Chapter 1: I Try to Steer Through it a Million Ways

My black jeans and hoodie slid easily over my torso, skinny from my lack of eating. My shoes were worn in, to the point where you could take one look and see my toeprints and the exact shape and size of the arch of my foot. I'd had the same shoes for a year or so, despite my parents being filthy rich, I never bought anything.

I tore off my mattress to grab my pills (my real ones. I hid my actual prescribed pills under my mattress to draw attention away from my actual drug stashes), because, believe it or not, I actually took my prescribed medication. I sort of liked the feeling of the dry, dissolvable, pills on my tongue, the race to get them down my throat before the bitter, chalky taste escaped. I'd started taking capsules when I was thirteen, thinking they'd keep the bitterness in, only to discover that the capsules were slimy and for whatever reason, vaguely reminded me of frogs. So I'd started taking normal pills again.

That morning I'd woken up at about seven, then ran downstairs, ate a breakfast of Lucky Charms and chocolate milk in a little carton (I like my cereal dry. Sue me), and then promptly decided I should kill myself.

Slowly, as I ate breakfast, the rest of the family began to trickle in. I took the opportunity to rekindle the argument from yesterday, saying, "I'm staying home today."

"It's your senior year, Connor!" Cynthia, my mom, sighed. "You aren't missing your first day!"

"I already said I'd go tomorrow!" I argued.

"Are you going to get involved, or are you too busy on your email, Larry?" Cynthia asked my dad, Larry, annoyed.

"You have to go to school, Connor," Larry said disinterestedly.

"That's all you're going to say?" Cynthia sniped.

"What do you want me to say?" Larry said, exasperated. "He doesn't listen. Look at him. He's probably high."

"He's definitely high," my little sister, Zoe, chimed in. I'm not sure, but I don't think I was high that morning. I usually get high in the afternoon, but I might have made an exception that day.

"Fuck you!" I spat at Zoe.

"Fuck you!" Zoe shouted back.

Cynthia waved her hands. "I don't need you picking at your brother right now, that's not constructive." Of course. Classic Cynthia. Blaming Zoe. I loved it.

"Are you kidding?" Zoe asked, drumming her foot on the ground. But she wasn't surprised. It happened every day.

"Besides, he is not high," Cynthia said.

She looked at me to confirm it. I grinned in my cereal bowl.

"I don't want you going to school high, Connor! We talked about this!" You shouldn't have to, I thought. Surely normal kids didn't need reminding not to show up at school high.

"Perfect. Then I won't go," I suggested.

Look, I know. I'm on drugs, I'm a bad person, whatever. I was too far gone, though. Far too far gone. Or at least, I'd thought I was.

Cynthia began obsessively cleaning the dishes.

"Interstate's already jammed," Larry muttered to himself as he scrolled through Google Maps.

Zoe tried to pour milk for her cereal, then complained. "Connor finished the milk!"

I shrugged, then sipped out of my carton. Zoe looked at her phone. "If Connor's not ready, I'm leaving without him."

I left at that point to go get ready. I slipped on my shoes. I removed yesterday's deep blue from my nails and put on jet black. My go-to school color.

Even though I was older, and I could drive, Zoe always drove us to school. She said she didn't feel safe with me driving. I'd protested the same thing about her, but I'd tried to kill myself before and I guess Zoe's argument had a point.

I'd made a promise to myself, though. Two years ago, when I was fifteen. I'd promised that no matter what, if I went, I wasn't taking anyone with me. That was the whole point of going. Getting away from everyone.

I walked into the hallways the same way I always did. And people reacted the same way as always: "Freak" being whispered to closest friends. The stares from classmates. God, I wanted out.

I'd been growing my hair out all summer. I'd started last winter, and it was finally long enough. I figured my dad would make me cut it soon enough, but I planned on dying with it.

Then Jared Kleinman stopped me.

"Hey, Connor," Jared called. "I'm loving the new hair lengths. Very school shooter chic."

Oh, great. We were entering a new phase of Connor insults. Last year there were some monster jokes (don't ask me), evil villain jokes, kidnapper jokes, and murderer jokes. Now school shooter jokes, huh? Hopefully I'd die before they could really take off. Then again, Jared Kleinman wasn't really a trendsetter.

I cast a withering glance at Jared.

"I was kidding," Jared said, actually a bit scared now. Good. "It was a joke."

"Yeah, no, it was funny," I said in a monotone. "I'm laughing." At that, I gave a short, creepy little chuckle. "Can't you tell?" I leaned closer to Jared. "Am I not laughing hard enough for you?"

Jared pretended to laugh along, but I could see the fear and hatred in his eyes. Jared didn't like to be humiliated. What a hypocrite, I thought.

"You're such a freak," he muttered.

As Jared walked down the hall, and people cleared now that the drama was over, another senior wearing khakis and New Balance sneakers laughed nervously. I got the feeling he just didn't know what to say, and felt like he had to say something.

I wasn't going to hurt this kid. I was going to leave him along, I wasn't going to hurt him—

"What the fuck are you laughing at?"

Shit.

The kid looked wrapped up in his own thoughts. When I jerked him out of them, he stared at me. "What?" he asked.

No, I wasn't going to lash out. I hurt myself enough, no need to hurt other people—

"Stop fucking laughing at me."

Well, that did it. I officially had no self control.

"I'm not," the kid protested nervously.

Come on, Connor, stop fucking with this kid—

"You think I'm a freak?"

"No. I don't—" the kid tried to protest.

"I'm not the freak," I growled.

"But I wasn't—" the kid groveled. It felt really good, but really bad considering how good it felt.

"You're the fucking freak," I said. I shoved him, hard, and stormed off.

Later, I went into the computer lab.

