By Ethan J. Blackstone

Set in a boarding school, "Love Is Gross" is a fun novel centered around Roman, a young man who finds love to be nauseating. Offering a unique twist to the romantic comedy genre, this is a must-read for young adults!

Before heading off to the boarding school, Roman was raised by his parents, two romance novelists. From an early age, he was forced to read romance novels so that he could carry on his parent's legacy. He was only provided his daily needs if he met certain reading quotas. At school, in order to earn money, he became a match-maker, finding dating partners for students. While finding romance to be both lucrative and disturbing, Roman works with a variety of students. Of course, like anything in life, it would only be a matter of time before things would become a bit more complicated. Will Roman live his entire life feeling disgusted by love? Or will he have a change of heart?

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Nov 15, 2021
• ISBN: 9781667809885

Book preview

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Copyright 2021

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

ISBN: 978-1-66780-987-8 (print)

ISBN: 978-1-66780-988-5 (eBook)

Contents

A Love Most Foul

Complicated Simplicity

Furious Honesty

A Nauseating Reunion

A Confession: Not So Sickening Edition

Ham Is Life

The Grateful Servant

A Titan Falls (In Love Probably)

Curiosity Killed the Bear

The Stalker Cares for the Sicko

A Boy Hidden by Pride

Gratitude, Confusion, and a Party of Some Kind

A Terribly Unfair Decision

Gross, Love

Chapter 1

A Love Most Foul

Outside, on the sun-lit balcony of a small school, a young man stands nervously in front of a young lady. The boy is holding a bouquet of red roses behind his back.

What did you want to talk about? the girl asks kindly. A gentle breeze coincidentally makes its way past the both of them, as if nature itself was supporting this dramatic encounter. The young man hesitates, but eventually gains the courage to speak.

Well...I was wondering… The young man suddenly pushes the roses forward in a rather forceful manner. Would you go out with me? The young lady smiles ecstatically, taking the roses from the boy in an equally forceful manner.

Of course! Roses are my favorite, how did you know? the young lady asks, admiring the gift.

Oh...you know.... the young man said with an awkward shrug.

Well, it’s very sweet, the young lady concluded. And just like that, a brand new couple had formed.

A classic scene, no? Disgustingly stereotypical, if I do say so myself (which I most certainly do). Just watching it from the shadows made me feel rather ill. I was standing around the corner during this fateful encounter. I was out of sight, of course, as my being seen would have thoroughly complicated things. Despite feeling a bit disturbed by the cliché chain of events that had just taken place, I smiled to myself with both pride and amusement. To think, the young lady would probably go on to tell stories of this romantic meeting, all the while remaining ignorant of the fact that it was orchestrated from the sidelines.

Well, that was easy, I thought, as I gazed upon my masterful work. Arm in arm, the young man and young lady walked past me, smiling in a manner only befitting fresh couples. I managed to stay outside of the girl’s line of sight, but the boy turned his head and nodded at me in thanks. I nodded back, smiling in a manner very much not befitting fresh couples, and then headed back into the building through another entrance.

Ah, new love, in all its predictable glory, I reflected. That job was even more straightforward than my last one was. You find out a girl likes roses, set up a nice place to confess, and voila, a couple is born. It’s sickening really. I suppose that a simple job is good for business, but I cannot help but feel sorry for my poor stomach.

My thoughts on the matter may seem a bit harsh to you, but such are my inner grumblings. And if an individual is entitled to anything, it is to their inner grumblings. But perhaps I should introduce myself before I go any further. My name is Roman Cerum. And I am a scoundrel.

Now, you may have a few questions, such as Why were you watching those people like some kind of stalker? Why do you find love revolting? Why are you such a condescending dirtbag? All fair questions, each of which I will attempt to answer in the following explanation. I live in the rather large city of Sunhomish, in the country of Cleanounce. I go to the Sunhomish High School for the Relatively Okay. As you can probably tell from the title, it is nothing special. It has a fairly average setup, spanning eight years in total. Being 19, I am in my fifth year. I do fine at school. I currently lie somewhere in-between good grades and attention-grabbing good grades. I do my homework. I act polite. I do not participate in any extracurricular activities. I avoid talking to people unless absolutely necessary. And, just as a side note, I also run an underground business that organizes romance for just compensation.

