The thing about reading books up to the point where you feel that every book, including your favourite has a bad ending and many faults, can be well, extremely stressful. The tension that I feel while reading books would probably drive me insane, probably even before other things can.

I am Harl Newell, a seventeen year old. Next year, I would be a senior, and a year after that, I'll be free of the school's earthly burden. But I guess, I have to go through the clubs and classes for now.

My life has been fine until, a certain Monday morning. You know, Mondays are usually days when something bad happens. Like, if you were to get turned into a vampire, or eaten by a werewolf, or killed by a god, or meet your sworn enemy ... Mondays are pretty evil.

So there I was, in our school hoodie on Monday morning, completely freaking out. Like up to the point, where my mouth was hanging open and I do not like that. I prefer looking attractive, like everybody else. I consider myself attractive - I mean, except my bad eyesight and puberty-struck acne, which isn't that bad, I look pretty good, compared to some others that I have seen. Like people with extremely small eyes, or wide mouths, or long face - I was pretty average.

But, when my English teacher asked us for our English Holiday homework, I was completely, totally, idiotically staring at her like a moron.

"Um, sorry, but which English homework are you talking about?" I asked. See, I'm normally real good in English. I don't forget English home work.

The teacher blinked, like she couldn't believe I was asking this question. I am normally her star student.

"The one I gave before the holidays?" She asked tenderly, trying to remind me, "Writing the story with partners?"

Smack.

You know what? Maybe I do forget English home works, because at that moment I remember the home work. We had to write a story with minimum three and maximum five people. 'That's why I had forgotten it,' I think, 'Because we have to write it with other people.' Knowing me, I had probably deferred the matter to find people to write a story with so much, that I have forgotten about it.

"Um, I'm sorry," I say sheepishly, "But I forgot."

She raised her eyebrows and I felt like I was swallowing an apple. A guilty apple. Then, she turned her attention to the class.

"Who else didn't do their home work?" She announced and I could only hope that a few toppers had forgotten.

People rose from their seats - some sheepishly, for which I was glad, some like they didn't give a damn and some were so confused, I figured they didn't know what English meant. In all, out of twenty six, eight people rose, including a nice friend, Marina D'cruz. She was absent when this homework was give. Well, she is usually absent - but she always wears this chick fandom shirts that we don't run out of talk.

Along with her rose Derrick Wingston, his trouble maker smile on. When he was younger, his smile used to be braces and gum but now, it's kind of charming. Behind him, standing silently was Alex Woodly. He was younger than most of us but his grades were decent. He was an emo guy - all black hair, and black eye, and black shirt, and black - well, you get the point. Only his skin was white, like ivory. Other than that were two confused kids, one 'guilty' kid and one 'I couldn't care less' guy.

We all stood, awaiting judgement beneath our teacher's eyes. (Or kind of above it. Our teacher's short)

She sighed, "I'll divide you up into two groups. I want that project next Monday. You can try scoring a 'B' if you submit it next Monday, or risk getting an 'F'."

I sighed. Honestly, getting 'B' was only as scary as monkey jumping but getting an 'F' was like seeing Augustus piss his pants or Percy fall into Tartarus again. (He maybe did care for his fandoms more than he cared for himself. Maybe).

When the groups were formed, I was with Marina D'Cruz, Alex Woodly, Confused guy #1 Peter Houden (Which I'll never get over, it sounded so much like Peter Van Houten, writer of An Imperial Affliction in The Faults in our Stars. Okay, I know I'm obsessed with literature.) But unlike, Peter Van Houten, Peter Houden was actually good looking, he was blonde, not like something in between blonde and dark haired like me. He was completely blonde and his hair was cut in the mushroom cut type thing, so he looked really adorable.

When we all promised our teacher that, yes, we would give her the best story she'd ever read next Monday, we didn't think much about how this was a chance meeting.

Which brings me back to now.

We're all at Marina's house and haven't got a single idea of what the first word should be. As of speaking, Marina and I are arguing about the advantages of writing a long, twisty charming sentence that would sweep crowds off their feet or staring with a simple, maximum three word sentence like 'I am drowning.'

"This is an English Project, Harl! This is the time we release our inner Shakespeare," She argues, "We should charm them with a long, delicate and intricate sentence with rhymes that remind them of spring, not start with a crises."

I roll my eyes. Marina's dark skin and curly hair makes her seem kind of, I don't know, warm. But her piercing, 'You listen to me or I kick your butt!' eye glare ruins the 'I am warm and nice image.' She is wearing a 'I don't go looking for trouble. Trouble usually finds me,' T-shirt.

