"FOR THE LOVE OF JESUS, WHY DOESN'T ANYONE IN THIS HOUSE EVER WAKE ME UP ON TIME?" Amy cried out from her room. Mr. Irvine looked up at the ceiling where a series of bangs and loud curses were pouring from. Smiling to himself, he folded his copy of The Telegraph and placed his palms over his younger daughter's ears. Leigh gave him a thumbs-up to indicate that she couldn't hear a thing.

"Any thunderstorms for today?" Anne asked her husband, placing his morning coffee in front of him. She tickled Leigh under her earlobe and the little one laughed. The pronounced exhaustion in her face that stretched across her cheekbones was what made her beautiful. "Or is it just the Irvine residence?"

Christopher's eyes shimmered as he laughed. Amy resembled her father in more ways than just her eyes, but he was sure the fractious temper and the swearing were from her mother's side. Through the gaps between her father's fingers, Leigh impishly tried to absorb most of the funny words and phrases Amy was using. It really was a testimony to the noise her big sister was generating, seeing how much Leigh could learn just by pretending not to listen.

While up in her room, Amy couldn't find her lucky exam hoodie. Books were strewn on the floor, the bed looked like the nest of a vicious bird of prey and a bewildered Caleb stood in the background – wishing that the wallpaper on the walls would swallow him. Amy couldn't have cared less about him.

He had thought of assisting Hurricane Amelia; by smartly getting out of her way, that is. But the second Caleb had opened his mouth to make his intentions clear, moving a millimeter from his refuge; she shrieked bloody murder at him, "You don't get to talk to me. You don't get to look at me. Hell, you don't get to breathe near me!"

Amy really didn't want to hurt Caleb's pretty face that early in the morning. Then she remembered that she couldn't. She could still be mad at him. The only thing that rivalled her aversion towards those creepy-ass Teletubbies, was unnecessary tardiness. All because Amy saw no point in getting out of a perfectly warm bed, panicking, hurrying through the basic pleasures of life, and running all the way to school; just to get yelled at for effing being late in the first place.

One day, Amy wished she would wake up late, and reach even later, but simply be content that she made it.

But that day was far from becoming an immediate reality, and Amy did not have the luxury to lounge around. She had a very important French test and if she failed this one, she would have to kiss the car she was promised goodbye.

Amy upturned the contents of the drawer that she had extracted from her favorite antique cabinet and poured them on the floor, discarding the drawer beside it with a superfluous thud. "Found it!"

She grabbed her bag, crammed a few books inside it and thundered down the stairway. Jumping the last three steps, Amy bulldozed her way into the dining room.

"Good morning, you lovely people who don't bother waking me up on the one day I have to!" Amy said, with a sunny smile. "May all the chocolate chips in your cookies turn out to be raisins."

Caleb followed slowly behind her. He wasn't sure if this was the same Amelia he had spoken to last night. No one noticed him or his baffled, arched eyebrows. He sat on the chair opposite Mr. Irvine's. The family didn't seem disturbed by the procession. This destructive, one-woman parade. Amy continued to make as many bangs, crashes and thuds as humanly possible in the kitchen. Caleb was in awe of how normal all of them were.

Slowly, he began to relax. He was beaming, entertained by the gentle comedy that was enfolding in front of his eyes. Mr. Irvine was discussing the national news with Leigh. Mrs. Irvine was dressed smartly in a navy-blue pantsuit.

Amy wolfed down a buttered toast and chased it with orange juice. Sirencester High was just fifteen minutes away from her house. Ten, if she was feeling flighty. She knew she won't get any rides to school nor would she be allowed to take the damn Corolla, so she would have to inhale sustenance or go without breakfast.

Her mother thought that Amy's driving was a tad unsafe; for all the poor bystanders in her path of death and devastation, that is. She was not to be trusted when she was late and regretfully, she already had a totaled car under her belt to supplement that statement. Her father sternly reminded Amy about the change in timings for Leigh's weekly appointments, later on in the afternoon. She rolled her eyes, claiming that she remembered; waved to both her parents, blew Leigh a kiss, grabbed a fake fur winter cap with earflaps – and she was off.

Amy lived on the hill above the school where all the 'decent' kids of the community resided. The other side of said hill was the wildest party destination in three counties. She was jogging, her hair bouncing behind her back and Caleb had to run to catch up because she had such a head start. For a full minute he had stayed at the dining table, grinning like an idiot – before realizing that the raccoon had left the zoo.

"Your family is pretty chill," he told her, slightly out of breath. They were racing down the curvy path lined with typical suburban houses. Caleb was surprised she hadn't tripped until then; the slope was quite steep. She was very nimble. "You are lucky that they don't mind all that stuff," he said, pointing at Amelia's house in the back with his thumb. They had rounded a bend and almost couldn't see it now.

"Okay, wise-ass. You do not get to judge me." She was red and her breath was coming out in huffs and puffs in the cool fall morning. Caleb thought she looked adorable. Her wavy hair caught the morning sun and the orange undertones in them glinted. She jammed her Russian cap on her head and stopped to catch her breath before crossing the street. Amy glanced at her wrist only to realize that in her spectacular haste, she had forgotten her watch. They had reached the bottom of the hill.

"I think you should run faster if you want to make it in time. I am going to take a little break," Caleb clutched his side and grimaced, dragging the cold morning air into his lungs. Amy crudely nodded in response, the lump in her throat making it difficult to speak – and continued to sprint.

"Finally, there you are!"

