Identity: Who people expect you to be

Popular

High school was hard. Football was hard. Being popular was hard. Everyone wanted things from me, and I don't feel like I can always live up to their expectations. Well, right now their expectations are my expectations. Grades don't really matter. They don't matter to anyone here. Just football and who you're dating.

I got out of Spanish and sighed, walking towards my locker. I had a D in that class. I don't understand why we have to learn it. I'm never going to Mexico, so what's the point? It's like my girlfriend said, there wasn't. I looked down the school's tiled hallway and saw her coming towards me. She looked like the girl any guy would want to have. Tall, blonde, skinny, a cheerleader. I was lucky to be good enough for her. I was tall, lanky with hardly any muscles, and short brown hair. I didn't look like the ideal boyfriend to any girl. But somehow I was for her.

I opened the blue locker door when she got to me. She looked mad. Angry even. Usually when this happens I zone out, not wanting to listen. It's always the same conversation, she starts yelling at me for all my flaws and points out everything that is wrong with me. Then it goes to her problems somehow. I don't get it.

"Hello? Are you even listening to me?" I snapped out of my thoughts to actually pay attention and look at her. He face was red and she was livid. Even though I'm taller than her I feel small under her pressuring gaze.

"Sorry Quinn, could you repeat it?" She smacked my arm hard and I flinched.

"If you don't get your grades up, then you're off the football team, and you won't be quarterback. That means I'll be dating a loser, and that just can't happen." I looked anywhere but her. All anyone cared about was being popular around here. If I'm not the quarterback, then I'm nobody. And she can't date a nobody. So I guess I have to care about grades now. I don't see why she cares about grades, no one does. But how did she even find out about my grades? I was going to ask her, but defying her would be suicide.

"I'm sorry, I'll try." She placed her hands on her skirt clad hips and glared at me.

"I hope so," she said quietly, threateningly, then stalked past me and down the hallway, turning the corner and going out of sight. I looked into my cluttered locker and took out my math book, closing the locker with a slam. I hated pressure, but my life was full of it. I started walking down the hall, the opposite way Quinn went when I saw my friends shove another kid, a loser, into the lockers forcefully. They'll probably expect me to help them bully some other kid later. I'll have to say yes. If I say no, I'll be a wimp. I'll be the loser.

Yeah, being popular is hard.