"No, Marina. We want a fast-paced story with beats! A dangerous adventure to end in death or something like that. A story so good, the words and quotes just punch, punch, punch you!" I imitate three fast punches, "We gotta start with something like, 'It was the last day,' or like 'The end found me,' or something like, 'Imagine.' That'll be cool!"

Marina glares at me. She, too wore glasses. Unlike my thin rims one, hers were thick black rimmed.

Peter watches us, not quite comprehending what we are talking about, just looking at her and then, me like he is watching a tennis match. Alex is leaning against the side wall, in the corner, as if he was trying to dissolve into the shadows.

"You both are dorks," He decides and then, leans back into his own mystery, dark world.

"At least, we're both trying to complete this," Marina says defensively.

Alex studies a painting against a wall of a drowning ship and says, "If only trying was enough..." He trails off, running a finger against the painting.

Marina frowns in annoyance and then, turns to me.

"Help me in the kitchen for a second."

She walks towards the kitchen. I glance towards Alex, who is looking at the painting as if he is doing the funeral service of the people upon it. Then, I walk into the kitchen.

"He is a creep," Marina says straight-forward, "Like, what is he doing here?"

I shrug, "He's an emo. Let him be."

She snorts, "He's more like, depressed. And that Van Houten guy, does he even understand English?"

I laugh, "Yeah, he's weird."

"Seriously, he hasn't spoken a word since we've been here."

"His eyes speak for him. His basic emotion is that he's confused. Utterly."

She laughs this time and tell me, "But, we're totally doing a romantic Shakespearean story. Nice and calming."

I stare at her like are we even friends?, "You now that most of the Shakespearean stories are tragedy or violence. I'm completely fine with that theme."

She slaps my shoulder, "I meant the language, idiot. Let us write like Charles Dickens, or Rowling, if you prefer it. Not Rick Riordan or quirky, sassy writers."

I groan, "Writing nice English? That's boring."

"Is isn't."

"It is! We should write short, bold, slappy and punchy sentences. Like, which feel in the heart, you know," I say, putting a hand over my heart. She rolls her eyes.

"It's actually the cerebrum, you know, not the heart," She looks at my glaring eyes, "But yeah, I get your point. But I don't agree."

"Oh, come on!"

We just keep fighting until Alex peeks in, his black locks hanging in front of his eyes.

"Guys, Peter and I decided upon the starting line. How do you feel about, 'It is fair to say that in the great entirety of life, death was the dark spot while surrendering to pain was the end line. And that is how the end found me.' How's that?" He says in a bored mood as if he has not just uttered one of the most beautiful sentences I've ever heard.

I gawk at him, "That is completely, truly, utterly and totally beautiful."

He just rolls his eyes.

"So, we're going with that?" He says, glancing at Marina.

Marina opens her mouth and closes it again like a fish. I can tell that she's trying really hard not to jump over Alex and examine the cells in his body to see if he had any writer skills.

"That's fine, honestly. Not as Shakespearean and great as I would have preferred but it's okay."

Alex shrugs and walks out.

I stare pointedly at Marina (I stare at her. I cant glare at her. She's too damn scary).

"What?" She asks.

I shrug, "Liar, liar. Marina on fire."

The next day, as I wander through the hallways towards our class, I realize some major things. One, that my hair looks like a rat's nest and two, Marina is absent (as usual).

The previous day, we four agreed to sit together, huddled to work upon the project. Now, it looks like its going to be confused Van Houten, Emo guy and I sitting together.

When I reach the class, I see Woodly sitting all by himself in the back like he's doing some sort of shadow ritual. He looks over to me and then...looks right ahead, continuing his ritual. Van Houten is nowhere to be seen.

I don't really like sitting in the back but I walk over and drop my bag next to Alex, who winces at the noise. I roll my eyes and take my seat.

"Where's Peter?" I hiss.

Alex scoffs, "D'cruz's food was poisoned. I though it was just really bad cooking but apparently, it was a health hazard too."

I can't help but agree with Alex. As much different he is, he at least understands how bad Marina's food really is. You can't underestimate her.

"So, I guess, it's just you and me, then." He says. And I feel kinda scared when he says 'You and me.' I have read about emo guys being psychopaths and killing each other. (Marina says it is intentionally polluting the mind . I say it is getting extra knowledge about which kinds of dangerous people to avoid.)

"So, how about we meet at my house, then?" I offer only because, I knew we needed a place to complete the story and I had heard about psychopaths waiting for victims in their large houses.

Alex looks at me sceptically and I wonder whether he's thinking about that, too, when he says-

"Promise not to food poison me?"