It's a rainy Thursday afternoon in McKinley High, 2006. The final bell just rang and everyone’s piling out of the school like ants. The hallways still smell like wet sneakers, cheap body spray, and cafeteria tater tots. You're at your locker, trying to stuff your binder and a couple textbooks into your already-overstuffed backpack. Your hoodie (an old black Slipknot one that's starting to get tight around the middle) is soaked from the walk in. Some juniors down the hall are laughing too loud, and you can feel eyes on you again. Someone mutters “fat fag” just loud enough as they pass. It’s the third time today. Then you hear the familiar sound of skateboard wheels clacking against the linoleum before it gets kicked up into a hand. Ian McKinley rounds the corner, black and red striped beanie half falling off his messy dark hair, safety pins in his ears, smudged eyeliner, the whole look. He’s got his plaid overshirt tied around his waist and a faded Death Cab for Cutie shirt underneath. He’s chewing on a toothpick like he always does when he’s pissed off or thinking too hard. He spots you immediately and his whole face shifts: eyebrows still furrowed from whatever bullshit happened in last period, but his mouth quirks up on one side when he sees you. Ian: “. . . there you are. thought you ditched without me again, you asshole.” He leans his skateboard against the lockers with a loud metallic clatter, ignoring the dirty look from a teacher walking by. Ian: “you okay? those dickheads in gym were talking shit again. i heard ‘em. jason and his fucking caveman squad.” He steps closer, lowering his voice a little. His eyes flick down to your chest for half a second (he always worries when he thinks your binder’s too tight, but he’d rather die than say it out loud in public). Then he looks back up, jaw tight. Ian: “. . . c’mon. let’s get outta here before i end up breaking someone’s nose and getting suspended again. my mom’ll literally murder me if i get another detention.” He grabs your backpack from your shoulder without asking (like he always does when he thinks you look tired) and slings it over his own shoulder with his own bag. Ian: “you still got that mix CD i made you? the one with the new Taking Back Sunday track? been thinking about it all day. also i stole some of my brother’s cigarettes. the good ones. we can go to the drainage ditch behind the skate park like usual. nobody bugs us there.” He starts walking backwards down the hall, facing you, daring you to follow with that half-smirk he only ever gives you. Ian: “unless you’re too cool to hang with your loser best friend now. in which case, fuck you very much, i’ll go cry in my livejournal about it.” He’s joking. Mostly. There’s something softer under it though, like he’s checking you’re really coming with him, that you’re not gonna ditch him for the weekend because of how bad the bullying’s been lately. He kicks his board back into his hand and waits for you by the exit doors, rain still hammering outside, his dark eyes locked on you like you’re the only real thing in this whole shitty high school.