I THINK MOM'S CULINARY CAPABILITIES were lost somewhere in the family gene pool.

I certainly don't cook or bake well.

But Home Economics seemed like an easy A, as well as being one of the only classes that worked within the slots left by my other classes.

Alongside Home Economics, I have five other classes. Three AP classes — Calculus, English and Biology — Music Theory as my elective, oh, and Gym because this stupid school district has mandatory P.E. curricula at all grade levels.

When it comes to the sewing unit that I read comes later in the year, I'll probably have more confidence. But at the moment the electric egg beater on the desk is giving me major anxiety. I chose Angela — a quiet girl with soft features and a softer voice — to be my partner because she looked accommodating. More importantly, she was sitting alone.

So I guess it wasn't really a choice.

After the attendance has already been taken, Terrence waltzes into the classroom. A shiver of familiarity, and something akin to nervousness, runs through me. I almost want to duck under the counter to avoid being seen by him.

Mrs. Fern attempts to reprimand Terrence, but he smiles sweetly at her and says, "Mrs. Fern, my attendance record is going to be as mediocre as the last three years. I don't care about it. Admin doesn't care about it because I'm not going to college. Do you really care?"

She scowls, and tells him to pick up an ingredient pack. We're making chocolate chip cookies today.

When Terrence turns, I duck my head instantly, trying to escape making eye contact. I'm very sure he recognises me as he passes Angela and my counter, but I don't care to verify that by looking.

Thirty minutes later, the polished counters are lost under dustings of flour and cinnamon, in the class' efforts to produce a solid batch of chocolate chip cookies.

Angela and I keep mostly to ourselves this period. The contact we make is brief and restrained, seeing as neither of us are willing to talk. See, if it hadn't been for Leah and Terrence both carrying the weight of the conversation earlier this morning, I'm not sure I would have met anyone by now.

Several times, I feel someone throwing chocolate chips at my head.

Several times, I turn around, only to see a normal scene of busy teenagers and cooking ingredients.

And then there is Terrence, mixing a batter of his own, whistling innocently. Whistling too innocently. I'm sure he feels my paranoid looks back at him; he keeps meeting my gazes with a dazzling smile of his own. 

"Problem, Sophie?"

"Real mature," I shoot back.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

He does.

My suspicions are raging, pushing me to get revenge.

For a few minutes, I set back to shaping and placing my raw cookies onto an oven tray. Terrence returns to his whistling-while-working, thinking I have let the whole incident go.

No-one really suspects when I pick up the tray and head towards the ovens, brushing past Terrence plating up his second batter. When his back is turned, I twist the temperature knob on his oven right up. Not enough to catch on fire — but only just.

Now I wait.

There's a soundtrack of evil laughing playing in my head the whole time. It takes five minutes for him to sniff the air, tentatively at first, then with growing panic. It's almost impossible for me to bite down the mad laughter that bubbles up when he flings open his oven, revealing charred cookies.

"No!" Terrence wails.

"Payback, bitch," I whisper.

Beside me, Angela's hands freeze in the midst of frosting our cookies. Confusion written in her eyes, she asks, "Did you say something?"

"Uh, no, sorry," I wince, waving the recipe in front of myself. "Just going over the instructions."

The topic is entirely forgotten when Mrs. Fern approaches our table. The close inspection she gives our cookies, coupled with a clipboard, would rattle the nerves of some. But a happy smile rests on the curve of her lips, and joy twinkles on the surface of her maple-syrup eyes, making me anticipate the praise to come.

She claps her hands together, sending up small billows of flour from her fingertips. "Well," her grin broadens, "Your cookies are looking lovely."

"Thank you," Angela murmurs.

The inspection is over in seconds, especially when the beeping of the smoke alarm draws her attention to Terrence's burning food.

Like a light switch is hit inside her brain, the warmth melts like ice-cream off Mrs. Fern's face. Into its place slides a fury so cold and heavy that I start to feel sorry for Terrence's future. One just has to pity the person on the receiving end of that villainous glower.

The class watches, enraptured, as Mrs. Fern shuts down the alarm with a few taps of the alarm system fixed by the door. Then, her chilling glare locks onto the prankster himself.

"Stay behind after class," is all she says. Then, to the rest of the class, "Get back to work."

An army launching into motion; we all snap back into cleaning and cooking with an intent to not be yelled at. Yes, cooking is not really for me. But doing the dishes, that is a job I am much more familiar with. The looming stack of plates and forks and batter bowls shrinks as Angela and I speed through. Our system is sussed and working great for us: I'll wash and scrub, she'll dry and pack away.

Everyone who has cleaned up to Mrs. Fern's standard is free to go when the bell chimes, except for Terrence. He probably knows it was all my fault by now. I just can't squeeze any drop of remorse from myself as I look at his pissed-off expression.

I don't even care that I must have wrecked our possible friendship; all I do is laugh quite obnoxiously as I walk out the door.

I bet Terrence is out for revenge now.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

"Hey, honey."

