"I came here to chew bubblegum and kick ass. And I'm all out of bubblegum." – Roddy Piper

Chapter Two: Youngblood

M A X

I dropped my foot on the pavement and yanked off my helmet, my jet-black hair tumbling down to my shoulders. Climbing off my motorcycle, I smoothed down my tangled mane, my fingers snarling in the knots.

I loved riding motorcycles.

I hated the helmet hair.

"Hey, Max," my best friend Zahra Aswad grins sharply, retying her maroon headscarf. "Long time no see."

I roll my eyes, stifling my hands in my black leather jacket. "You saw me two days ago, Z."

"Yeah, and I've been stuck with Anas ever since!" She wails as we walk shoulder to shoulder.

I kick a stone in my path sending it tumbling across the carpark. Cars skid passed us, students rushing for school. Diesel clogs the air, grey smoke wisping, and engines purr, growling like lions. The hallways are a flurry of chaos, lockers swinging and slamming, the incessant chatter of students too loud for the first day of senior year. Despite the havoc around us, Zahra and I stride at a leisurely pace, confidence rolling off our shoulders in waves.

"What do you have first period?" Zahra asks as I lean against the pocket next to hers. I watch her stuff her books in her locker, in a messy way that itches at me.

"Algebra," I curl my nose in disgust.

"What a horrible way to start senior year," she laughs at my expense. 

"It is," I agree, crossing my arms. 

"What do you have?" 

"English lit," Zahra states, reading off her timetable.

I shove her shoulder, my mouth agape. "Shut up! How'd you get so lucky bitch?"

"I'm simply amazing," Zahra makes a show of flipping her hair over her shoulder and we both burst into laughter.

I hear someone clear their throat and an underclassman both stares at me, with round brown eyes, fearful and worried.

"S-sorry," he mumbles. "Um, you're standing by my locker."

I sigh, arching a single brow. I don't even bother to ask why his locker is all the way here – he must be dropping off something for an older sibling or something. And by the look of utter terror on his face, I'm guessing this kid must've heard the rumours about my friends and me. It's kinda stupid really.

"I'm moving," my voice is monotonous as I push off the locker and Zahra raises her eyebrows at me.

"Thanks," the kid stammers as if I've hurt him in some former life. I haven't done anything, yet he already assumes the worst. Y'know, just because I appear sinister, and come off as menacing doesn't mean I actually am.

"Let's go," I tell Zahra and once we've walked a couple steps, she smiles at me in a way I don't like. "Don't even start."

She chuckles. "You can't blame the poor kid, Max, you look threatening."

"Yeah, because I try so hard to be scary," I mutter sarcastically.

"Could've fooled me," she shrugs, and I throw her a flat look, popping a piece of bubble gum into my mouth.

Teachers always assumed I chewed mint gum because I smoked. Lies. I only smelt like cigarettes because of my brother Luke. He smoked weed like a steam train. And so did all his friends (well our friends really) Mason, Camilla, Alec and, Zahra's twin brother, Anas.

"Maximum!"

Speak of the devil.

Anas bundles over to us, along with Mason, pushing students out of their way. I huff at the irritating nickname Anas dubbed me this time. He was hell-bent on finding new nicknames for me weekly.

"Hello Aswad," I slap hands with both boys, tipping my head in greeting. "Axton."

Zahra hugs Mason and sticks her tongue out at her brother. The twins might not live together because of their parent's separation, but they were even closer than Luke and me.

"Ryder," Mason's lips tilt, mimicking my voice as he greets me by the surname as I did for him. "Looking beautiful as ever."

I shove his shoulder playfully. "So do you."

Anas scoffs. "Him, beautiful? Then I should be downright gorgeous."

"No wonder all the guys love you," Zahra mutters sarcastically because honestly, Anas couldn't be any more straight.

He is the player of players. The ace of hearts. It's ridiculous how easily girls fall prey to his charms and "badboy" vibes – whatever that means.

"Look, sis," Anas begins and I share a look with Mason. We know that voice. That's the voice of willing ready to bring their evidence and argue for all eternity. Or when the other starts crying.

"Here we go," Zahra sighs.

"It's not my fault girls love me," her brother says in a helpless voice. "Everyone wants a piece of this and I'll be damned to deprive them."

When he gestures to all of himself, I gag.

" Loser," I fake a cough and Anas shows me the finger.

"You rude thing."

"Really, she was just stating facts," Zahra murmurs innocently, all-eyed with her big, brown irises.

"Soccer oracle this afternoon?" I turn to Mason.

He stuffs his hands in his pockets, rocking in his heels. "Yup. Coach wants to start right away that guy has no sleep, no rest."

"Of course," I state. "Since you guys play so badly."

" Hey," Mason protests. "Our high school team is the best in the state!"

"Then the other teams must really suck."

I know I'm goading him for no reason but it's so fun to see the boys riled up about the sport. I love soccer too, but I'm not so sensitive about it. And the thing is – Mason is right. Their team is pretty amazing. They've got a good starting line-up; the coach is excellent and the team is in good shape. Our school expects great results this year and a hell lot of scouts coming in.

