MOM WILL NOT LET US move back to California.

"I know you're missing your friends," understatement, "and you might not gel with everyone you meet, but just give it some time. You will find a place here. Even Luke is finding silver linings in this town."

That last part is true. He's found an extracurricular to join that doesn't mandate staring at a screen. Luke has a soccer trial today, which ends at five. Way after the free school buses finish their routes. Mom tasked me with picking him up afterwards and getting us home on public transport, so I've two hours to kill before I need to be at the middle school.

Considering I spent most of my summer unpacking and helping Mom decorate, sometimes sight-seeing, I still have a long list of places to visit in Carsonville. I've been planning to visit this café in the town centre for a while. A wooden sign nailed above the door reads The Stereo Shack in a messy, painted font. A bell jingles when I walk in, announcing my entrance with light chimes.

Instantly, a wall of warmth, the smell of coffee and baked sweets wafts over me. Inside, it reminds me of Santa's workshop when it's not in Christmas getup – quaint, warmly lit, natural decor. Bishop, being far smaller than Carsonville, never bothered with the pretences of pretty storefronts and glistening advertising. So I like this place already. The Stereo Shack seems like such a cool hangout.

While waiting in the small line of three people, I decide to order a chocolate frappe and a cinnamon roll from an entire menu of tempting treats. After paying, taking a number and finding a seat, I have time to take a good look around.

In the corner closest to my booth, an unlit fireplace gapes open. Most of the cafe is dark, grainy wood, giving it a natural rustic atmosphere. Globe lights hang from the ceiling, radiating warm golden light. Twinkling fairy lights snake their way through the room and posters of photographic scenes hang on the walls.

True to its name, each table or booth has either a portable radio, boom box or stereo. Each one plays the same channel, the sounds combining so it seems the room is singing to me. There are quite a few people here, but not so much that it is crowded. Most of them are couples that share a booth, cuddled up to each other.

As I am tucking into my afterschool snack, the bell jingles, indicating a new customer. The door swings open, and I am in the path of the draught that follows.

In strolls a tall boy, wearing a Letterman jacket with our school's initials stitched neatly on the front. I recognise him with such speed that it surprises me. I haven't even spoken to him, yet I am already so used to his face.

I know him from my AP Biology classes over the last two days, and from Terrence's foul group of friends. Seeing him reminds me of the cafeteria incident on Monday, and the excitement of food is swept away by frustration.

The tall boy scans the booths, in such a way that it looks like he's searching for someone. Maybe a girlfriend?

With subtle movements, I position the frappe glass in front of me, and lean down in my seat so that it might hide the lower half of my face from him. But then, his eyes land on me and light up like fireworks on the fourth of July. That idiotic smirk is back on his face and he starts to make his way over to me.

Oh, hell no. Turn away now, or risk getting your eyeballs gouged out with a fork. I'm feeling ultra moody after Mom shot down my proposal to re-relocate. I came here to enjoy some heavenly food, not some bully bent on controlling everyone. Go away, go away, go away—

He doesn't go away.

In fact, the closer he comes, and the more rage he sees smouldering in my eyes, the more intent he seems. When he does eventually take the space opposite me, I give him a saccharine smile; the sort with scrunched nose and narrowed eyes. Almost a grimace.

"Hey," he says, flicking a strand of wavy hair out of his eyes with a quick and well-practised nod of his head.

"Hello." I have no interest in becoming friends with this person.

The smile he wears looks a size too large for him – massive as he may be. "You looked a little lonely. Thought I might join you, keep you company."

The arm he lifts up bulges as he runs a hand through his tousled hair, and my eyes roll habitually at the blatant excuse to flex.

"Thanks, but I preferred the company before."

Whoa. Where did that come from? Usually I'm better at controlling myself around people I dislike, but my internal thoughts rolled out of me like air.

"Sorry," I mutter awkwardly, taking a long sip of my drink.

The guy chuckles, insistent on making this really uncomfortable for me. "That's okay. I know you've heard bad things about me..." he trails off, eyeing me expectantly. Waiting for confirmation. 

Does he think I'm stupid enough to rat Benjamin out?

I force a stiff, toothless smile on to my face but I think I may have looked constipated. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Dipshit continues, "Fine. You'll learn anyway. What I don't understand is why you wouldn't link up with the more fun group of friends, if you're new. You have your pick of connections. And you choose the band geeks and the boy who smells like garbage."

Gag. It's the first week of school, and I'm starting to trust Benjamin's warning more and more.

