I had already found a home in the “loser row.” I did not belong there, but the choice was not mine. I sat in the far right corner of Ms.Manten’s math class, it was my first period of my first day of middle school.
The girl on my left continually popped a bright red retainer up and down against the roof of her mouth. She spent her time scribbling puppies on the back of her composition notebook. I hated her.
The boy on my right was less than half my size in both height and weight. He made me feel chunky and he was always picking a scab on his face. I hated him.
Two seats over sat a girl who couldn’t mind her business. She was a bit wide and her hair was always greasy and she always wore a “Mary Poppins” zip-up hoodie. Her favorite activity was leaning over and asking me if I did the homework. I did not. She loved that, but I hated her.
Three rows ahead sat a boy whose hair was so blonde it radiated off him and onto others near. He made every movement with a swift motion, shedding radiant blonde throughout the room. I swear when he turned to look at his friend behind (in row two), he was trying to look at me. I did not hate him.
The girl in the far right corner of Ms. Manten’s math class found herself constantly squinting through her round wiry glasses at the boy three rows ahead of her, her vision so blurry she could never see what black slop was in his heart. She hated the girl on her left for that damn clicking retainer, and she hated the boy on her right for his crusty scab.  She had buck teeth, pudgy cheeks and round wiry glasses that were way too small for her face.
I don’t hate her now, but man, back then, I hated her the most.