A/N: This story is dedicated to pennylayne and her fantastic story 'A Very Thin Line' that you all must read for giving me the vague idea for this story.

I, David Elihue Jacobs, have been at the Joseph Pulitzer Academy of the Arts for one week and I'm already in love. Or, rather, lust. I can't say that I'm in love because I don't even know the name of the object of my affection. I have just seen him walking down the hallway where my room is, spouting out a monologue in a flawless British accent and became immediately smitten. He was an angel…if angels wore torn jeans and Bon Jovi t-shirts that is. He was also incredibly good looking and, judging from the grass stains on said jeans, his sport for the school was soccer meaning that every weekend, I could go and watch him…once he learned his name. It wasn't like I have a sport of my own. Sports were a requirement at the school—most likely in a vain attempt to make it seem more normal—but I had begged, pleaded and sulked for my mother to get our family doctor to write me a note to excuse me. All I have to do was pretend to have asthma. It's not that I don't like sports, I just suck at them. I'm too short for basketball, too small for football, too uncoordinated for baseball, too smart for hockey, too slow for soccer, etcetera, etcetera. Besides, I had come to the school for art, not sports. Writing was, as my roommate put, my poison. My roommates are, in fact, the only people I know at the school. And I don't even really know them. There's Juan Perez who, for some reason I don't get, is called Bumlets. He's at the school for film and keeps going on about his sitcom that would be a "boho Brady Bunch". He brought an ancient NEC television with him that's permanently set on TVLand. All he did was watch old sitcoms and write notes down on a laptop. When he spoke, it was usually a quote from a show. There's the boy who shared a bunk with me who's Jewish like I am. Mark Goldstein who's called Specs for obvious reasons. He was there for band and played the trombone. He was the only one who I really "hang out" with. My last roommate is an Asian boy named Matt Lee. He's called Swifty and after speaking to him, it's obvious why. He's on the track team and does everything double the speed of a normal person: walk, talk, eat. He's at the school for culinary art, which is putting what he does lightly. I've seen him bring some work home and he is nothing short of a food-Picasso. The things he does are amazing…not that anyone eats it of course. God forbid, right?

I don't do much at the school except eat, sleep and write. I guess I haven't hit my "social stride" or whatever. Frankly, all I want to do is get to know the acting hot boy who has my hormones in a bunch.

--

I'm walking with Specs back from lunch. We have no classes together outside our "normal" classes, which consist of biology and math. History is for our choice of "major" and English is covered in our fancy classes. We're talking about how insane our mothers can get since they're both walking, talking, Jewish-women stereotypes. Suddenly, he lets out an animalistic squeak and drags me behind a bay of lockers. His trombone case is pressing into my spine which really hurts. I watch a blonde boy with classes and a saxophone case go strolling by, singing a song from what I think is West Side Story. I was never good with musicals.

"Gee Officer Krupke, we're very upset," he sang without restraint. "We've never had the love that every child oughta get! We ain't no delinquents, we're misunderstood…deep down inside us there is good…"

He continues this as he goes out of earshot.

"Okay," I say, shoving the case off of me. "What was that about?"

Specs blushes and bites his lip. "You're going to think I'm a loser."

"Please," I roll my eyes. "I'm the king of losers. I rule over all of Losertonia so I don't think that what you can say can affect me."

I don't really go into why I'm the king of losers and, frankly, don't want to.

"Well," he releases the hold on his lip. "I've had a crush on him for the past two years. He's first chair sax and I'm first chair trombone so we're right by each other in the band room. Thing is, I've never even talked to him. I always get too nervous."

So, I wasn't the only one with my little…sexual predicament here. Somehow, this doesn't surprise me.

"What's his name?"

"Perry Palanski," he replies. "But everyone calls him Dutchy."

"Talk to him about band?" I suggest.

He shakes his head. "No, I'll wig out and babble. I babble when I get nervous. Fuck, I'm a loser, right?"

I smile at him.

"Mark—"

"Specs," he corrects. "I've grown to like it after Jack gave it to me freshman year. But yes?"

"Once again, king of the losers."

He smiles at me and we go our separate ways. I want to ask him about this Jack but I stupidly keep my mouth shut.