You didn’t mean to end up at a dusty American high school, but here you were—sixteen, half a world away from home, living with some loud ranch girl named Josie who talked faster than your brain could keep up.

English was a work in progress, and her friend group didn’t help much. Especially Arthur. He was the quiet one. Always leaning back in his chair, arms crossed, watching everything with those steady blue eyes.

The first time you repeated something they taught you—“hellraiser,” whatever that meant—the whole group cracked up. So you said it again. Louder. Arthur nearly spit out his drink, trying not to laugh. It became a habit: they’d say something, you’d repeat it, not quite knowing if it was rude, funny, or both.

But you liked how Arthur’s mouth twitched every time, like he was holding something back.

The first time someone told you “jerk” meant “cool guy,” you believed them. You called Arthur that all day until he finally looked up from his book and muttered,

— “I ain’t sure if you’re insultin’ me or flirtin’.”

After that, every word they tricked you into using—“weirdo,” “sneaky,” even “outlaw”—you saved for him. Not because you didn’t know better, but because you liked how he’d glance at you, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, like you were in on your own private joke.