I glance to my side. The beautiful girl using the bathroom sink next to mine was here when I first walked in, touching up her makeup in the mirror. I would never trust myself to put a pencil that close to my eye, I muse. She's scattered a bunch of products on the counter underneath the mirror, working through them with Covergirl precision.

Was she talking to me?

I discreetly examine her in the mirror, checking for an earbud or something to indicate she's talking a call. But her eyes catch mine quite purposefully, and her glossy lips stretch into a smirk. Everything about her is saccharine — clothing, voice, mannerisms — except her eyes. They're sky blue and alert.

I respond politely, yanking two paper towels out of the dispenser. "Hello."

Gracefully, she walks up to me, though she doesn't grab any paper towels. She moved close for the sake of being closer. Floral perfume wafts into my nose.

"Aren't you Terry's new friend?"

It's been a grand total of three hours since I stepped into this school, so I'm not really sure that constitutes a friendship. "I... guess? We had a conversation on the bus," I shrug.

Inside, I'm snickering at Terrence's nickname. Terry. Too good. Next time I meet him — he'll probably be fuming about the burning incident — I'll make sure to embarrass him with it.

"You are the talk of the school." She smacks her lips twice, smearing her layer of lip gloss around until it's smooth and shining. "But I saw you hanging out with those band geeks; you could do so much better."

Caution settles into my gut, at the way her lip curls when she says band geeks and the condescension radiating from her icy eyes.

But how did she know? I don't remember seeing her in Music. I would have noticed if someone as glamourous as her was in the room. My thoughts must register on my face like a neon sign, because she laughs at my confusion.

"I forgot, you're new here!" she says. The sharpness in her tone suggests she means it like an insult.

"I'm Madison," she announces, looking at me the same way Terrence did on the bus. 

As if she expects me to cower at the mention of her name; as if she is better than me — not because she actually is, but because people think it. 

"You want to know something about Carsonville, or about someone, you come to me. You want to get the word out about something or someone, I'm also your girl."

I'm wondering if Terrence's pranks are pale troubles compared to what this girl can do to people who annoy her. Like an autumn wind sweeping leaves off the street, Madison brushes every bottle and tube of makeup into a silk bag, quickly and carelessly.

"Alright," I nod stiffly. "Thanks for the heads up." I didn't want to turn down a friendship with anyone this year, because Lord knows I need them, but her whole band geek thing? I'm part of the demographic she held blatant disdain for.

Madison pulls out a raspberry pink phone. A rose-painted hand beckons me closer, two waves of Madison's index finger. I sigh, trying to extricate myself diplomatically from this encounter. I have to tiptoe over her shoulder — those heels bless her with an elevated advantage — to see what she wants to show me.

As she swipes the screen furiously, I catch a glimpse of all her many social media accounts overflowing with red notification bubbles. Wow. Am I in the presence of an influencer or something? She looks the part.

The play triangle of a video is suddenly on the screen, and Madison starts the clip. The camera peers through the window of a classroom. The clip is only ten seconds long but I recognise the scene immediately. It's a video of me, Leah and her friends — my new friends, I guess — playing the pop song Ashley chose in Music. My face is disturbingly front and centre.

"Wait, I think I have an earlier video."

She swipes the screen again, and another video comes up. It's one of Terrence and me on the bus; this one begins when I deny him his seat and continues until I introduce myself.

"See?" Madison looks awfully proud of herself. "Everyone's buzzing about you."

"But I haven't done anything," I protest. Okay, the oven thing is an exception. Tit for tat, and over and done with once Home Ec. ended. The internet is forever. "And that's creepy, filming me behind my back. Can you please not share that around?"

My opinion of gossip has never been fully formed, since gossip has never found me. At my old high school, my reputation was far out of sight being outshone by my football-playing cousins, and therefore, far out of mind. But if Madison — a girl I've literally known for a minute — has already heard about this morning's performance, I might have to start considering gossip.

It's downright unnerving how quickly my arrival and identity made their way to Madison, a complete stranger. I didn't notice anyone filming me, but it's uncomfortable to think about myself being watched. Isn't it illegal or something to film someone without their consent? Or does being in public negate that?

Madison puts her phone away, answering vagule, "It's just my job to keep up to date on the trends of Carsonville. Nothing malicious, honey."

Nose wrinkling at the false term of endearment, my face twists into a grimace. I'm not her honey. I'm not her anything.

A beat of silence passes, in which she looks at me questioningly; asking me with her eyes, why are you still here? 

I guess the videos could have been worse. I'm not particularly ashamed of being seen on the bus or in a music classroom. So I leave without a second glance, trying not to let that encounter shake me. Somehow I don't trust her.

I know it's unfair because she wasn't the one filming me, nor has she royally pissed me off by flinging food at me like Terrence did last period. But something lies under her baby pink attire and sweet perfume. I just don't know what.

As I enter the cafeteria, my head spins, poring over everything Madison showed and said to me. Am I really the talk of the school? For what? Sitting in a bus seat? Playing a damn piano? Turning the temperature up on the oven? 

No, impossible. The only way they would talk about me is if I got less than an A on a test.

Which I'll try my hardest to prevent.