Gemma was waiting for Amy in her usual spot. Amy admired her best friend's loyalty. She didn't care when she reached school as long as both of them reached together. She scrambled up from Mr. Peterson's lawn and hurried beside Amy.

Her French teacher, Ms. Lefebvre, was a tall, weedy and fashionably challenged woman Amy fondly referred to in several creative forms. The nomenclature varied depending on her mood. Amy groaned inwardly. She could almost picture the old hag cracking nonsensical French jokes to 'ease the exam stress' – while gleefully handing out her own personal middle-of-the-week torture sheets.

Gemma had always been Amy's support system. Even when Gemma was overreacting, Amy had learned to recognize that it was for her benefit. So that she would feel calmer by comparison. 

"We are so dead. So dead. So dead," Gemma said. "What took you so long?"

"Don't ask."

"Fine. How are you?"

"Worse than yesterday."

"Cramps?"

"Don't ask."

They had almost reached the school. Gemma had Spanish so she would have to turn left toward Building C while Amy would have to bolt dead ahead till she reached Building E. Foreign languages, both of them agreed, were so not worth the effort.

Now well beyond the safe limits of being 'fashionably late', they were running for all that was left holy and pure in the world. When they reached the main building, Gemma dramatically cried, "You go on Amy! Go on without me!"

Yeah right, Amy thought. Even with the stitch in her side and the throbbing in the soles of her feet, Amy spared concern for her friend's flair for the theatrics. She burst through the doors of the French class.

"Vous êtes très en retard!" Ms. Leafbrains exclaimed, with her hand over her bosom. Not another one, Amy thought grumpily as she mumbled her apologies. Wait, did she just call me a retard?

Amy snatched the exam sheet from her teacher and collapsed in the nearest chair. Her heart was threatening to come out of her chest and tumble onto the desk screeching, Merci! Merci! Merci!

She really was rubbish at the language. Amy rapidly tried blinking the red spots out of her eyes as she stared at the first question. Not once in living memory had Amy ever paid attention in French. She had mispronounced Ms. Lefebvre's name more times than she could count on both hands and feet.

Never taking a word, nor ever giving one in return, she glared at the multiple choices.

At least she had supposed she knew enough to scrape a pass. She didn't. Shooting an ardent prayer to the poor angel assigned to her case, she started marking whatever she knew. Amy desperately needed some sort of saving grace.

Caleb chose that moment to glide leisurely into the classroom. He appeared to be in a rather good mood. She could tell by the way he shimmied and dance-curtsied in front of Ms. Leftovers. He looked as though he had smelled one too many weird flowers that the garden club had freshly planted. Any other day she would have applauded such behavior in front of a teacher, but today he was being nothing but a distracting bum.

Amy glared at him, before spitefully turning her attention back to more real and pressing concerns.

Caleb noticed the pointed look she shot at him and he grinned widely in response. His eyes twinkled, mischievously.

Fart-face knew she was jealous.

"You know what? This 'people-not-noticing-me' thing has some serious potential," he said, in what sounded to her like a mildly exulting tone. "Think about it, Ames. I could be the country's secret espionage weapon."

He was behaving like an adorable goofball – in the bloody snake pit.

When she didn't seem sufficiently impressed, he added, "We could solve crime."

Amy beckoned him closer with a sharp jerk of her head and pointed at the message she had furiously scrawled on the top of the page. Caleb bent to get a closer look, his back arching gracefully. In spite of herself, Amy studied him. Well, it's as good a time as any to admire a male's form. And it is best when he's bent over, her subconscious remarked appreciatively.

Caleb sighed. "You want me to fuck off."

Amy cocked her head and smiled sardonically. Oh, the sweet things she would say to the boy if only she could speak and no one except him would hear.

"How original," he said, wrinkling his beautiful nose in distaste. Amy prayed she wasn't turning into a nasal fetishist.

"I notice you haven't marked many answers. And if I recall correctly from the barrage of accusations and profanities you were throwing around back at your house..." he was deliberately prowling among the aisles, glancing at various answer sheets. He made a deep appreciative noise in the back of his throat when he checked Carmine Trovey's. Her long legs shone, fanned by a very short red and black chequered skirt as she stared at her answers. He even had the nerve to peek at Ms. Leafbrains' notes. "... you need to pass this quiz."

After his rounds, Caleb returned, standing over her desk with both his hands gripping its sides. His knuckles were white against the tan surface of the table. His gaze was scorching. It bore into the top of Amy's head. Her eyes were glued to a curious scar he had on the inside of his left hand. It was small and fading. She was determined not to look at his face. Amy was afraid of what she might see in his cobalt eyes.

Caleb's mouth was close to the shell of her ear. He whispered devilishly, "I could help, you know."

Amy shivered. Once again, his proximity was clouding her better judgment. Her ear burned and she wanted to push Caleb away from her. She wanted to bite hard on his –

"Dix minutes restantes!"

Startled, Amy looked around wildly. Caleb was standing by Ms. Lefebvre's desk, his arms crossed. How long had he been there?

He regarded her with a scowl, his mouth set in a hard line. Caleb didn't look angry, just confused. That exasperating look was back. As if he was appraising her worth, wondering whether Amy was an immediate problem or not.

And just when it really started pissing Amy off, Caleb's face softened. He started reading out the answers to the MCQs from Ms. Leftbare's notes on the table, and after a gripping moral tussle – which lasted a microsecond – Amy started circling. A sudden chill ran down her spine, and she trembled.

Amy realized her true problems had just begun.

✧

A/N: So million dollar question time: would you cheat if a cheeky spectre read out the answers of a quiz to you?