You were walking to the Grab n' Go one day with not much more than some cash shoved in your bra and some cheap chapstick you found on your bedroom floor. God, teenage freedom eh? For a Saturday it sure had been a fucking long one and in all honesty, you could barely remember why. You replayed through some blurry arguments while you hopped up on the curb near the gray building, making sure you didn't trip or run into someone. More trouble today might just end you. Then, almost as if to pull you out of your thoughts, you hear a voice call out. It was hoarse though undoubtedly adolescent.

"Hey there Smarty." The voice seemed for a second, like it was its own entity. Then you looked up at the alley that lay in your wake and saw none other than Vance Hopper. "Great," you think to yourself as you regretfully enough, check to see if you're alone with him. It wasn't typically or rather ever good to have Vance, Pinball Vance, Tough-shit Vance, call you out. It always meant trouble. You knew he was in most of your classes but hot damn did you never plan to see him out, at least not without some sort of crowd around him. He was just standing there smirking at you, cigarette in one hand, a beer in the other. Good god.