"He's from New York, Wintre. New York," Bailey enunciates, staring at me intently as we drive to school.

"Can you please look at the road?" I ask her.

She swivels her gaze back.

Today, my friend wears her usual three-layered outfit, complete with a doltish hat that has those little puffballs sticking on the top. Her blond hair is looped down in curls that frame her heart-shaped face and  sitting next to her, it appears as if I didn't even use a brush this morning.

I did, though.

"But New York. What's a guy from New York doing in Wyoming?" She makes it sound inconceivable.  

"You're going to make your tongue sore if you keep exaggerating that."

"What do you think, though?" she glances over at me, expectant, but I just shrug. "I don't know. How do you even know it's a guy? Better yet, how do you know he's from New York?"

"Oh, I have my ways, Grasshopper."

"Your stalker skills are scary," I say.

"I prefer 'research skills.' Makes me feel less creepy."

"That's like calling a murderer a malevolent hunter."

Bailey shoots me a glare as we pull up to the school. My heart inexplicably siezes at the sight of it, but I force it away, focusing on one thing at a time.

Getting out of the car.

Walking towards the doors.

Heading to my locker.

All the while, Bailey continues to voice her thoughts about the mysterious newcomer and I'm only partially listening, not really taking an interest. Sure, Hillson High got newcomers, but not many. And from New York? I'll hand that to Bailey, because it is kind of weird.

After retrieving my English Lit. books from my locker, Bailey and I walk to class, her chattering until we were settled in our seats. Finally, after having enough and seeing no one else apt to helping me, I lift my hand and put it against her mouth. "Bails, stop."

I'm already on edge as is and hearing her nervous energy doesn't exactly have the most calming effect.

"Rawr," she makes a cat noise and shapes her own hand into a claw as I place both my hands back on the counter. "Somebody woke up and rolled off the side of her bed."

"I'm just tense. You're making me nervous."

"See? You want to know who the newbie is, too."

I shake my head, cross my arms over myself and rest my chin on them. "No. I just can't think when you're talking so fast."

She's about to say something else, but then Mr. Brenston enters, followed by a flood of students. "You're late," he calls to a few of them, pushing his big-brimmed glasses back up his nose. Mr. Brenson is a thin man with graying hair, who has never failed to arrive in anything other than a sweed jacket. He isn't my favorite teacher, yet he certainly isn't the worst.

"But you're late, too," another student calls back, plumping down in the seat behind me.

"Yes, because I am the teacher."

"Isn't that a little hypocritical?" another student calls.

"Correct use of that word, Mr. Sawyer," he replies. "I'm impressed."

A couple of the students snicker.

Mr. Brenson places his things on his desk and walks over to the board. "Today, we will be discussing the grand workings of A Tale of Two Cities, which, if you haven't finished it, was due to be completed today. So can anyone tell me their opinion on it?"

A person raises their hand. "It was depressing."

"Why?"

"All these people die."

"The love story was sad because Sydney never won; Lucy ends up with Charles," another student adds.

"That's true," Mr. Brenston agrees. "So, what do the last words-"

-"Mr....Brenston?" someone interrupts, standing at the door. It's a guy, and he holds in his hands something I can only assume is a slip. My eyes sweep over him in curiosity.

Long, messy dark hair billows under his hood in curls and a sharp jawline cuts around them, profiling his  features. His arms fill out the black jacket he wears, but his hood is too low over his eyes for me to see the color. I bite my lip and look away.

Bailey catches my gaze. Wow, she mouths and I shrug again, trying to dismiss it.

The students-mostly the girls-have gone quiet as Mr. Brenston takes the slip and looks it over.

"Class," he says when he's done, "This is Daren Pierce, he will be joining us for the rest of the school year. Sit anywhere you'd like."

As he starts down the room, I feel my chest expand and contract at the thought of him looking at me, but I don't try to make myself look smaller, I stay where I am, chin resting on hands, as he chooses a seat in front of me.

I exhale deeply.

Bailey is staring at me, her eyes wide. He. Is. So-

I smack her on the shoulder.