"You do not have a drop of dignity, do you? Just let me choose my own friends."

And Dipshit fucking smirks.

Uh-uh. Nope, nope, nope. Not happening.

What kind of pig does that? He is truly incorrigible, judging his classmates without any remorse, and venting his resentment to an utter stranger. He doesn't even know my name!

"Sophie?"

Scratch that, he does know my name.

His eyes peer at me with concern, and if not for all the terrible things I heard from Benjamin, who I trust more than this guy, I would have believed Dipshit actually cared. "Are you okay? You look a little upset."

An evil idea flashes in my mind. Oh, this is going to be fun. I actually have to squeeze my hands into fists to stop from laughing.

"Oh, sorry. I'm just having a really bad day. And you... you really opened my eyes with what you said," I simper, even batting my eyelashes and giggling for effect. "I think I do want to get to know you and your friends more."

"Oh?"

"And... especially you." My voice comes out squeakier than usual and really girly. I didn't know I could hit notes that high. 

Seeing my reaction seems to add to his massive ego, because his self-assured smirk widens to an I-am-God's-gift-to-mankind smirk. What an idiot.

"Can I get your number? I'll give you a ring so we can meet up."

Does this truly work? The body, the face, the hair all screams player, and the persona fits him better than I would have expected. However, I did not see him with any girls, or anyone other than his friends at lunch. Even in History, he sat alone.

Probably because everyone can smell his ego from a mile away. It's hard not to.

"Sure, do you have anything to write on?"

From his back pocket, Dipshit brings out a pen, and from the metal holder next to me, he pulls out a napkin. I cover the napkin with my hand and scribble quickly on the napkin, angling my body and tilting my hand so he doesn't see what I write. When I'm done, I fold it quickly and place it on the table, before getting up and almost sprinting for the door.

As I leave, I see him take the napkin, allowing his smirk to grow even wider, which I thought was impossible. Oh, I wish I could take a picture of his face when he reads what I wrote. Now outside, I watch from the window as his jaw drops open; he actually does a double take.

He reads it over and over again to make sure he isn't hallucinating. But he isn't. I can personally guarantee that.

On the napkin, in big black letters, is:

0800 FUCK YOU

I put a little stinking poop doodle to really rub it in.

Dipshit looks around for me, about to say something, maybe a curse or a threat, but by then I have stepped away from the window, out of sight, and made my way down the street. Luke's trial won't be over yet, but I don't mind waiting at his school. Along the way I can familiarise myself more with the town.

A few minutes later, I remember I never caught his name but then I realise I don't give a flying fuck. He emits vibes so bad they are radioactive. If he remains a nameless blob for the rest of my life, that's fine by me.

But I have a feeling I will find out his name eventually.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

I hate the feeling of being watched.

It makes me really self-conscious about the things I'm doing, even if it's as harmless as reading or walking. Suddenly I'm made aware of the way my face looks, if my chin is folding into my neck to make a double-chin, where my clothes sit on my body. I consider it rude to stare, and yet that's what nearly everyone does by the time the end of the week rolls around. I guess I've been put on a public enemies list or something. 

At moments like this, I miss Bishop intensely. I was part of the furniture there, referred to as "you know, the cousin of the star football players" and "oh, the girl who crashes the cymbals in the marching band?" And I liked it that way!

"Yeah, I know of her," would be the reply. Bishop is the type of town where everyone knows of everyone, and everyone's parents know each other, and grudges don't last. Bishop let me be a regular teenage girl in peace, unlike this warped town where apparently I can't even plant my ass down correctly.

My family, my friends, and my grades; that is all I've ever wanted. I would like not to be a pariah, but I don't need to be some renowned monarch either. 

The longing for home intensifies most at lunchtimes. 

At one point, Dipshit was whispering frantically to Leather at their Table of Injustice and Dominion. I don't know their names, see. I caught the not-so-subtle looks they sent my way as they whispered. One challenging glare in their direction, and they both looked away really quickly. They must have ignored that warning, because I saw them sneaking glances in my direction with amused faces every now and then.

As opposed to the enemy situation, which is steadily worsening, the friend situation isn't going too badly. I would consider Benjamin someone I could hangout with, and Leah invited me out next Saturday.

Just as Mr. Williams, my AP English teacher, is about to shut the door, a girl runs into it. Her arms are braced to stop it closing, pushing him back into a desk — which looks and sounds really painful — and bursting into the room.