Now, I can already hear the complaints. There are always complaints. Surely that must be illegal, you underhanded fiend. I assure you, it is not, probably. And even if it was, I am very good at going unnoticed. As a result, I have been able to go five years without once running the risk of being caught or making friends, both of which would have complicated things greatly. I also have a confidentiality agreement with all my clients, which keeps them from telling anyone. Besides, the only people who would have the opportunity to expose me are my clients, and they would stand to lose just as much as I would in most cases. Surely you must think of love fondly to start such a business, you dastardly deceiver? It is foolish to assume things too quickly, my little hypothetical skeptic (I am going to keep pretending like you are asking these questions so that I can sound smart in replying to them). In fact, I actually hate love. Every time I see a romance blooming, I feel a nauseous sensation begin to rise in my stomach, and I often feel like vomiting. Mind you, I have never actually vomited as a result of love, but I did gag one time. Of course, I want to make it clear that I am only referring to love that is romantic in nature; I take no issue with other forms of love. In fact, I would encourage it as any other would. Romantic love, however, is entirely different. It is predictable, superficial, cheap, and completely over-prioritized. When in love, even the most intelligent and astute of individuals become little more than bumbling fools, making illogical decisions at every turn.

I can hear another question arise: Why do you hate romance so much, you malicious manipulator? It all dates back to my childhood (surprise surprise). My father and mother are both popular romance novelists, you see. They became especially well known for their ability to portray love in any number of varying settings and situations. However, just to give you an idea of what my parents’ definition of love is, their most popular book is titled Seven Supreme Love Days. If you are wondering what this means, I have read the book three times and I still have no idea. Unfortunately for me, my parents were not satisfied with fame or riches alone; they desired a means of securing their legacy. Someone to carry on their name, if you will. So, they had a son, born and raised strictly for the purpose of becoming an author. The lengths to which they went in order to ensure this, however, were quite...extreme. They would lock me up in my room for weeks on end with nothing but famous romance novels and short stories (many of them having been written by my parents). All of my daily wants and needs were linked with the amount of reading that I did. For instance, one meal was the equivalent of one short story, and it was required that I read at least one novel a day if I wished to sleep. Even using the restroom had a price. Over time, I became one of the fastest readers in the country. And if you are wondering why I never faked reading the novels, my parents had already thought of that. They regularly gave quizzes on the books that I had read. The punishment for a failing grade was a day without eating, so I quickly learned to read with great focus. Needless to say, I soon became sickened by the disturbing material that I was being forced to read. You may think, Didn’t you associate romance with being fed? Shouldn’t you love romance novels? Not quite. You see, although I did associate romance novels with being fed (which is why I feel hungry in addition to being nauseous when I think of love); I also associated them with my parents. And my parents being a far stronger stimulus, the negative emotions won out over the positive ones. Besides, there is something else that you are forgetting. Romance novels are really dumb. The pleasure of eating food was often offset by the pain of reading. I would have stopped eating altogether if that had been a possibility. Unfortunately, the body can be rather unreasonable at times, so food was necessary for my continued survival. That is why I read countless novels, despite my distaste towards the subject matter. I have numerous memories of myself as a child making sarcastic comments to no one in particular (I often talked to myself when I was locked in my room, a side effect of constantly being alone, which is also how I picked up my habit of grumbling internally). These comments were often along the lines of: These people are so ridiculously oblivious. They’re denser than this book, it’s sickening. Just notice your feelings for each other already, you fools, and Who is this jerk? The romantic rival? I thought you said no one else could steal your heart? Were you lying? You just met like three days ago, and So you finally got together, huh? It only took you four-hundred pages. I hope you both die. No, wait, the book is over. Dangit.

