[I forgot to update things have happened recently and I've been off my game since then so sorry]

I was upset. Again.

Not only did I fail a test in one of my previous classes, which I didn't really care about but was a fantastic reason to claim to be pissed off, but Carmen Green threatened to break my nose if I so much as breathed the same air as her ever again, and Dallon was also upset because he realized the cookie method wasn't working as well as he'd thought. And then I was ticked because he stopped giving me cookies altogether. It was like a never ending chain of pointless anger. Except when Dallon wasn't having it. Then it was hilarious.

"You can't go walking around saying that to people," Dallon's cheeks were bright red, and he looked like he'd stood outside in the cold for hours while being socked in the face with a boxing glove, "who even does that? Why would you decide to say something like that aloud?"

I'd told Carmen Green I'd scoop her up with a rusty forklift and promptly drive aforementioned forklift off of a cliff into piranha infested waters. Apparently, according to Dallon, that was unacceptable to say aloud. "I'd do that. She said she'd drive her knuckles so far into my face, my nose would bore a hole through my skull."

He paused for a second to flash a quick smile that faded quickly, and kept walking down the hallway. "That was an excellent use of 'bore' in that sentence."

Good god, I was becoming a Cardine kid. "Those were her words, not mine. I'm pretty stupid, so y'know. My word worse-er than average word."

He shot a quick doubtful glare in my direction and pulled me around a corner with him, because I still had no idea where I was going. "Sure. My point is, she's probably going to kill you before you even know what happened. Last year, she transferred over from Clearwater because she was unpredictable and violent, and they'd entrusted our own principal into setting her on the right path."

Clearwater Prep was also a lame boring school, the only difference from the whole dreary aura of Cardine, was the fact that the place was only open to girls. Specifically girls that beat people up too often and were inclined to continue that behavior in the near future. In short, anyone from that hellhole was going to win in a fight to the death, or any other brawl for that matter.

Bottom line, conclusion, in summary, and in further short; don't fuck with people from Clearwater. I'd heard one of them killed someone a year or two ago. Pete told me that, so I wasn't sure about the validity of the statement. But then again, I had overheard my mom and dad discussing it, so maybe it was true after all.

"Yeah, but she's not gonna stab me in the chest sixteen times and throw my body in a ditch—" he gave me a look that told me she probably would without much hesitation, "—and even if she tries to, I'll totally be ready to fight her. I'll start keeping a set of brass knuckles in my back pocket."

We stopped outside the cafeteria, Dallon's hand on the handle. "Look, I'm trying to be nice and help you in another way."

The first way definitely wasn't working. "Lemme do things on my own, that'll help." I didn't need him watching over me twenty four hours a day, seven days a week. I was perfectly capable of handling myself and my irresponsible responsibilities, even if nobody else thought so.

He rolled his eyes and shoved open the door to the lunchroom, stalking over to his usual table. Josh and Tyler were there already, tearing a sandwich in half for them to share. They were weirdly close like that, and it freaked me out. I'd understood the whole transformation thing Tyler underwent, but their relationship seemed overall strange. I wasn't one to judge, though.

Carmen Green sat across the lunch room with a large circle of friends who were all most likely Clearwater rejects. They all looked like they could rip off someone's head like the lid to a soda can, and one of them sported a tattoo that was more of a hot mess than anything distinguishable. It was either a bear or a disfigured mermaid.

I wanted to fight them, but Dallon's hand gripped my arm so tight I was afraid moving would only make him rip it out of the socket and hit me over the head with my severed arm until I passed out and ultimately kicked the bucket thanks to blood loss. I resorted to shooting glares in their direction only to get daggers in return.

I watched Dallon hold a casual conversation with Tyler, presumably about me, because he kept using the phrase 'out of control' and then smacking my shoulder to get my attention. I wasn't paying attention, and I didn't plan on it, but I tried my best to pretend.

Instead, I was watching Carmen Green and her friends arm wrestling over an Oreo. I kept waiting for someone's wrist to break from the sheer force they hit the table with. Honestly, I was never really afraid of them until I witnessed a loud pop and a couple chuckles before Carmen popped a dangling finger back into its socket.

After that a turned around and tried to engage in the conversation. That was pretty gross.

"Hey, Brendon, do you play any sports?" All three of them were staring at me, probably for a few minutes while I was distracted.

I shook my head. I wouldn't be caught dead playing a sport. The football guys at Lame Oak were jerks, basketball dudes were slightly taller jerks, the swimmers were all around ready to drown me at the first chance. "I hate sports. They take too much practice and time."

Josh's face lit up, which was not good. I felt like curling up into a tiny ball and shrinking under the table if they were trying to usher me into the world of sports and exercise. "You can play tennis with us! It's fun, and it's super easy. Like, even I can play it decently."

"Tennis is lame." I'd seen matches on television when I was forced to have a family night with my parents. It was boring, and I'd always fall asleep. Looking back on it, that was most likely why they insisted on tennis of all things airing.

[B4 you come fight me, I play tennis I love tennis]

Tyler spoke up. "Actually, it's a good way to release your bottled up anger. It worked for me."

Yeah, I bet it did, but I wasn't Tyler. I don't know what his friend Josh did, and I didn't care to find out. Probably some mind games and he was hypnotized into good behavior. "I don't like sports. They always end badly."

Dallon rolled his eyes like he assumed I was joking, which I was not. I tried baseball when I was little and another kid purposely hit me with his bat because back then, I was a jerk. In swimming lessons, someone legitimately tried to drown me for the same reason. And to top it all off, in football, people had started to purposely tackle me to the ground because they absolutely hated me. I wasn't sure if I was as much as a jerk then, since that was in eighth grade, but they all wanted me off the team.

So no, I was not going to start up a sport. I'd die.

"What about soccer?"

"No."

"Hockey? Field hockey?"

"I'd rather gouge my own eyes out with a rusty spork that had been swimming in soggy mashed potatoes for six weeks."

"Okay, take a chill pill. What about lacrosse?"

Josh was just picking out the rough contact sports. "No."

"Cross country?"

"Never ever."

"What about baseball?" He pouted and clasped his hands together on his lunch tray. My fingers were curling into a fist under the table where nobody could see them, I wanted to flip the benches and climb over and punch his lights out.

"I'm not good at baseball. I suck at throwing, and my hand eye coordination couldn't be worse," I watched his lips purse and eyes sparkle with another idea, "besides, the furthest I can throw is only like, three feet, and-"

The lunch room fell dead silent as soon as the sickening smack of day old mashed potatoes hit the back of my head.

My fingers brushed the food and I scooped up half the mess before whipping around to glare at the group that I knew had thrown it. And sure enough, there was Carmen Green, mashed potatoes still caked on her fingers like the smirk on her disgusting face I wanted to slap off with a mallet.

I grabbed a handful of liquified meatloaf from Josh's plate, and threw it back at full speed. And then the return was a glob of squishy green beans, then Dallon's opened Cheezits, which hit another kid, who then threw half a PB&J back at me. So I whirled around and chucked a bag of half eaten pretzels at whoever was unlucky enough to be pelted with salt, and a baggies of crackers flew over my head and burst over a girl a table over.

I was no stranger to the art of war, especially the form that took place in the lunch room. I knew exactly what was going down. I'd snatched a carton of chocolate milk and a ball of rice and teriyaki chicken to defend myself as others caught on and followed my actions. A few went as far as to stand on the table with me and hold lunch trays to their chests, regardless of the sloppy food stuck to it.

"Food fight!"