Brendon sits outside of his new school, looking down at his converse. He doesn't want to meet the eye of any of his new classmates. They all seem so much taller than him, so much more confident, so much better than him. The school itself seems nice enough, and he knows he only has one year here before he's free, but it doesn't much ease his nerves.

He glances at his Donald Duck watch, and sighs. It's half past eight, and Spencer is due to meet him any minute now. Classes start at nine, but they've arranged to meet early so that Spencer can show him around. He sighs again, this time more heavily, and traces the ground with his trainer. He feels restless, as usual, but he doesn't want to do anything to draw attention to himself.

Diagnosed with ADHD at the age of nine, he's long since stopped taking his medication. When he took it, he turned into a moronic, tired teenager, and so he knows he's better off trying to control his condition himself. People often think he's rude and ignorant when he doesn't pay attention to what they're saying, or that he's particularly stupid when he rambles and gets excited, but he can't help any of it.

He checks his watch again. Twenty-five to nine. Spencer's five minutes late already, and that worries Brendon slightly. He knows he's probably just being overly paranoid, but what if Spencer doesn't actually want to hang around with him, after all? They met each other in the summer through their dads, and they struck up a friendship immediately. When Brendon mentioned starting a new school for 12th grade, Spencer had seemed delighted that he was joining his own school, and had promised to meet him. But now Brendon isn't so sure that that smile had been genuine.

"Brendon! Hey!" comes a call in front of him, and he looks up, unable to stop himself beaming. It's Spencer, rushing towards him, and immediately all of Brendon's paranoia fades. Spencer looks really happy to see him, after all. "Sorry I'm late. My mom's car had trouble starting so I had to walk."

"It's fine," Brendon shrugs, standing up and pulling his bag onto his shoulders. It sits there awkwardly, a little large with all of his books stuffed in, and he hopes that that's normal. "All that matters is you're here now. What should we do? Can you show me where the lockers are? Are we really, really early, or are most people here by now? Where do we go to --"

"Hey, hey, slow down," Spencer laughs, shaking his head bemusedly. "Uh, I'll show you around a couple of important places and I'll show you the lockers on the way. I guess we're a little early but nobody really minds because it's the first day and all."

"Oh! Oh, okay," Brendon nods, taking the information in, and shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "Cool. Should we go then? I really want to see everything. This place seems loads better than my old school, and it's a lot bigger, too, which is probably a good thing, because --"

"Yeah, lets go," Spencer says, beginning to walk to the building. Brendon takes a moment to inspect him as he walks alongside the boy. He's got light brown hair that seems to stick up at all angles, a baby face, and light, blue eyes. It's the kind of face you trust from first seeing it. "This is usually where people hang out in our free classes and breaks and stuff."

Brendon looks around at the cement-licked area as they pass through it, and head into the building. It looks pretty bleak and boring, but he guesses that will change when it's filled with more kids. For the next fifteen minutes, Spencer leads Brendon round the school, pointing out the most important parts. Brendon tries his hardest to commit a map to his memory, but his memory is shaky at the best of times, so he knows he's going to get lost at least a little.

Finally, at five to nine, they arrive at their first class - Math. They've examined each other's timetables on the way and they're sharing a lot of classes, for which Brendon is thankful. He hates being around strangers, especially his peers. The classroom is already half-full as they enter, and most people gaze at Brendon suspiciously. After all, he's the newcomer, and this is high school. It's to be expected.

"Who the fuck is that?" one guy whispers to his friend, openly glaring at Brendon. "The one with Smith, in the goofy glasses."

"No idea," his friend replies, studying Brendon with a frown. "Looks like a fag, whoever he is."

Brendon feels his cheeks burning as he sits down at an empty desk near the front of the classroom. He'd considered wearing contacts and making a fresh start with things, but his mom had told him that glasses suited him much better and he didn't want to argue with her maternal instincts. After all, what kind of mother listens to their teenager's protests of 'it's just not cool'? He'd given in to wearing glasses, eventually, and had chosen the red-rimmed ones, hoping people might find them nicer than plain ones. He'd obviously chosen wrong.

"Just ignore them," Spencer whispers, from his left. "They're like that to everybody who isn't in their little gang."

"I don't mind," Brendon lies, and then falls silent as the teacher walks in. He's a tall, laid back seeming man, with wild black hair and large, bright eyes. Gradually, the class quiets down, turning their attention to him. He gazes across the room at them all, smiling, and then his gaze settles upon Brendon.

"Ah! The new kid, is it?"

"Uh. Yes, Sir. Brendon Urie."

"Right. Well, you're probably going to get this in every class, but welcome to the class. I'm Mr. Dunn."

"Erm, hi, Sir." There's a ripple of laughter through the class, and Brendon scratches the back of his neck, awkwardly. What was he supposed to say in response to that? Mr. Dunn, however, merely smiles indulgently, and begins the class. As he talks through fractions and square roots and expanding brackets, Brendon gazes out of the window.