I quickly began to dislike not only the novels themselves, but also what they represented. Everything that I was being taught about love made it seem superficial and cheap, and my opinion was only solidified once I began my business. I am sure that by now a new question has arisen. Why do you create romance for a living if you hate it, you mischievous menace? (I know that this is a hypothetical question of my own design, but I still take offence to being called a menace.) The answer to that is also simple: I get paid a lot of money. Unfortunately, all of the reading I did left me with a certain, undesired skill. I am frightfully good at manipulating romance. Thanks to media, fiction, and fantasy, people have a very skewed idea of what realistic romance is like. I had to learn through observation the differences between the idealistic love in novels and the actual love that is shared between lasting couples. Both are disturbing, but most of the people I have encountered tend to prefer an idealistic romance to a lasting one. I simply make their dreams come true, as it were. I create the perfect conditions for romance to spread, using the knowledge and skills that I have obtained, and then I place my clients in the center of it. The rest is just waiting for the inevitable. It is kind of like growing bacteria, now that I think about it.

I can hear yet another question: Surely with your skills, you must have ladies knocking down your door, you conniving Casanova. Wrong again, you foolish theoretical question-asker. With my dull brown eyes, sharp spectacles, untidy tar-black hair, and rather average appearance (in the eyes of society anyway), I go almost entirely unnoticed by the opposite gender. In fact, I go entirely unnoticed by everyone—except for my clients, of course. My face just screams Don’t pay attention to me. Most would consider this to be a problem, but in my line of work, being stealthy is quite the advantage. My name is but a word, rumored throughout the back alleys of my school (if schools had back alleys). Those who dare come to me with their petty offerings are fearful of the power I hold. He who controls love, controls the hopes and dreams of many. That is why I am a scoundrel. I have taken that which is considered most sacred on this earth, and put a price on it. They say you cannot buy love, which may be true—but with me by your side, you can certainly rent it.

A while back, however, things changed. At the time, my name had gained quite the reputation after several successful assignments. I had developed my business to the point of achieving a steady stream of customers. In a financial sense, things were looking up. Little did I know of the horrors that awaited me. They began on a Wednesday at the end of my advanced psychology class (one of my all-time favorite subjects, as it is very useful in my line of work). As everyone was leaving, someone moved to the front whiteboard and made a star in the bottom right corner. Through the mystical powers of rumor and gossip, I had (over time) spread knowledge of the various means with which to contact me. One such method was writing a star and your name on the whiteboard in the psychology classroom. Mr. Gabriel, the psychology teacher (whom I know quite well), never erases the whiteboard until the end of the day. It is well known that anyone in Mr. Gabriel’s final class of the day will have trouble learning anything, as the board by that point will just be a block of illegible scribbles. I am not sure why he does this, but it worked out well for me, which is all that really matters. After class, I checked the name, went to the school directory, retrieved as much information on the individual as possible, and then went to schedule our meeting. I find it rather creepy that our school allows you to look up the scheduled classes of someone simply by knowing their name. I feel that it makes the act of stalking rather simple. Not that I have any right to complain, of course, as I use the directory constantly for work. Anyway, immediately before my new client’s next scheduled class, I left a note on his desk with a time and place (I watched him during his class, which supports my stalker theory). We soon met in my usual spot, an abandoned classroom, condemned due to a malfunctioning ventilation system (I did obtain permission to use it, just for the record).

I sat at the teacher’s desk, awaiting his arrival. It was a somewhat lengthy wait, so I began folding napkins into flowers (I have a habit of folding things when I am bored, so I keep napkins in the office). Near the allotted time, I heard someone approaching, so I quickly hid all the napkin flowers in my desk and took on a serious look. In my line of work, being caught with twelve napkin flowers is not the optimal first impression. In fact, I doubt that is the optimal first impression in any situation. The footsteps stopped at the door, followed by a moment of hesitation. The door slowly creaked open, and my client’s head peaked out from behind it. From his head, I immediately determined that I would not enjoy working with this man. He just had that kind of head.

