I wake up the next morning to slivers of the egg yolk sun peeking through the blinds, showering my blanketed figure in stripes. My eyes, still in tune with the darkness of the night, squint at the brightness. I stretch my arms above my head as I burrow myself further into the warm, soft sheets before reluctantly rolling over to see the red numbers of my alarm clock cutting through the morning's gentle tones like lightning.

    6:21 a.m.

    I groan into my pillow and wish to go back to sleep, but my brain has already shed the sleep it once endeared.  I begrudgingly get out of bed, tossing the sheets in a heap at the footboard. The coolness of the hardwood floors against the warm soles of my feet travels upwards, cleansing my body with a new day's worth of energy.

    I strip down, replacing my baggy, ice cream stained pajamas with a pair of skin clutching spandex and a sports bra. Rummaging through my shoes, I latch onto a suitable pair of sneakers and hustle down the stairs. I always go on a run whenever I can't sleep. The movement of my hair swishing back and forth and the breeze blowing against my skin makes me feel free.

    When I reach the bottom, I step into my sneakers—laces already tied—and quickly flip my head upside down to gather my hair together in a ponytail. I'm about to turn around, realizing I forgot my earbuds, when a batter from the garage catches my attention. I freeze as fast as an anchor sinking to the bottom of the ocean, straining my ears to understand the sound.

    Bam. Bam bam. Bam. Bam bam.

    I start to retreat, deciding I should get help before I do anything when a familiar growl comes from the other side of the door.

     Noah. It's just Noah.

    I sigh, and make my way over, peeking my head through the doorway. Unlike the rest of the house, the garage is filled with unidentifiable metal scraps and dusty boxes of who knows what. One of the doors is open, filling the space with light and a cool breeze.

A glint off of Caleb's decrepit car attracts my attention. Thinking of the memories, I smile to myslef; he rolled it a couple of weeks ago trying to perform an illegal move at a street racing event. I remember he was quite frustrated, while I, however, was quite amused.

     My eyes then travel to the source of the noise: the back corner, where a small grouping of some exercise equipment lays. At first I don't see Noah's face, only the sun streaming in on his back. His muscles flex as he stands in the center of the equipment, throwing punches at a torn boxing bag. 

    He retracts his movements at the creaking of the door. "Hey," he greets. "Couldn't sleep? You're up early."

    "No," I reply, walking over to hold the bag for him.

    He pushes back his disheveled hair while hopping from foot to foot, getting in the stance to start punching again. He swings a hard punch at the bag, causing me to lurch back a bit. He chuckles, but I just shake my head at him, readjusting to a firmer grip.

    "How's work been?" I ask.

    "Shouldn't I be the one asking you that question?" His voice comes out breathy as he talks between swings.

    I shrug my shoulders. "Eh."

    "I'm serious, though. Have you gotten anything yet?"

    "No, I don't work that fast, Noah," I acknowledge, poking my head around the mass of the bag. "And I'm being serious too!"

    He pauses and glares at me, but I just glare back. Even though he's often distant, Noah's still somehow always there. He's a best friend and worst enemy all is one package.

    "It's been busy, like always," he belittles.

    "That's all I get?" I nag.

    He chuckles, walking off to the side and grabbing a towel to wipe off the beads of sweat perspiring from his skin. "Come on, I'm heading to the warehouse soon, and I can drop you off on the way. I was thinking of stopping at Bean's cafe too."

    I smile at his last sentence. "You know me too well."

    Bean's cafe is my absolute favorite. It's a quaint shop only five minutes away and their pastries are to die for.

    I release my grip on the bag and head up to my room to change, a newfound motivation propelling me: donuts.

     I swing open my door, the bottom springing against the doorstop. I reach for a pair of sweats I can slip over my shoes, and peel off my sports bra, placing it back in the dresser as it wasn't put to use. I replace it with a black brallete, which I proceed to throw a denim jacket over. I toss some dainty jewelry in my backpack along with a tube of mascara–although I know I'm not going to revisit it— and reach for a stray bottle of hairspray to tidy up my hairdo.

    I swing my backpack over my shoulder while swiveling around to make sure I have everything. With one hand gripping onto the backpack strap I fumble to rearrange my bed sheets in a more organized position before heading out the door.

***

I've officially been at Elmwood High for a week, so when I walk into the crowded hallway the scene that lays in front of me marks no damage. I no longer cringe at the couple that's always making out on the left side of the hallway, the sound of screeching girls no longer hurts my ears, and I've learned not to yell at the group of kids who are always blocking the hallway.

    I swiftly navigate to my locker, setting my coffee on the top shelf. I bend down to collect my books for the day when I see Emma, dressed in a loose cami dress with a graphic tee underneath, coming my way.

