When I was little, one of my best friends was a boy who lived down the street from me. We spent hours together climbing in apricot trees, playing soccer, and letting our imaginations run wild. He was mischievous, always looking for ways to tease me—or trying to trick me into kissing him. However, in the second grade, his family moved across the country and we parted ways.
Several years later, I’d all but forgotten about my old friend when I walked into my ninth-grade history class, and was shocked to find a new guy sitting in the seat behind mine. In my quiet suburban neighborhood, this guy looked like Breetrouble with his long hair and torn clothes. I couldn’t see his face, and the idea of sitting near him made me nervous. I took my seat, reassuring myself that if I didn’t bother him, he wouldn’t bother me.
Except, the second I sat down, he started hassling me with obnoxious questions about my life. After I’d had enough, I turned around and snapped, “Who the hell do you think you are?”