There's a good view of the grassy area from here, and there are a few students walking across it, late to class but not seeming to care that much. A couple of bored-looking girls are smoking behind a tree, the trails of smoke filtering up through the leaves. Sitting at a bench, alone, is a boy of about Brendon's age, and he's flicking an army knife in and out of it's container absently.

Knives? Cigarettes? Fags? Brendon sighs, and turns back to the class. He's back at high school, obviously.

*

"That's Robin Goldsmith and Alison Cook," Spencer says, pointing them out as they walk past the table. Brendon watches the long-legged, slim-waisted girls walk past with mild interest. "Everybody thinks they're really hot and all, but they're bitches. Oh, and that guy talking to Alison? He's Timothy Ashfield. He's a complete jock; he's the one who called you a fag this morning."

"Yeah, I remember," Brendon mumbles, cheeks going warm again. "Is anybody else going to be sitting with us? Where are all of your friends?"

Spencer looks uncomfortable. "Well. I don't actually, uh, have too many. Most people don't want to hang around with me. I mean, I have friends. But most of them spend lunch in the library or with other friends and stuff."

"Why wouldn't people want to hang around with you?" Brendon asks, raising his eyebrows in surprise. Spencer's been nothing but nice to him all day, and he obviously has a lot of patience to be able to put up with him. Spencer shrugs, with a helpless laugh, but before he can explain further, Timothy passes and jerks Spencer's head forward and down, close to the table, with a careless hand.

"You alright, Smith?" he asks, with a smirk. "Have all your little nerdy friends scurried off to the library and left you with the freaky new kid?"

Spencer doesn't answer, and he doesn't look up from the table. Brendon wants to say something, to defend himself and his friend, but he knows from experience that silence is often the best policy when dealing with people like Timothy. Timothy stares at him, wearing a wicked expression, and shakes his blonde hair from his eyes.

"Urie, isn't it?"

"Uh, yeah, it is."

"Why the fuck can't you stay still, you retard?" he sneers, and Brendon realises that he'd been absently tapping the table with the fingers of his left hand. He stops it, and puts his hand on his knee, instead. "Whatever, then."

Timothy lets go of Spencer, and shakes his head again, soon disappearing into a crowd of loud, laughing friends, and sitting down with his lunch at the other end of the cafeteria. Brendon watches him go with wide eyes, and then rounds on Spencer. "What the hell is his problem?"

"He's just Timothy," Spencer mutters, looking a little ashamed. "That's just what he does."

"Yeah, there were people like that at my old school," Brendon nods, with a sigh. He glances around them again, and his eyes fall upon a far table, upon which a boy is sat, alone. He remembers him from before; he had been the one sitting outside, playing with a knife. He's tall and skinny, with dark hair and a strange air about him. "Who's that? He was messing around with a knife earlier in front of everybody, and I'm surprised that he wasn't caught."

Spencer looks over, and then shakes his head, motioning to Brendon to shush. Brendon falls silent, more than a little startled, and leans conspiratorially towards his friend to be able to hear. "That's Ryan Ross," Spencer whispers, glancing over his shoulder to ensure the eating boy isn't listening. "He's - well, it's hard to explain."

"Try?" Brendon prompts. Once his curiosity has been stirred, he'll stop at nothing to solve a mystery. Well, he'll stop if he gets bored, of course, but there's something that seems interesting about this puzzle.

"Nobody, and I mean nobody, ever talks to him. Even the teachers don't if they can avoid it. There's loads of rumours about his parents being weird, like his mom being a prostitute and his dad being a drug dealer, but I dunno if that's true. What I do know, though, is that some kid was talking to him in like, 10th grade or something, and he flipped out and tried to stab him. Everybody is pretty freaked out by him, even people like Timothy, so everyone just pretends he's not there. He's a psycho, seriously."

"Surely he can't be that bad?" Brendon asks, sceptically. The boy doesn't look all too dangerous. "I mean, maybe he's just misunderstood or something. Maybe the guy who says he got stabbed just made it all up or exaggerated it because he didn't like him. I dunno, it all seems a bit --"

"Brendon, seriously, don't even try to sympathise with him," Spencer warns, in a low voice. "There have been other things, too. The looks he gives people. The voice he uses. Just everything about him. He's weird, and it's not in a good way. I'd never want to get on the bad side of him."

Brendon continues to study Ryan, but as he does, Ryan looks up, and meets his eye. His expression darkens, and his eyes narrow slightly, and so Brendon hastily looks down at his table. Maybe Spencer's right, after all. The boy does seem a little unnerving. Brendon chances a glance at Ryan again - to find that he's gone, no trace of him left of him at the table.

"Brendon? Brendon? Hello?" Spencer calls, and Brendon blinks, glancing at him. "Hey there. You were spacing out."

"Oh, sorry," Brendon says, quickly, shaking his head to clear his thoughts. He begins to tap the table again, without really noticing he's doing it. He looks around at his classmates, and then sits up straight when he notices somebody heading straight for them. "Who's that?"

"Who?" Spencer asks, and follows his gaze to see the smiling, friendly-looking boy heading their way. To Brendon's immense surprise, Spencer turns bright red. "Uh. That's. That's, um, Jon Walker."