He looked extremely nervous (as those who visit me often do).

Please, come in, I said reassuringly. Despite his head, my job required the utmost politeness to make clients feel at ease when conducting such shady business. The boy slowly walked out from behind the door. He was a strapping young gentleman, quite easy on the eyes. If I were a girl, my first thought would certainly have been Whoa. Of course, I assure you I am not a girl, but I suppose I have failed to mention that thus far. Are there many girls with the name Roman? I would not know. At any rate, he had relatively long, dark blond hair, clear green eyes, and a smile that could slay even the most pessimistic of individuals. Luckily, I am a realist, so it had no effect on me. He had the face of someone that tends to attract hordes of people, and he reeked of attention. I could smell it from the moment he walked in. The boy was playing with his hands, reluctant to step fully into the room. This supported my bad head theory, as people who nervously rub their hands tend to irritate me.

Please, sit down, I said in as welcoming a voice as I could manage. I gestured to the seat opposite of my desk.

After a moment, the boy slowly moved to the chair and sat down. He was examining the contents of the room in great detail. A strange thing to do, considering the room contained nothing of particular importance (I am not one to decorate). Of course, not once did he look me in the eye. In fact, he danced around the outline of my body several times, his eyes never quite reaching their intended destination. It just so happens that I am also commonly irritated by people with darting eyes.

He remained silent, so I was forced to speak for a third time. I assume you have a request for me? I said with a smile (or at least my version of one, which is more of a smirk). The boy seemed startled at hearing this, almost like he had not yet fully come to terms with his own actions. For the first time since entering, my client almost looked at me. I believe he even may have caught a glimpse of my ear, but he did not dare go further. After a few moments of hesitation, he built up the courage to speak. You’re the guy that helps with relationships, right?

Relationships? Relationships, you say? No, not relationships, I felt the urge to tell him. A relationship implies positive or negative feelings between two people, often based on various interactions, perspectives, and opinions. What you seek is romance, which is more like a socially accepted street fight. Those were not the words I gave him, of course, as that would be bad for business. Instead I said something more along the lines of, Yes, that’s me.

So then, if there is a girl I...am interested in (something about the hesitation and embarrassment he put into the phrase interested in did not sit well in my stomach), you can help me to get together with her, right?

If that is what you want, then yes. Of course, it will cost a small fee, but it will not be anything too major.

I heard that you charge about 350 coins, is that true?

It depends on the difficulty of the task. Who is it that you wish to enter a . . . ‘relationship’ with?

Erica Lenden. On hearing this, my interest was increased several-fold. I felt like perking up in my chair, but that might have startled my client, so I raised an eyebrow instead.

Do you know her? he asked. The question was rhetorical; everyone knew her. She was in fourth year, one year younger than I. She was an immensely well-known girl at my school. She was famous for her incredibly kind and accepting personality, her highly advanced intellectual skills (at least for our crappy school), and (for the more shallow-minded) her incredible looks. Please note that all of these are the generalized ideals of society, and do not reflect my own opinions in any way.

I know her, I replied, trying to remain polite despite his roundabout way of approaching things. A very difficult case, if I do say so myself.

Can’t you do it, then? There was almost relief in his voice, as if he was looking for an excuse not to hire me.

I said nothing as to the possibility; I simply stated that it would be a challenge. I placed my fingers together atop the desk and leaned forward a little, which I learned in my psychology class is a sign of power. Accepting a job of this magnitude would be very entertaining compared to normal jobs, but I did not want to let him know that. If I was going to do this, I was going to suck as much money out of it as possible.

750 coins, I said.

The boy looked surprised, but not upset. He thought for a moment. Are you sure you can do it?

I am not arrogant enough to guarantee anything, but I do believe that it can be done.