"Miss. Mickenry, would you mind explaining to us, in your own words, the relationship between Lucy and Sydney?"

My chest constricts again, like some invisible vise is wrapped around my ribs. "He's in love with her," I say.

"Care to elaborate?"

"He's-" I try to think of the words, will them past my lips. But I can't seem to concrete my thoughts into words so I just say something off the bat. "He's in love with her, has always been in love with her, and makes the ultimate sacrifice in the end to save her love, though not necessarily for her. His motives might have switched in the end and he no longer just wanted to save Charles for Lucy, but also their daughter and I think he genuinely saw him as a friend."

Mr. Brenston nods respectively. "Good. Next time, though, try to talk a little slower."

I grimace at that, but feel relieved nonetheless.

"Mr. Pierce, would you care, if you're familiar with the work of Charles Dickens, to describe the personality of Sydney Carton?"

The newcomer-Daren-shrugs. "He was a drunkard," he says, matter-of-fact. "A guy willing to sacrifice himself for Charles whats-his-name, but couldn't bring himself to tell Lucy exactly how he felt about her. I think that was cowardly."

"Interesting perspective," Mr. Brenston says, finger thrumming against chin.

My hand suddenly goes up, almost without my volition. I feel the need to defend Sydney and without even thinking-I tend to do that a lot- I speak, even though I'm churning on the inside.                       "But he was willing to give himself up in every single way, except in one that would jeopardize Charles and Lucy's relationship. He wouldn't even try, and it probably hurt to keep himself around her, but he was willing to be there for her and Charles, even for their kid. He could have left, could've said goodbye and saved himself pain, but he didn't. He did everything for her."

My palms are damp and shaking by the time I'm done, and people are looking at me, but that's never been a trigger for anxiety. Now I'm sitting up, wringing my sweaty hands beneath the table.

And I get exactly what I didn't want to get. The new kid, Daren, turning around, his hard gaze meeting mine.

Grey.

His eyes are grey.

They narrow.

Somewhere, I hear Mr. Brenston say, "I love it when we have differed opinions," but Daren is still looking at me and I'm no longer focusing on the teacher. "Sydney gave up too easily. He consented too quickly. Obviously, Lucy isn't the best judge of character, because It's not like she wasn't attracted to Sydney due to looks. There was something she didn't like about him, and maybe, that was cowardice," Daren  deadpans.

"Maybe she was just blind," I say, clenching my fists.

"She wouldn't have been any longer, had Sydney come clean."

"The theme is sacrifice, not a clich'e love declaration.  It says more that he did as much as he could for her than getting what he wanted for himself."

"Okay," Mr. Brenston interjects, holding up his hands. "Good points, nice debate. But let's allow someone else a chance, shall we?"

I relax back in my chair and Daren turns away. It feels as if a bright light has just disappeared, leaving a heated trail in its wake.

___________________________________________________________________________________-

It takes the rest of the hour for my chest and the knot in my stomach to relax, but tightens again when the bell rings. Bailey goes ahead as I shove the remainder of my books in my bag, suddenly desiring to be let out. That familiar urge comes and I glance to the door.

But in my haste, I accidentally swing my bag too quickly when I stand, and it smacks against Daren's desk, dropping my books onto the floor.

I pause, feeling the color drain from me, but force reasonable composure as I bend down and start collecting my things. "Sorry," I say, watching as Daren stands and steps over me. He leans forward and picks up one of my books.

"Dear John, how cliche," he says. "And I was expecting The Notebook."

I narrow my eyes at him. "I'm a girl, We're allowed to be cliche," I reply, shoving the rest of my things into my bag and standing. I hold my hand out for it.

He scoffs and gives the book back, eyes lingering on my face. Then he just turns around and walks away.

I wait a few seconds until I practically run after, feeling a little relief as I leave room. But it doesn't help as the rush of students envelop me and I have to force myself to stay calm, not feel like a deer caught in the headlights.

Before my next class, I take a quick detour and go through the nearest exit, to one of the tables outside, where there are no crowds, just me and the visible sight of my breath. I sit there for a moment, absorbing  the fresh, numbinly cool air.

Just seven more hours to go.