THE MORE TIME BEATRIX SPENT going along with this private school bullshit, the more she realized why she'd left school in the first place. No Sally Avril Type had personally antagonized her yet but Upstate Prep had a lot of its own problems.

Quickly, Beatrix learned that not many laws applied in High School. In fact, basic human decency was blatantly ignored. Theft? Not a problem. Finders, keepers. Get another pencil, Vanessa. Aggravated Assault? Was celebrated through sports like football. Traffic regulations? Don't even exist in the school parking lot. Survival of the fittest.

The worst problem though was the boredom. Every class was so immensely boring. In home school, she had at least a little decision making in how she divided her time and she sure as well wasn't spending an hour and a half on U.S. history. (Because how many times can one hear about old white guys causing tragedies and Steve Rogers saving the day before losing their fucking mind, right?) 

"This is a reminder to all science specialties and involved students to have their Science Exposition Proposal handed in, to their respective teachers by Friday afternoon."

Loudly that announcement was blared through the intercom mid-way through class, making a third of the class (most likely STEM specialties) let out harmonic groans. 

For context: The Upstate Expo was essentially just a glorified science fair, marketed as a mini-Stark-Expo for nerdy teenagers. It was common knowledge that teenage Upstate Science Expo winners — like Norman Osborn or Beth Castro — usually grew up to be very influential members of society. In recent years Upstate Alumni Norman Osborn had begun judging the annual Expo, awarding the winners with an Oscorp Internship. 

Beatrix's parents had actually met because of the Expo. Beth had broken her three-year winning streak in their senior year, and Raymond, who'd been silently crushing on her since the beginning of the year, had taken the opportunity to ask her out for comfort-pizza. He said the soccer team always got some when they lost (which wasn't true, the soccer team had tequila shots when they lost, but he didn't think Beth was the underage drinking type.).

The Upstate Science Exposition, technically, was responsible for Beth and Raymond getting married, and by extension technically responsible for Beatrix's entire existence. So when this reminder was announced throughout the entire campus, Beatrix's head shot up from the desk she'd been semi-sleeping on so she could ask, "Wait, the Expo is, like, still a thing?"

"Not to anyone with a life." A boy sitting across from her, Harry Osborn, sighed. "But my dad's fucking obsessed with it."

The class let out a collective laugh; mostly with stealthy snickers to avoid getting a death stare from the teacher but some laughing out loud with disregard. 

"Mr. Osborn—" The history teacher, a short-tempered and bald-headed man who Beatrix believed was named Mr. Davis, turned from the board he'd been writing down notes on. "I'd appreciate it if you didn't use that type of language in my classroom."

Harry didn't seem very fazed. He looked down to his lap, mumbling, "And I'd appreciate it if I didn't have to fucking be here."

Davis was known to be strict, and he obviously didn't like having his authority challenged, he looked to Harry with pressed lips. "One more word and you're out of my classroom."

Harry looked up through his eyelashes."Promise?"

 "We're all sympathetic to what you've been through, Harry..." Making his way to the teen's desk, he added, "But you're skating on very thin ice here, Mr. Osborn, and I'm not one for patience. Are we clear?"

Harry gave him a mock salute as if the class was some type of boot camp. "Crystal."

"Good. Because I'm sure your father wouldn't appreciate hearing of this at all." Mr. Davis said that and Harry's smirk fell immediately.

Seeing the class was still tittering, the teacher looked up from Harry. "What about the rest of you?" he asked, seemingly using his eyes to shoot darts at each student. "Would anyone else in this class like to end up in the Dean's office?"

"No, Mr. Davis."

Then the teacher made his way back to the board. He peered to look at Beatrix. "To answer your question, Miss Castro," he started, "The Science Exposition is still very much a thing. I know you're new but if you'd like to enter, your project proposal has to be handed in by Friday like everyone else." He looked back to his students. "Now can I continue with my class?"

"Yes, Mr. Davis."

History class resumed just as boring and predictable as everyone expected: Dead White Guy did this, Dead White Guy responded with that, Captain America Was The Only Redeemable White Guy blah, blah, blah—but Beatrix wasn't even semi-focused on it anymore. She only had one thing on her mind now and it was: she had to win that Expo.

◦◦◦

Beatrix hated lunch period at Upstate. Maybe her expectation had been too high, but she found there wasn't nearly enough structure to it. All the school really did was stuff dozens of the most hormonal, apathetic, angst-filled age group on the planet in one place; leaving them to psychologically torture each other for an hour with minimal adult supervision.

