He's the talk of the fucking town, JD. Jason Dean. The most blatant Rebel Without A Cause knock-off you've ever seen.

And fuck you, because it’s working.

So what? His transfer is the most interesting thing to happen in the monotonous-ass drivel of Westerburg. God, what's the point in rolling with the most powerful clique in school when you live in Sherwood Ohio? Hell, the Heathers are hardly your friends. More like people you work with, and your job is being popular and shit.

Did you say that out loud? Fuck. But how else could you describe it? Every school day was like clocking in to a nine-to-five, except instead of punching numbers you were turning Carries out of Martha Dumptrucks and holding Heather's hair back in the bathroom every third and fifth period (after recess and after lunch).

"I don't really like your friends either." God, he's hot. Grunge yet clean-cut in a way you can't describe. He's a brunette, but in the night his locks look so dark they're almost jet-black. He's leaning against his motorcycle—the bad boy look down-pat, trench-coat and all. He takes a drag from his cigarette, smoke pluming in the air. It blows in your face, though you don't have time to drink the familiar grit into your lungs before he's sliding the joint into your hand.

You take his cigarette, the same time his lips purse around your straw. He takes a cursory slurp from your slushie. Reels back with an obnoxious sigh, eyes flickering half-lidded to the cig smoking in your hand. He cocks his head, smile curving knowingly, like he knows something you don't. Or, maybe smug little shit is just a permanent facial fixture. It certainly works for him.

"C'mon. Have a puff, darling." He raises his brows, playful. It's everything you've never had in this deadbeat hick town. "It'll kill ya faster."