    "Is that caffeine?" she announces, her eyes pupils flaring at the sight of an energy source.

    "Yeah, I stopped on my way here," I inform.

    She spins the dial to her own locker, grabbing some books of her own. "You'd get me some?"

    "No?"

    She tries to remain serious, but a smile tugs at her lips. "That's a shame. I guess you'll just have to fend for yourself next time you need help in math."

    I smile at her jovial threat, despite being the one it's aimed at. I huff, "Come on, gov class doesn't learn itself."

    We shut our lockers and head down the hall side by side. The chaos is like a movie: two freshmen girls scurry around us, chasing after a boy, a clumsy sophomore trips on his shoelaces, papers flying out of his unzipped bag, and I bump shoulders with a skater junior, his spiced cologne briefly overpowering my senses.

    We reach the class on cue with the bell, entering behind a small stream of other peers. The room is the same layout as all the others, but it is set up with multiple rows of rectangular tables—instead of desks—placed in adjacent groups of two. Charlotte, Emma, Mason, and I all sit in one grouping.

    "Hey," I greet, taking my seat next to Mason.

    He's resting back in his seat, twirling a pen like a drumstick. "Hey!" he smiles back. "Did you hear the carnival's moving their opening to this weekend?"

    "I didn't even know there was a carnival," I confess.

    "That's an even better reason to go!" he exclaims, leaning forward and setting down the pen. "They have it every year; I'm sure you'd like it."

    Miss. Green finally walks in, and the class silences. She's young, only a few years out of college, but that doesn't mean she lets rude behavior go.

    "Sounds fun," I whisper to Mason.

    He smiles.

    Miss. Green sets down her tote bag,
and the same directions that she gives each class day after day pours out. "Alright everyone, all your work for today is on the class website. It's only two tasks, but I want to talk about a project first."

    The class collectively groans, some sharing knowing looks and mouthed curses to their friends across the room.

    She gives a stern look before continuing, "It should be done completely outside of this classroom. Do it in the library, at your house, I don't care. It's due in two weeks; I suggest you get it done sooner than later."

    The class groans even louder.

    "A packet with the project details is up here on my desk; come get one when you are ready."

    Murmurs sound from around the room as work time begins, and I can hear someone behind me already complaining. Mason gets up and heads up to the front of the room while I take out my computer, ready to dive in.

    "Here you go," he says, passing packets down the line for the rest of us.

    "Hey, look!" I exclaim, flipping through the requirements. "It's a partner project."

    "Can we do the work at your house then?" Mason replies, sitting down. "My little brother's always super loud."

    "What makes you think I want to do the project with you?" I taunt.

    "Telepathic," he jokes, knocking on his head.

    I chuckle, but it comes out more like a snort, which makes both of us laugh.

    "Hey, lovebirds!" Charlotte interrupts, stretching over the table and around Emma to see us. "Do you want to come over this afternoon? I have access to the new Saviors movie."

    Heat throngs to my checks at her word choice, but I shake it off. Following Charlotte's actions, I stretch over the table to answer. "Yeah, sure."

    As class goes on, the ceaseless buzzing of  the classroom increases. Students begin to pack up their stuff when there are still a few minutes of class left, causing a chain reaction of backpack zippers and paper shuffling. The bell eventually rings, and the collective noise of chairs scraping against the floor reverberates. We pool into the flooding hallway. Emma and Charlotte head off to their photography class, while Mason and I head in the opposite direction to social studies.

    "I'll meet you there," I tell him. "I have to stop at the bathroom."

    "Okay," he acknowledges.

    I veer away and take a right down the closest side hall. The warning bell rings above me, and my leisure pace subconsciously transforms into long strides.

    I cross over to the other side of the hall and lift up my palm to push open the bathroom door when a grip on my waistband lurches me backwards. I fall into the steady rising and falling of a firm chest.

    I don't have to turn around to know who it is: Christian. His embrace is colder than day old oatmeal, yet the heaviness in my stomach doesn't stay long.

     A hand grazes the skin under my jacket, slipping around my waist and into my front pocket. When he retracts, a small bump is left, and the feeling of an object presses through the fabric to my skin.

    As I gaze down at his previous movements, I feel Christian walk away as abruptly as he came.

    I gingerly reach into my pocket as my fingers contact the small, cool object. I pull out a gold ring with a small note tucked inside the band. The ring is the shape of a coiled serpent, where in the middle, a large, pristine emerald sits, the snake surrounding it like a little girl clutching her favorite teddy bear.

    Hesitant, I place it on my right middle finger. The jewel glints against the light as I reach to unravel the note.

    Smoothing out the paper between my thumb and fore finger, the inked letters start to take shape.

   Tomorrow night, you know where to go.