"Hey, Diego, I'm bored," I said, turning to my friend. He and I have known each other for years, but most of our friendship consists of insults and arguments that neither one of us take seriously. We technically have something we should be doing, we are in our psychology class, and we haven't done any of our work in the past two weeks, but it's not like we plan on starting now.

"Go cry about it; I'm busy," he replied.

I look over at his screen, and he's in the middle of reading part 7 of Jojo's Bizzare Adventure. I have no clue how; almost every comic site on the internet is blocked on the school Chromebooks, but I don't question it.

"You aren't fucking busy; stop lying." I turn my screen to him. I have a writing website opened. I don't enjoy writing all too much, but it gives me something to do. I click under the challenges tab and ask him to pick a prompt. After scrolling through for a while, he clicks on one.

"Do that one." I look over at the prompt and immediately shut him down.

It read Spaghetti juggling.

"I'm not going to do that one; it's stupid, and what would I even write about?"

"Dude, it literally says that it could be anything as long as someone juggles spaghetti."

I laugh. I can't even imagine a way to work that into a story.

He clicks 'enter' and turns the screen back to me.

"You should just write that you went to the new Mario movie and started passing out spaghetti to everyone."

"What about the juggling part?"

"Walk to the very front of the theatre and just start juggling that shit."

One thing that I admire about Diego is that he is such a shameless idiot.

I laugh, telling him that I wasn't going to write to that prompt and return the screen to him so he can select a different challenge.

I ended up on a challenge about desperate love. It worked out because I had some lines in my notes app that I could work off of. I've always found it funny how I could write about situations as if I was going through them when in reality, it isn't my situation at all. It might be a defense mechanism; with only half the things I write applying to me, it leaves a sense of deniability in whatever I put down.

The bell rang shortly after I submitted my piece.

"See you at lunch Diego."

He smiles in response and walks off to his next class. I am in the same room for my next period, but I don't really like talking to any of the other people in there, so I move up to a seat closer to the front.

The class goes by quickly, and all of a sudden, it's lunch.

I walk up to Diego, but I don't say anything because he's busy talking to Xavier.

Xavier is another one of those friends that I mainly interact with through insults and bickering, except I actually think he might hate me. Whenever I say anything nice, he just starts going off about how my nose makes me look Jewish or how he thinks I'm autistic. '

He's definitely the type of person you could start recording any time they start talking and then put them under investigation after turning said video in. This is probably why I choose to ignore whatever it is they are talking about until their conversation is over, but before that happens, Diego notices me and cuts off Xavier in the middle of one of his concerning statements.

"Bro, have you seen what they are serving for lunch today?!"

"Nope, I was planning on getting Taco Bell. School food sucks."

There are three different lunches you could have at our school: A lunch, B lunch, and open campus, which stretched to last during both A and B. I was one of the few sophomores that had open-campus for lunch, Diego did too, but he hardly used it because he was always scared he wouldn't be able to make it back in time to spend B lunch with his girlfriend, Kyra.

"Where the fuck do you get all of your money? You don't even have a job, but you're always going out to eat." Xavier said.

He wasn't really wrong, I went out a lot, and while I do have a job, It's more of a favor I get paid for than anything. I just clean a little at the drive-thru convenience place, and the owner, Katelyin, pays me 20 bucks a week. She always says that she would give me an official job, but I can't serve because I'm underage. I end up getting most of my money from gambling and odd jobs for people, like assignment help and chores. It still shouldn't be enough to support my spending habits, but I'm not complaining.

My train of thought is interrupted by Diego, "Guess what they have for lunch."

"What?"

"Spaghetti."