"I'm not late!" she declares, charging into the room, only to stop short at the sight of our teacher. Her red hair is lobbed short, and straight as a ruler. Her features are small, thin eyebrows and tiny button nose. Her eyes are dark and alert, like she's permanently looking for her next target.

Mr. Williams pushes himself off the desk, rubbing his arm and wincing. He adjusts his glasses and straightens his jacket.

"Miss Morrison! Don't disrupt my class. Go sign in at the late office," the teacher scolds.

"But I'm not late!"

"The attendance roll has already been sent to the office—"

"Actually, the last truancy bell won't go until—" she checks her watch, "—now." On cue, the bell rings. "So—"

"—I don't have time for this," Mr. Williams mutters knowingly, clearly familiar with the girl's antics.

The whole class is listening now. She's like a hurricane of words, overbearing and unstoppable. How come I haven't seen her in AP English class before?

"Anyone arriving earlier is not considered truant, per Carsonville's truancy policies. I have think I have a PDF of the rules on my phone—"

"Alright. Alright," Mr. Williams concedes with a heavy sigh. "Just take your seat."

Who is she?

The kid-lawyer flashes the class a beaming grin and takes the seat next to Callum. He holds out his hand and she high fives him like they're old buddies. Which they may well be, considering they've been here three years longer than me.

"Delaney," Callum smiles warmly. He twirls a drumstick in his hand, lazily spinning it in convoluted patterns between his fingers. One time he accidentally tapped it against the table yesterday. and Mr. Williams nearly confiscated them. But it seems so long as Callum keeps quiet he can do whatever he pleases with them. "How was Fiji?"

"Too warm for my tastes," the redhead admits honestly. "But I love snorkelling."

"Today is the last session you have to practise making persuasive arguments before you finalise your essay topics," Mr. Williams begins. "Get into groups of three, and wait for the first topic to come up on the screen."

Like a shark frenzy, the class starts thrashing around, everyone trying to get to where their friends are. Callum and Delaney have already partnered up. He motions with his hands for me to join them. "Sophie. Come with us, we need one more person."

I go over readily, bringing my chair.

"Hi, I'm Delaney. You're Sophie. Heard so much about you," her grey eyes twinkle at me. "Pleasure to meet you."

"What have you heard?" I ask, confused.

"You have a gift with the piano and you told Reece Dormer to stick it. Apparently."

"I don't know about a gift," I say bashfully. "Nor do I know a Reece."

"Tall, arrogant, wears a Letterman jacket?"

"Oh! Dipshit?"

She bursts out laughing at that comment. "Okay, this is great. Anyone who doesn't like Reece is a friend of mine. Argument's up." Delaney jerks her chin towards the front of the class, where a statement hangs on the screen.

Is literature an art or a humanity?

"Pfft. Easy," Delaney announces. She pulls open her blank notebook and draws two concentric circles, one larger than the other. "Both. Humanities are defined as the subset of academia concerned with human cultures and societies." She labels the larger circle. "The arts are a subset of the humanities." She labels the smaller circle, and inside that she writes Literature. "Therefore literature is both an art and a humanity."

Callum flips his drumstick over his knuckle and catches it smoothly. "So humanities are arts?"

"No. All arts are humanities. But by classical rules of inference, you can't assume the converse — i.e. all humanities are arts — is true," Delaney explains rapid-fire. "That's not logically sound."

Pushing her chair back, Delaney rises and picks up her notebook. "I'm going to turn this into Mr. Williams. And I already thought of my essay topic: we should abolish the Electoral College." She spreads her hands dramatically in the air. "What do you think?"

"Great," I say numbly, stunned by how quickly her mind jumps around.

"Cool," Callum yawns.

From our table, Callum and I watch humourously as Delaney approaches Mr. Williams. He arches a sceptical eyebrow at her book, which really contains only two circles and three words, but then Delaney launches into an animated debate. From her gesturing, I gather she is relaying the same logical argument she gave us.

Finally, Mr. Williams sighs and nods. Delaney happily collects her workbook and returns to us, picking up her bag. "Peace," she smiles.

"You're leaving?" I ask, dumbstruck.

"Yup. I gave Mr. Williams an ironclad argument about being more productive elsewhere. See you, Callum. See you, Sophie."

"See you," we both echo. Then Delaney dashes out of the room with a solid slam of the door.

"What... the hell was that? She was here less than ten minutes."

"That is Delaney," Callum says amusedly, watching my awestruck expression. "She became the President of the Debate Club when she was only a sophomore, and last year we won the State Championships. Crazy smart. Like mental athlete-type clever."

I nod. "I can see."