Chapter Three

Pleasant View High had about hundred kids in each grade. Each class was mostly a combination of all of them. They had freshmen in the junior classes, and seniors in the sophomore classes.

It was the smallest place I had ever been to, and I knew almost all the names of the kids in my class before the first day was over.

The teachers were mostly the same, and all seemed to hate their jobs. I found out later that most of the teachers had grown up in Pleasant View. Why would you return to a place you hated?

Despite the tiny population, the kids managed to divide into their little cliques. There were the popular, blonde girls. The boasting, big jocks. The glasses-wearing, thin computer geeks. And then there were the people in between. No one knew what to call them. Middle-class?

We were allowed outside for lunch every day, seeing as the cafeteria was always being used as a gym. I chose a spot under a tiny tree. The sun was scorching, and the leaves were too few to really provide me any shade, but I liked the feeling of hiding. I watched the others from beneath my tree, and their activities distracted me from my own disquieting thoughts.

There was a boy who sat away from all the rest. He didn’t hide, like I did. No, he sat right in the center of the green lawn, eating his lunch unabashedly, looking around just like I did. He never looked at me, though. He probably knew everything about me, as I did him.

His name was Vick Dawson. He was a junior, like me. His nose was crooked, as if he had broken it once, but otherwise he was cute. Pouty lips, high cheekbones. Light brown hair fell over his forehead in a thick, stubborn lock. He wore mostly black, with a red logo on the front of his t-shirt, and his lip was pierced in a way that was independent, not rebellious. He could pull it off.

He was the only kid that I really found interesting. All the others I was able to shove into the familiar categories. But Vick Dawson was different—a significant thing to say. He didn’t seem to care what anyone else thought, and yet he still exuded an easy confidence that I admired.

If Vick ever felt my gaze, he didn’t bother looking up. Two girls walked up to him, said something. From the shy, appreciative expressions on their faces, I could guess what their motives were for approaching the boy.

“No, thanks,” I heard Vick say. But he added a smile to soften his words, and the girls beamed back. They walked away, still smiling.

I watched them go, then turned my attention back to Vick. To my surprise, he was staring right back at me. I started, and his lips quirked, as if he was trying to suppress a grin. He cocked his head at me, as if he’d asked a question and expected an answer.

Uncertain, I didn’t react, and after another second, ducked my head. I took a drink of my pop to do something with my hands. I dared another glance at him from under my lashes one last time. He was lying back on the grass, listening to an iPod that rested on his stomach.

After that, in the days that followed, I was careful not to look at Vick Dawson anymore. He probably didn’t appreciate being stared at, and I knew the feeling.

My grades were excellent, my parents assured. But I knew that I would eventually have to bring someone home with me, to prove to Mom that I was doing fine. Otherwise, she would schedule another session with the counselor. And I didn’t want to sit in that mint-green room anymore.

One day at lunch, I began to head for my tree, like every other day. But when I was mere steps away, I remembered. Friends. I have to make some friends.

Though my legs itched to go to the tree, as all my instincts were screaming at me to, I forced them to turn away. Lunch bag hanging limply from my hand, I surveyed the courtyard.

There were four large groups of girls, and two other groups that both consisted of only two girls. I rooted for the pair that wasn’t wearing black lipstick, and started toward them.

One of the girls, clad in a dainty pink sweater, and face covered in acne, leaned over and muttered something to her friend. The other glanced at me, and nodded. In unison, they both stood and walked away, going in the direction of the bathroom. I stopped. I wasn’t put out or anything—I had to care to be that—but I sighed. This was going to take more effort than I thought.

Deciding beggars couldn’t be choosers, I turned to the gothic girls. They remained where they were when they saw me approaching, but didn’t say a thing when I stood before them.

“Do you mind if I sit with you?” I asked, looking down at my feet. Seeing their hostility made me a tad uncomfortable.

“Why don’t you go fuck Mr. Wilson?” one of them snarled.

I cringed. “No, then.”

Her companion sneered. “You got it. No. But the teachers eat lunch in the library, if you want to go join them. I hear Mr. Bist likes students, too.”

She was referring to Will, in a subtle way. Unexpectedly, resentment flared. They didn’t know him. They had no right to…

Shit. My line of thinking was all wrong. And Will? Even when he had asked me to, I had refused to call him anything but Mr. Sheldon. What was happening to me?

“You’re disgusting,” the gothic girl on the left added.

My shoulders drooped, and I turned away again. Their glares bored into my back.

“You’re probably right,” I whispered.