It sucked. Majorly.

Beatrix had stepped into the cafeteria, to see football players doggy-piling on top of each other, seniors throwing food to freshman tables, and an overall very loud, sensory-overload inducing environment before immediately decided: nope, not for me.

All this to say, Beatrix was eating her lunch on the floor, in the school hallway. It wasn't an impeccable eating condition but it was definitely better than the cafeteria.

She needed a concept for the Expo and to come up with one, she needed peace and quiet.

She was going to make a robot, that was a given, but her Expo project couldn't just be some useless machinery that poured cereal or vacuumed the floor. Whatever prototype, theory, or—in Beatrix's case—robot, participants of the Expo made, had to be beneficial to society. It was written in the rules on the sign-up sheet, right after the rule that made it explicitly clear that any project promoting recreational drugs would automatically be disqualified.

Beatrix couldn't think of any robot that helped people, though. Nothing. She couldn't think. Her mind was coming up with an absolute blank and she only had lunch to think about it, after that she had P.E. (which she wasn't looking forward too after what Gwen said).

"Shit, why the hell am I so dumb?" She rubbed at her eyes, poking at them like she did when she got overwhelmed. "I'm supposed to be smart."

Beatrix scratched out a bad idea, her thumb still pressed on her eyelids. "Think, think, think—"

"You're going to jab your eyes out, you know."

"Huh?" Beatrix looked up and, standing above her, James Stark. He was a tall boy, just under six feet, with unkempt dark hair, a wrinkled dress shirt, and the leach to a labrador retriever in his hand.

"Your eyes," he said. "If you keep rubbing them, like that you'll get an infection."

"Oh." She hadn't even realized she was doing it. Everyone in her family had those small repetitive movements they did at times; Beatrix flapped her hands, Beth paced, Beverly bopped her head even when music wasn't playing, and Raymond never cut his beard too short because he regularly found himself stroking it when he was anxious.

Their mother went out of her way to make sure Beatrix or Beverly would never see any of it as abnormal; stimming was just how some people processed emotions, Beth would say, it's like how puppies wag their tails when they're excited, you know?

Gouging at her eyes, however, was one the only stim that her parents had ever tried to stop, fearing she'd get pink eye or that it'd have a long-term effect on her sight.

"Can I ask why you're sitting in the middle of the hallway?" James asked.

"The cafeteria's loud." Beatrix looked over to the dog he had in a leash. It's bright blue ESA vest had: This dog support's a PTSD handler; do not pet or disturb written in bold letters. "Cute dog," she remarked.

"His name's Snoop," James said, kneeling to pet his head.

"Because of Snoop Dogg the rapper, right?"

"Yep."

James stared at her for a moment, who was still slightly rubbing st her eyelids and an open notebook filled with scratched-out notes on her lap. He blinked. "Are you, like... on the spectrum?"

Beatrix looked up, asking, "Am I that obvious?"

"No, no, I didn't mean it like that, it's--" James shook his head, embarrassed, a faint blush tainting his cheeks. "I'm ADHD. I just like meeting other neurodivergent people, I didn't mean to be rude. Sorry"

"No worries. ASD runs in my family." From the ground she was sitting on, Beatrix extended her hand for him to shake it. "I'm Beatrix Castro."

He raised a sympathetic eyebrow as they shook hands. "Castro as in..."

"Beth Castro, yeah. She's my mom." She nodded. James' face flushed just as quickly as it had reddened, so awkwardly, she made sure to add, "Don't worry I don't hate your guts or anything."

"Thanks, I think." Pulling away from the handshake, he said, "I'm James, by the way."

"Yeah, I know." She laughed.

"Because of my dad?"

Beatrix shook her head. "That and I follow you on Vine."

"You know, my friends and I usually eat in the garden outside. It's not too loud." James looked over his shoulder to the exit nearby. "You should join."

━━━

JUNE'S CHAPTER NOTES:

their history teacher after alluding to harry's overdose and his father issues in front of the entire class because he said a bad word:

https://youtu.be/cdQtVE2cS8c

anyways!! beatrix and james have officially met and they're both neurodivergent icons ✨

i also gave James an emotional support dog because god knows he needs it (PTSD & Childhood Trauma King) but don't get too attached 😈