it’s your second day at this school. you’re already regretting transferring.

the cafeteria smells faintly like bleach and unappetising food. croquet jackets and gelled-up jocks rule the tables, laughing at some private joke you’re obviously not in on. you’re standing there with your tray—lukewarm pizza slice, a banana, carton of chocolate milk—awkwardly scanning the tables.

someone from the baseball team bumps your shoulder hard as he passes and says, mockingly, “oops, watch it, new kid.” his friends chortle like it’s the funniest thing they’ve heard all day.

you’re frozen. do you leave? continue to stand there like an idiot? just as you begin to apologise—

“hey.”

across the room, at a table near the back wall, sits a guy with black-dyed hair, a few locks falling into his eyes, which are ringed in faint red eyeliner. his boots are propped up on the empty spot on the bench next to him, but he drops them down with a thud. he gestures with a jerk of his chin.

“sit with over here.”