The boy thought for a while longer. His hesitation was really starting to grate upon my nerves. People that hesitate tend to irritate me. As you have probably guessed, I have a very long list of things that people do that irritate me.

Alright, he finally agreed.

Good. I will take half now, and half when I have succeeded. If at any time the job becomes impossible, I will offer you a full refund. Please do not speak of our deal to anyone.

The boy nodded, and then pulled out half the fee, and placed it on the table. From my desk, I pulled out a contract. I made it myself, but it looks pretty realistic in my opinion. It has no real legal weight, mind you, but people tend to fear contracts even if they do not mean anything.

What’s this? My client asked.

It is a confidentiality agreement. It means that neither you nor I will speak of our business together. Are the terms acceptable?

My client skimmed over it for a few seconds, and nodded. People should really spend more time reading contracts. What if I had hidden and I get to slap you somewhere in there? I swear that seventy percent of my clients would be unaware of it. Of course, I would never do that, as slapping someone would probably hurt my hand.

Then sign here, if you would, I said, offering him a pen. He quickly signed his name.

Can I go now then? He asked eagerly.

You may. I will contact you when I need you next. Oh, but first, please tell me your name. I already knew his name, as he had written it on the whiteboard, but I have over time come to understand that it is a socially accepted tradition to exchange general information. I thought it might set him at ease.

It’s John, he said, speaking almost in a mumble.

Well then, John, it is a pleasure doing business with you. My name is Roman.

A pleasure, he lied. I smirked at his discomfort, and then he made his exit.

A few minutes after he had left, I released my power pose, which is rather hard on the back when used for extended lengths of time. After stretching in my chair, I pulled a protein drink from my desk. All that talk of love had left my stomach upset. I have found that because I feel both hungry and sick at the same time, a protein drink is the greatest tool in my food arsenal. Unfortunately, my food arsenal does not contain much, as I tend to neglect my health out of laziness (I eat a lot of bread). The label of the protein drink read ultimate chocolate. Apparently that was the flavor, but I fail to understand how ultimate adds to the description. I quickly gulped down the ultimate chocolate.

Gross, I mumbled out loud. Just for the record, I do not actually like protein drinks.

It was not long before I had begun research on Miss Erica. It was not a difficult task, as she was watched by many a person, so I went totally unnoticed as her temporary stalker (I seem to talk about stalking a lot; I feel that says something about me). In my spying, I either blended in or was simply written off as another weirdo (which would not be entirely incorrect). It did not take long for me to notice that she was not being herself. She was wearing what I like to call a social mask. Okay, so maybe I was not the first to come up with that, but that is still what I call it. Over the years, my job has required me to learn when people are not being themselves. Sometimes it can be hard to determine, but in her case, it was completely obvious.

There were several clear-cut signs. She would laugh at every joke, no matter the humor (unless it was at someone’s expense, then she would simply defend the poor victim). She would act kindly to the rude, and merciful to the unpleasant. She would try to follow along with as many group ideals as she thought possible.

Of course, alone, none of these things are necessarily bad. On the contrary, they are quite respectable traits, I am sure. But when combined, it makes for an undefined blob of kindness. No one, no matter how wonderful, is a blob. I have run into this problem more than once, so I have taken to naming it The Blob Principle (and that one is original). The Blob Principle stands on one core ideal, everyone must have unique traits that define them. If you cannot determine these traits from observing them, then they must be hiding them. People who wear masks do so because they believe themselves to be unacceptable in the eyes of society. If I wanted to have any hope of bringing John and Erica together, I would need to find out what was under her mask. With John, it mattered far less if he was wearing a mask or not, because he was already interested in Erica. Of course, if they wished to have any hope of a continuous relationship, he would need to show his true colors as well, but that was none of my concern. As long as they succeeded in expressing their interest in one another, even on a single occasion, my job was done. But removing the mask of someone without being detected is always a difficult task. If they choose not to show their true selves to their friends, why should they show it to a stranger? Especially a stranger who goes completely unnoticed, such as myself?

