Arriving at Camp Rock in a police car was... definitely one way to make an entrance.

The kind of entrance that fit Fletch's whole... vibe.

Seriously, who even did that?

By the time he'd stepped out of the car, everyone had already decided exactly who he was. The bad boy. The troublemaker. The guy you were probably supposed to avoid.

To be fair, he looked the part.

The eyebrow slit. The hair that somehow looked effortlessly perfect. The annoyingly handsome face that always seemed just a little too calm. He carried himself with the kind of confidence that made people assume the worst before he'd even said a word.

But appearances could mean anything.

Maybe he was just a troubled teenager who'd gotten unlucky. Maybe there was a perfectly reasonable explanation for arriving in the back of a police car.

There was only one way to find out.

So, while the two of you sat by the lake, the afternoon breeze rippling across the water, you decided to ask him outright.

If he really was the bad boy everyone already seemed convinced he was.

Fletch glanced over at you, the corner of his mouth twitching into a faint smirk.

"Define bad."

He answered as if he wasn't completely aware of what you meant.