"Oh, right. Is he a friend of yours?"

Before Spencer can reply, Jon has reached them, his hands casually in his shorts' pockets. "Hey," he greets the two of them, with a sunny smile. "Aren't you the new kid?"

"Yeah, I am," Brendon replies, already a little tired of the question. He recognises Jon from his class, but Spencer's never mentioned him, and so he reserves judgement. The guy seems pretty friendly, but Brendon's always been told he's too trusting and so he tries not to be, this time.

"Cool! I'm Jon Walker, I'm in a few of your classes I think," Jon explains, offering a hand to Brendon, who takes it, warming instantly to the newcomer. Jon grins, and then turns to Spencer. "How was your summer?"

"It was good, thanks, if a little quiet," Spencer says, quickly, and a little breathlessly. Brendon stares at him. "How about yours?"

"It was nice," Jon answers, and then glances behind himself. There are a large group of his friends waiting for him, looking impatient, and so he sighs. "Well, it's been nice to catch up with you Spencer, and nice to meet you, Brendon. See you both later."

"Bye," they both say, together. Jon blesses them with one, last smile, and turns to leave, hurrying over to his friends. Brendon watches him go, happily. It's nice to meet somebody who's actually being nice to him, as nobody as been so apart from Spencer. As he remembers his friend, he turns to him, to find him still red.

"Hmm, so who was that?" he asks, a little teasingly.

"Just Jon," Spencer shrugs, dismissively, causing Brendon to laugh.

"So just Jon makes you turn tomato-red, does he?" he snorts, and Spencer goes dangerously close to purple. "You know, you're very obvious sometimes. I saw the way you looked at him, you really like him, don't you? It's totally okay and everything, you being gay, because I --"

"I'm not gay," Spencer protests, loudly, causing a couple of girls to look over from the next table and giggle. Shaking his head, he lowers his voice. "I'm not gay, and I most definitely don't like Jon Walker in that way. He's just a friendly, popular guy who for some reason talks to me every so often."

"Yeah, I wonder why that is," Brendon teases. "He's really into you, too, you know."

"Oh, shut up," Spencer groans, playfully swatting him on the shoulder. He glances at his watch, and sighs, heavily. "It's time for double Chemistry now, sadly. We should get going."

Brendon winces. Science, let alone Chemistry, has never been his strong point. He stands up nonetheless, throwing his bag over his shoulder, and resigns himself to double Science and all the horrors that come with it.

*

As he enters his house, shutting the front door behind him, the pleasant smells of his mother's cooking reaches him. He smells the air, eagerly, and heads towards the kitchen, slumping his school bag on the floor on the way. His mother is indeed in the kitchen, pulling a large cake out of the oven, it's sponge moist and brown.

Brendon smiles. His mother has always been an amazing cook.

She glances up as he enters, and beams, setting the cake on the counter to cool. Strolling around the table, she plants a firm, protective kiss upon his forehead, and then pulls back to examine him. "How was your first day at school, honey?"

"It was okay," Brendon shrugs, wondering just how truthful the statement is. "I mean, it's kind of just like my old one. I hung around with Spencer all day though, he's really cool, and my favourite class so far is Math because the teacher is really nice. But then I got some ice cream from the cafeteria and I couldn't really sit still in Chemistry, so I got in a bit of trouble but the teacher was fine once I explained about my condition and everything. Oh, and then --"

"Take a moment to breath, Brendon," his mom smiles, indulgently. "I just made a cake for you to celebrate your fresh start. I can just tell you're going to have a better time here, especially with that nice boy, Spencer, to be friends with."

Brendon nods in agreement, and goes to fetch a drink from the fridge. His mother has always been overly protective of him, but he doesn't really mind. She and his father divorced a couple of years before, and she never really leaves the house except to go to work as a secretary, and Brendon knows that he's one of the only people she gets to talk to anymore. He loves her, but he does worry, sometimes. The fact that he has such severe ADHD stresses her out more than he'd like, too, and it makes it even harder for him to pull away from her maternal grip.

"You didn't need to make me a cake, Mom," Brendon scolds, even though he's pleased. "It must have taken you ages and you know that icing only makes me annoy you even more."

"You don't annoy me, don't say things like that," she replies, sounding a little hurt. "Making a cake is a breeze, anyway, it only takes minutes."

"Well, thanks, then," Brendon grins, tentatively pressing a finger to it and then withdrawing it, as it's still hot. "By the way, Mom, can I get contacts?"

"Why? You look lovely with your glasses on."

Brendon is tempted to say but I'm seventeen and it's my choice, but he refrains. He and his mother's relationship isn't like other people's. She treats him younger than he is, he knows that, but he also treats her more like a friend than a mother. It works well for the both of them, and he's not about to ruin that for anyone, especially some footballer called Timothy who thinks he's a fag.

He hates that word, more than any other, and he had hoped to move schools in order to escape it, but he guesses that just wasn't meant to be. He'll just have to pull himself together and ignore the insults, however close to his heart they are.