This seems like logically reasoning, but in fact this is not the case. People who wear a mask will more often open up to those whom others have no respect for. In other words, those who are looked down upon or are ignored by society can be the easiest people to be honest with, because there is no risk associated with them. Their word does not carry any weight. The difficult part is actually the opposite of what you might expect. You have to make sure that the subject does not grow too attached, due to the sense of relief that comes with being honest with someone. Especially for those who tend to keep it all bottled up. I have to remain a faceless, nameless entity for the job to work. So, how does one go about doing this?

Simple. One sets up an accidental encounter. Luckily this was an easy task, as John was already a friend of Erica’s. Sometimes I have to work with socially inept people, not unlike myself. Although I consider these people to be more pleasant to work with, it does make things rather difficult. So, although Mr. bad-headed-hand-rubbing-hesitation-guy was kind of irritating, his social skills did come in handy. With this job, all I had to do was check the next time Erica would be called for cleaning services, which is a program offered by our school, through which you can gain extra credit. Pretty cheap, huh? The school pays students with extra credit instead of hiring more janitors. Of course, the students at our school tend to need a lot of extra credit, so I suppose it works out well.

Anyway, once I had discovered that her next cleaning day was scheduled for the coming Thursday, I called in a favor with Principal Martin. He is an elderly gentleman, and was having some trouble finding a wife. He came to me halfway through my first year in high school. He was married three months later. He has been indebted to me ever since. His was some of my greatest work, if I do say so myself. They make what you might call a lovely couple. You might call it that; I, however, would probably refer to them as a tolerable couple. With the principal’s help, I was able to enter the same schedule as Erica. In other words, Erica and I would be cleaning in the same place at the same time.

The next step was to have John give me a proper introduction, which was a subtle, yet vital part of the process. I asked him to bring up the subject casually, as if it did not even matter to him. Once the subject of cleaning services was brought up, he was to mention that he thought I was cleaning on the same day. I think Roman is that kid that never really talks during class. Actually, I don’t think I have ever seen him talking with anyone but the teachers. I wonder why he is volunteering? He doesn’t seem the type to get involved with those kinds of things, was along the lines of what he was to say. With this, Erica was primed to consider me unthreatening. As long as I had no connections with important people, no matter how she acted around me, her friends would believe her word over mine, so she could act without fear. Of course, John’s simple gossip would not be enough to convince her. I needed to sell the part, as it were. Luckily, if I am good at anything (which I am), it is selling things.

I went to the classroom a little early so that I could get into character. I hunched my back, moved my glasses down just a tad, and assumed a very unconfident look. I began to sweep in a slow, sorrowful manner. It was not long before Erica entered the room. She looked at me for a moment, and then shut the door behind her. She then walked over and picked up a broom of her own, and began to sweep next to me. There was silence for several moments. I considered starting the conversation, but that would be out of character. I was sure that she would take the bait.

Your name is Roman, right? She finally asked, double-checking her facts.

Uh...yeah, that’s me, I said, trying to sound nervous but not unfriendly.

I hear you don’t do a lot of after school stuff. Why did you decide to volunteer? After a moment, she realized that this may have been a forward question to ask. If you don’t mind my asking, she quickly added. The fact that this was an afterthought was quite interesting. It was possible that it meant she was actually rather blunt by nature. More information was necessary, of course. One thing that was clear, though, was that she was still not quite comfortable. She needed to be completely sure that John’s information was correct.

I wanted the extra credit, but I have trouble...talking to people, so I thought that this might be the easiest way to get it, I reassured, making sure not to look directly at her. It was important to never make eye contact, so that she would be less likely to remember my face.

Oh, I’m sorry, she said somewhat nervously. I didn’t mean to bother you.

I had expected this reply, to which I had prepared a counter: Well, I would kind of like to work on my social skills, so...I don’t mind talking for a bit. If you don’t, I mean. I made sure to add in an extra dab of hesitation into my words.