My English classroom was out of spare paper. I'd noticed that when I spent lunch in there. I offered to get more paper for Mr. Harris, who was my favorite teacher. He'd thanked me.

God, that's the only time anyone ever fucking thanks me.

I was all ready and set to grab the paper and go when I saw a piece freshly printed. I touched it. Still warm. I picked it up, and looked at the first line.

Dear Evan Hansen.

I looked around, and the only other person in the computer lab was the boy who I'd shoved, who was in the far corner. Oddly, I'd thought his name was Evan Hansen. Only these computers had access to the printer, though. I guess he'd written some sort of letter to himself.

That's weird.

Anyway, I picked it up without looking at it and walked over to the kid. "Hey, is this yours?" I asked.

It took a moment before he could register I'd been talking to him. "Um. Yes."

"Dear Evan Hansen, and your name is Evan Hansen, right?" I said.

"Yeah," Evan said.

"Nobody's signed your cast," I noticed.

"Yeah, no, nobody has," he shrugged, trying to play it cool.

"I'll sign it," I offered.

Yeah, I knew people would give him hell for it. But I wanted to show him, him of all people, that I wasn't a complete dick.

I was just mostly a dick.

"No, really, you don't have to," he muttered.

"It's fine." I stressed that fact enough. "Do you have a Sharpie?"

It was a moment before he handed it over. I signed his cast huge, covering an entire side with the word CONNOR.

Good times.

"Do you want to ditch with me?" I suddenly offered.

"Ditch what?" Evan asked, not comprehending.

"Class," I explained patiently. "I had English this morning and that's the only class I give a shit about, so I was thinking of just ditching and go to the bookstore."

"Um, well, I need to do well in school," he started.

"No pressure," I said.

"Sure, yeah, I have a free period and stuff anyway," Evan said, grinning.

Well, I guess I wasn't going to kill myself that day.

There's always tomorrow.

We went to my favorite bookstore, a little place about five minutes away from school. We agreed to pick out three books for each other. I didn't know why I was being such a good person at that moment, why I'd decided to befriend him, but he seemed to be the only person giving me a chance lately.

Fuck it, I'd be friends with Evan Hansen.

During the car ride, Evan suddenly interrupted the song. "A-are you gay?"

"What makes you ask that, Hansen?" I asked, amused.

"Well, you have long hair, you paint your nails, you listen to Broadway music, and everyone calls you a queer," Evan explained.

I didn't tell people the truth, I never told people the truth. Yet I turned to him. "Tell me your darkest secret."

"Um, okay." Evan seemed unfazed. I liked that about him. He proceeded to telling me the most hilarious story I'd ever heard. He was a good storyteller.

"That's fucking hilarious," I giggled when he was done. I snorted with laughter. Then I turned serious. "Yes, Evan, I'm gay. I'd appreciate if you didn't go spreading the word, but yeah. I like guys."

We sat in silence, listening to Simon and Garfunkel's I am a Rock. Evan listened intently. "Story of your life?" he guessed.

"Something like that," I grinned. As much as everyone thought, when I was by myself I didn't blast angry music. Only when people could hear me would I do that.

"Homophobic dad?" he guessed again.

"OK, Hansen," I said. "You don't have to guess parts of my life. Here. Here's my life story:

"Ever since I was a kid, my dad had been obsessed with me learning sports and shit. No dance. He got really mad when I tried to take dance lessons and he threw a fit. He tried to stop me from drawing but he realized a) he couldn't take paper and pencils away from me and b) boys could do art. Zoe gave some examples of famous male artists to get him off my back on that one. But nothing on other parts.

"What about you?" I asked. "What's your dad like?"

"I don't know," Evan said. He looked out the window. "He left when I was seven."

Then we truly delved into silence. When we pulled into the bookstore we immediately delved into our sections. We didn't pick out books for each other, but we did just read. Read books for ourselves. I handed Evan Suzanne Collins's The Hunger Games and Chris Colfer's Stranger Than Fanfiction, but just for him to read. He looked through them. I found a copy of Romeo and Juliet, one of the few popular Shakespeare plays I hadn't read. When I picked it up, Evan said, "It's a good one. One of-of the best."

As we checked out, and bought the books, I felt better about myself than I had in a long time. I was no longer a dick, at least in the eyes of this one kid.

Well, that was enough for today.

We drove home in silence again. I dropped him back off at his house. His mom wasn't home.

"See you tomorrow," Evan told me as he left.

Well, I guess I was going to live another day as well. I was starting to think God (I was an atheist, I only used God in a metaphorical sense) sent Evan as a conspiracy to keep me alive.

When I got home I sat at my desk and wrote another poem. I wrote a lot of poems, mostly because they were the best way to express pain.

I planned to die today/I think I'll die tomorrow/But tomorrow never comes

I thought of myself as a good poet, but maybe that was just my imagination talking.

Pain invades my head/I just sit there and take it/Not much longer though

That one was a haiku. I mostly wrote short free verse, though. I thought about studying English or English literature or poetry in college. No, that was what I planned to do. But of course Larry would probably say business or economics was better.

I thought about the day, about Evan, about how he asked me if I was gay, and how he asked me about my dad. But mostly how I thought about how he didn't accuse me of being a school shooter or a psychopath. He just…talked to me.

And I wrote my first happy poem in a long time.

I sit here/Waiting/For love and happiness/To come to me/But now/I know/I have to come/To them

A/N:

This is probably going to be the hardest fic to write I've ever written. Being in Connor's head involves a lot of angry thoughts, even if I mostly tune them out while writing. If you're wondering why Connor is going a bit OOC, that's why, and I'm sorry. Any requests (like, of anything you'd like to see) will be DEEPLY considered, as I'm still finding the tone for this fanfiction.

Thanks for reading! Please favorite/follow/review!