So, I hate romance. And I hate it when people end the first chapter with two strangers making out. And not prostitute strangers, presumably. But I wanted to see if I was capable of writing a romance; mostly because I have writers block. I will only write more of this if I get more than three reviews. Good luck.

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Cretia, whose name was actually Lucretia but refused to be called such, was bored. She was on her back under a drooping sycamore trying to get her friend Lucy to stop talking.

Somehow, turning fourteen had turned Lucy into a goblin. Or perhaps only half-goblin. She was suddenly sure that every thought she had was worthy of publication and then, subsequently, critical acclaim. Cretia disagreed.

The sun was a dour yellow, half-hidden by the clouds and giving no warmth whatsoever. If it was to rain, Cretia hoped it might put out the nasty fire in Lucy's mouth.

“Luce?”

“Yeah?”

“Will you stop talking?”

And with that, Lucy got slowly to her feet and walked away, glaring at Cretia with her ugliest face. That had been much easier than had been expected.

Before Cretia could decide if laying on her back under a tree was a good pastime in itself, she heard the rumbling of a motorcycle and clamped her hands over her ears, waiting for it to end. It got closer until she was sure it must be riding around in her head and then suddenly there was a resounding crash and she leapt to her feet, feeling thoroughly terrified.

Across the street, both trash cans had been thrown into the air and the swing-set lay on its back like a dying spider. A dirty motorcycle was embedded in an oak tree and a boy was on his back on the ground, breathing unevenly.

“Oh--Oh my god!” cried the horrified girl, racing across the street.

“No, no. I'm okay. Look. I'm fine.” The boy's voice was a little cracked; dry from fear, she was sure.

“Should I--should I call the--”

“No, I said I'm fine. Are you deaf or something? Stupid girl . . . “ He got gingerly to his feet, groaning audibly.

Cretia didn’t know what to say at first, and so she busied herself staring at the boy, who was peeling his jacket off and taking some skin with it. He had dirty, orange hair, colorless skin and torpid, grey eyes. She guessed that he was sixteen or seventeen but he acted more like a nine year old; the sixteen and seventeen-year-olds always paid her much closer attention.

“Did you just call me stupid? My name is--”

“I didn’t ask for your name. I called you stupid because you weren’t paying close enough attention to me to realize that I didn‘t want your attention, or need it, at all. You were too busy thinking about yourself. Yourself. Yourself. Yourself.” He paused, licking his lips and glancing at his bleeding arms. “But, I’m guessing you’re my neighbor and since I just moved into this tree, I guess I should meet you. Hi, I’m Locke, I'm fourteen and--and, that’s it. My last name is Locke, not my first name. I don’t give out my first name to . . . little girls.” Then he laughed in a forced way that sounded like he knew how forced it was.

“What the fuck?” Cretia really needed to say something and that was all that came to her. No one had ever talked to her like that. Ever. And she didn’t like being humiliated.

“Wow. Strong language for a little kid. Where did you learn that?”

“I’m not a little kid and--and--”

“I bet no one has ever told you something true about yourself. I bet that when they insult you they call you ugly, which you’re not, or retarded, which you’re probably not. Right? I bet I’m right.” He laughed again and then stopped abruptly, gazing at her in an attempted serious way.

“You’re a bastard.” Insulting him only made her feel a little better.

“Technically, yes. I bet you’ll die from telling the truth.”

She could think of nothing to say and hoped he would continue talking; he didn’t.

There was a short silence that made her hate him even more. If she hated him at all. And then he kicked her in the shin and ran, slamming his gate behind him. She cried out, angry and in pain, and then kicked the broken swing-set.

“You stupid jerk! Stupid, stupid, stupid, asshole!” But there was no response and so she sat down in the grass, rubbing her shin.

Before she could fully understand what had just happened, if that was even possible, she heard her mom’s voice.

“Lucretia! Lucretia! Was that you yelling?”

Her mom was standing on the porch, holding a dead potted plant and looking old and irritated.

“No, of course not,” answered Cretia, hating her mom for calling her by her real name.

“It was you because I recognized your voice! Now, get over her so I can stop yelling across the street!”

“No. I’m busy,” said Cretia, not raising her voice enough for her mom to hear.

“What? What did you say? Nevermind, I don’t want to know. Get over here, now.”

“No!” shouted Cretia, too angry to reach even normal intelligence.

“Grounded,” said her mom, and then vanished back into the house.

What? Grounded for saying one stupid word? She didn’t get up but she could hear laughing behind her. Damn, she hated that kid.