Erica gave a wide smile, her blue eyes shining bright. Okay, sure!

Her faked cheeriness grated on my nerves a little. Believe it or not, I actually take no issue with sincere cheeriness (although I do not practice it myself). I have at least a minimal level of respect for anyone who acts with sincerity. Faked cheeriness is quite annoying, however. It is kind of like experiencing a sunny day versus someone shining a flashlight directly into your eyes. I actually do not like the sun, but I thought it would make for a good analogy.

Do you have any hobbies? Erica continued. This was a roundabout way of trying to obtain more information. I assumed that she was probably trying to make her way towards the subject of friends, so I decided to speed up the process.

A couple, but mainly stuff I do on my own. I don’t really have anyone to practice them with.

Don’t you have a roommate?

I requested to have a solo room. This was true. I asked the Principal if it would be okay, and he agreed. That was how we first met actually.

That’s a shame. Do you have any family at this school, then? I was surprised with how careful she was being. She really thought to check for every possibility before letting her guard down. It was somewhat impressive, actually.

No, no family, I said sharply. I accidently let some of my irritation slip through, but not because of Erica. I just tend to get a little perturbed when I think about my parents. She did not know that, though, so I had to make a correction. I cleared my throat nervously. No family here, anyway, I said in a much calmer voice.

Oh, so...you really don’t have anyone to talk to, huh? This question was uncharacteristically blunt, so I knew that I was close. Just one final push was necessary.

Yeah, I said sadly. Actually, I can’t remember the last time I talked to someone my own age. It’s been a while.

At hearing this, Erica’s demeanor changed. She stopped sweeping. Her perfect posture melted away as she leaned against the back wall. Her smile disappeared and her eyes became lazy and uncaring as she crossed her arms across her chest. It was like her face shattered, revealing a second face underneath (thus the whole mask thing). Oddly enough, she looked very confident, with just a hint of displeasure. Well, that’s all right. It’s kind of better that way in my opinion. Dealing with people can be a real pain, you know.

A wide grin came over me, but I made sure to keep it well hidden. I expected her to be different, but this was not quite the personality I had envisioned. Things were suddenly looking rather interesting. All I had to do now was keep agreeing, with perhaps a question or two added in for good measure. She would do the rest.

Indeed, I agreed, perhaps letting a bit of my amusement leak through. Not too much as to be noticed though, of course. People most certainly can be a pain.

Honestly, sometimes it just seems like people won’t leave me alone. It gets pretty annoying after a while. Not that I have anything against socializing, of course.

Of course, I agreed sympathetically.

And I don’t blame them or anything, either. I’m not mad at them, it’s my fault really. Still, I do wish they would let me have a little peace at times.

We all need a little peace. Perfectly understandable.

Right. But they don’t get that. I guess I never really told them, though. It’s kind of hard to tell them things, actually.

Why is it hard? I asked. I saw something spark in her eyes, so my interest apparently pleased her. Being so chained to other people’s ideals, I doubt she often got the chance to share her true opinions.

Well, I don’t know, I guess I just don’t think that they will understand.

Understand what?

Understand me! They just don’t...hey, you know, this is the first time I’ve talked about this kind of stuff. You won’t tell anyone, right? she asked, suddenly turning towards me. I had to look away a little, so that our eyes would not meet. I did not like the fact that she was suddenly taking notice of me, so I decided to set her at ease and change the subject at the same time. Of course I won’t. It’s not like I have anyone to tell anyway. But if you don’t like talking to people, why did you sign up for extra credit?

This seemed to turn the spotlight back to her, so I was a bit relieved.

Well, I don’t really need the extra credit. I only did this because it looks good.

I see.

But boy, this job sure is boring. I hate sweeping. How funny is it that they offer extra credit like this though, huh? This school is pretty cheap, but I suppose there are a lot of people who can only get into schools like this. She quickly corrected herself, realizing that I might be one of those people. "Not that there is anything wrong with that, of course. In fact, I respect people who work hard even if