"You don't get to," Mason says. "Our team worked really hard to get so far."

I put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "I know Mase, I'm kidding man."

I shake my head and spin on my heel. The bell is so close to ringing, and I'd rather not be late for algebra, contrary to popular belief. As it is my last year's teacher hated me – perhaps this year I can get off to a fresh start. Plus, algebra and I never really saw ... eye to eye. We don't get along. Mixing me with maths is like oil and water.

The bottom line, I suck at algebra. I just do.

I think it's hereditary though. Luke was bad at maths too when he was in school. So it's not my fault.

"Where you off to Maximum?" Anas calls, noticing my absence.

I'm tempted to say Neverland.

" Class!" I yell back. Knowing my luck, all three of them probably have English lit. Whilst I suffer in hell.

Students turn to shoot us funny looks and confused frowns for being so disruptive. I roll my eyes, letting out a breath. Titling my chin up and keeping my gaze narrowed, I ignore the rest of the pupils I pass by. It's a well-known fact that my little group of friends and I – known to the rest of the student body as the rebels – don't exactly follow the rules. I mean it's given in the name for crying out loud.

We ride motorbikes. We smoke. We go to parties, and we do our own thing. We run this town with heavy metal and fast lanes. Something I'm proud to be a part of. And with my brother gone off, it's up to me and whoever is still in school to continue the rebel's legacy. For old times' sake.

And because nothing beats being dramatic for no good reason.

***

I sweep up my pile of books into my arms, hating the strain of the thick algebra textbook, heavy under my arm. I've had my eyes laser-focused on the door and once the bell rang, I'm already bolting out of my seat and escaping. Hellbent on getting out of this horrible class as soon as possible.

Since I decided so idiotically, to sit in the back corner of the class (it sounded like a good idea at the time. I could sleep and eat without getting caught for not doing any work), I'm halted by the mass of students, moving like a funeral out of class. The crowd is thick and moving way too slowly for my liking. Doesn't anyone else resent algebra enough to want to move fast?

By the time I've got sight of the door, the worst thing imaginable happens.

"Miss Ryder, can you hold on a moment," Mr. Marcellus calls and my shoulder sag. "I'd like to speak to you."

I glance away from the door wistfully, slowly turning to face the teacher with my coldest expression. Mr Marcellus leans against the desk in his old tweed jacket and bright red tie. He's strange like that -- just like his subject. There's a slight hipster theme about Mr. Marcellus, and even though he's young, I swear he's old at heart. Like really old. The kind of guy who still burns pipes and reads history novels.

I can imagine him in a black-and-white detective movie.

"Yes sir," I respond emotionlessly, striding confidently to the desk, my face expectant, and my gaze stony.

I notice another guy standing nearby, lingering against a student's table at the front of the class. I raise an eyebrow, and he stares back defiantly, his face as serious as my own. I'm guessing Mr. Marcellus wants to see him as well from the way he makes no move to leave.

"I've spoken to your previous year's algebra teacher," Mr. Marcellus states, fidgeting with his wire-rimmed glasses. "And I've noticed, you have a bit of a problem with the subject."

I shrug as if it doesn't bother me. As if the boy with piercing hazel eyes and ivory hair, looking at me doesn't bother me.

"I'm failing, so what?" I say.

"I see," Mr Marcellus nods sagely. "Well, I think you should improve this year. You need to pass the grade, Max."

"I've tried. Algebra just isn't for me," I protest earnestly because it's true. "Numbers just don't make sense to me, okay? I'm not going to do well."

"Never lose hope, Max," Mr. Marcellus tells me knowingly, and I want to puke at his hopeful tone. I hate that giving advice and parting wisdom thing he's trying to do. It's annoying when teachers do that.

"Uh-huh," I him disinterested. '"Can I leave now?"

"Not quite," Mr. Marcellus says, and I want to leave anyway. "I came up with a brilliant idea to help you. I want you to meet Argent."

I glance at the boy realising how much his name suited him because of his hair. It looked almost silver in the sunlight. This time, scanning him properly, I figured out he's on the same soccer team as Luke was on. I vaguely remember him playing, but I'm pretty sure he's striker. With those defined arms hidden beneath a jacket and a toned chest, my guess seems pretty accurate.

"Sup," I greet.

"Hey," he responds, in a low, chilling winter voice.

Mr. Marcellus smiles. "Argent is going to tutor you, Max."

I frown. "What? Why?"

"He's the best in the grade," Mr. Marcellus explains. "And I think with his help, you could really pick up your grades."

I cross my arms, looking at Argent. "What's in it for you?"

"Comms service," he doesn't miss a beat, almost as if he was waiting for the question. "Coach won't let me play if I don't complete my hours."

"Ah, I see."

"So, what do you say?" Mr Marcellus looks between us hopefully. "Max, Argent. You guys in?"

I want to puke for like the fifth time that day when I agree.

And it's only second period.