Walking Travesty

When I was little I always imagined Hell being a huge, never ending, dungeon sort of place, set on fire. But, apparently, it's not. It's my high school.
I walk through the front doors of Hell and let out an exasperated sigh. Just one more year , I tell myself. If that .
I sulk through the busy hallways, very aware of all of the stares and whispers directed at me. I can just imagine what everyone's saying about me. Lina, the crazy, depressed girl who quit the soccer team and then attempted suicide on her birthday.
I open my locker and find a bunch of cards and slips of paper. I pick one up curiously and rip open the envelope.

Lina,
You're an amazing girl and you have so much potential. So glad you didn't go through with it.
Xoxo,
Stacey

I roll my eyes and toss it back in. I had gone through with it, the EMT's had just revived me. I shove my unneeded books in the locker, ignoring the rest of the cards that are probably from guilty classmates I've never spoken to, then head to class.
I take my familiar seat in the back of English Lit and try to ignore the curious eyes of my fellow classmates. A few people mumble a 'hello' or 'good to have you back', but for the most part everyone just stares. Normally I would find this annoying, but I'm in a fairly good mood so I'm just amused. All of these people didn't give a shit about me. They only know who I am because of the whole 'situation'. That's what my mom calls it. The 'situation'. Suicide attempt is too scary of a phrase for her, I guess. I'm kind of glad I didn't die, for her sake. I really don't think she would be able to handle that.
"Hey, Lina, right?" A voice dags me out of my thoughts.
I look up at the guy sitting next to me. I can't remember his name, if I'd ever even known it in the first place. He's just some guy who'd been in some of my classes over the years. My nickname for him has always been 'Needs-A-Haircut'. "Yep." I look down at the piece of paper I'd been doodling in rather than write notes.
"I like your shirt," he says, rather than the expected, 'It's so good to have you back. How are you?'
"Thanks?" I glance down at my shirt to remember what I'm wearing. It's just an old Foo Fighters shirt I'd stolen from my cousin a while back.
"So... um, how are you?" And there it was.
I look back up at him and smile. "Great. I just overdosed and was sent to live in a nuthouse for a semester. How are you?" My voice drips with sarcasm, and I kind of regret saying it after he frowns.
"I'm sorry, I just..."
I roll my eyes. "Sorry, I'm fine." I look back at my notebook and shade in the eye I was drawing.
"You're really good. At drawing, I mean."
"Are we still talking?" I ask, not trying to hide my annoyance. I was okay with people staring and whispering, but socializing with people who think I'm crazy isn't a favorite.
He laughs. Well, more of a giggle. "Do you not like talking?"
"Not to people who are pity-conversing."
"I don't pity you," he says, sounding surprised.
I look at him. "Sorry, you're feeling guilty because you never spoke to me before and now that you realize I'm suicidal you're like, 'Oh hey, what if she dies and I never spoke to her?'"
He rolls his brown eyes and straightens the beanie that's covering most of his longish light brown hair. "Or I just think you're cute and decided to talk to you."
I try to force away my blush, but it leaks through, heating up my pale cheeks. "I wasn't cute all the other times we've sat next to each other?"
He smirks. "You were, I just never got the chance to talk to you."
I roll my eyes again and cross my arms on the desk and prop my chin on them. "Sure."
He stays quiet for a few minutes and I think he's going to leave me alone. "So, what are you doing Friday night?" Or not.
"Nothing." I find it kind of cruel that he would be making fun of me so soon after the 'situation'. Either he's stupid, or just a dick.
"Do you wanna go out?"
I'm gonna go with dick. "Nope."
"Why not?"
I hold in a groan. "Because I'm a crazy, depressed and anxious introvert and we don't like going out on dates with dicks who make fun of us." I pause. "Actually, we just don't like going out."
"I'm not making fun of you," he sounds confused. Maybe he is just stupid. "How am I making fun of you?"
The bell rings, thankfully, and I jump up and leave the classroom quickly. The first day in Hell was just beginning and I was already sick of it.