ONE DAY BEFORE

After buying myself a new bowtie and picking through the food court's pasta the night before, I finally felt ready to face Nat Evans and Avery Lang. My mother's carefully-given advice helped. My father stumbling in drunk at two in the morning, reeking of some other woman's perfume, made up my mind. I would go to class and take whatever undeserved punishment they wanted to give. I would not be a coward like my father, who was with his mistress every night and still refused to come home until my mother was asleep---he was too scared of a confrontation.

So, armed with a cherry-red bowtie and a Band-Aid stuck on my equally red nose, I walked through Rockwell's hallowed hallways with my usual stack of books in my arms and superior expression on my face. I kept my chin up and my chest held high---they would not intimidate me with their foolish threats. I shot my most snobbish glares at the few drugged-up goons that dared to approach.

"You look so stupid right now," Ette remarked, sidling up alongside me in all his maypole glory, the knobbly knuckles of his left hand tightly wrapped around his water bottle. "Like, really. Your face looks like..." He paused for a moment, then pouted his lips in the most horrible imitation of a duck face known to man.

I recoiled in horror. "Surely that's not---"

"Believe it or not, Canterbury, you look exactly like that," Ette said, snapping his fingers with as much sass as he could possibly muster. "Either that, or like you're shit-faced."

Before I could chastise him on his language, I slammed into something lean and warm. My legs had continued walking of their own accord, and there was now a scatter of books splayed across the corridor---both my textbooks and the thick volumes of literature the person I bumped into had been carrying.

I tore my eyes away from the mess on the floor, my gaze travelling up a flat plane of black with some strange logo scrawled across it---some obscure band, no doubt. The head above it was tan-skinned and rosy-cheeked, wisps of strawberry-blonde hair pushed away from summer sky-blue eyes, mouth open in a state of shock. Obviously, the fact that our collision had led to the dropped books hadn't completely sunk into his tiny brain yet.

"Sorry," he apologised, finally absorbing the sight.

"Well, you should be---" I started.

Ette elbowed me in the side, making me grimace. "You're supposed to apologise as well," he whisper-yelled, definitely loud enough for the other imbecile to hear.

"It's fine," the boy in the black t-shirt said, cheeks flushing even more.

I gestured to him. "See? He says it's his fault, therefore I shouldn't have to---"

"This is why people don't like you." Ette rolled his eyes, brushing past me and heading off, leaving me with the moron with the red-blonde dyed hair---since no natural ginger could have such exquisitely tanned skin, obviously. I took a closer look at his t-shirt---a handmade one, judging by the looping MCR spelled out in thin white thread plus what I assumed was supposed to be a fabric print of whichever band that was underneath.

I bent down to pick up my books. The boy kneeled too, quickly grabbing at his own thick tomes before placing his palm on the worn cover of my Physics textbook. "Let me help you," he insisted, his free hand heading for a volume that had somehow made its way under a nearby locker. The passing students barely gave us a second glance, merely kicking the scattered books further with their clumsy feet---they didn't care for manners.

I finally recognised this boy; he was one of the imbeciles in the back of my Literature class who never raised his hand and spent most of his time staring off into space with a glazed daydream in his eyes. Then again, that was most of the school. It was like they came to school to get high and act nasty. They wished to squander their parents' hard-earned money away on drugs and leisure instead of an education. They would soon see the benefits of being something other than illiterate when my genius was finally recognised while they remained mooching off their parental units. The few who managed to break free from this norm to become relatively successful would thank me for busting their drug deals.

"Canterbury, wasn't it?" he confirmed as he gathered my runaway textbooks into a relatively neat pile. "Ms Abby always calls on you."

Because I'm the only one who ever knows the answer. I bit back my air of superiority and its accompanying statement---even though it was the truth. "Your point being?" I replied stiffly. When he placed the books in my arms, I thanked him, but did not volunteer any more of my time. However, the poor idiot seemed eager to talk.

"I'm Ezra," he said. "Ezra Sawyer."

I cocked my head to the side. "I don't see why we can't remain as strangers in a crowded classroom. I have no desire to know you or your insignificant name."

He looked hurt. "I was just trying to---"

"---be nice. Yes, I know. There's no need for that. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a class to get to and half the school wants to murder me." I slipped past him, weaving through the crowd with practiced dignity. A few sneers were sent my way, and one was even so bold as to aim a spitball at my face, but I ignored them all. They would not harm me.

They knew I was above them all.

☆☆☆

My teeth itched to nibble on the cap of my pen, as I had done when I was young and not quite so intelligent. It was a habit that often came back when I was nervous: when my mother threatened divorce, when my Chemistry teacher read out the scores from lowest to highest (even though I always placed the highest), when my father, on a particularly drunken night, raised a hand to the head housing my marvellous brain and struck me so hard that I smacked my face into the edge of a table.

Right now, it was an anxious tick in my head, thrumming steadily as Avery Lang stared at me from across the room with her stone-cold gaze, a hawk stalking a defenceless rabbit.

Then again, I was not a rabbit. Rabbits were stupid. I was far from stupid.

The air in the room felt at least twenty degrees colder than it usually was as she bored daggers into my back, but sweat still beaded on my forehead from the sharp pangs of fear that danced up my spine like icy fingers atop a piano.

I tried to focus on what Mr Jonathan was saying, but I couldn't concentrate. I, for once, decided to let my mind wander to calm myself down---after all, he was teaching material that I already knew. English was a ridiculously easy subject, in my opinion. I didn't understand why the imbeciles in my class had such trouble comprehending even the simplest grammar-based rules. They were morons, all of them!

I looked down at the paper in front of me---covered in scribbled nonsense instead of my usual carefully-written notes. My hand felt jittery, my pen scrawling ink all over the place, my nerves refusing to listen to me. Terror made my bruised nose throb and my bruised pride shudder, my senses all going haywire. Sometimes, even though brains always beat out brawn, I occasionally wished I had a little brawn as well. Then I would be able to properly stand up to those jerks, those bullies, those mindless blockheads.

And perhaps my nose wouldn't hurt so much.

"Can I copy your notes?" Jen Wright whispered, tapping me on the shoulder with a fat finger. She sat next to me in English---not out of choice, but due to Mr Jonathan's undesirable seating chart. She always asked to copy my notes, choosing to spend her class time either sneakily playing games on her phone or adding more food to her overweight bulk. I always said no, but she never stopped trying.

I covered my paper with my palm, hoping she wouldn't see that I hadn't done anything either. "No. Write your own, you lazy swine."

She pouted, huffing and turning away from me. I ignored her, not even sparing her greasy head of unkempt blonde curls a second glance. In terms of seatmates, it was true that I could have done much worse, but luck had definitely not been on my side the day Mr Jonathan assigned our partners.

I brought my pen to my lips, just for a brief second, then set it down again. Succumbing to the habit that had once consumed me would show weakness, and I wanted to show Avery that I was not afraid of her. I pushed my glasses up on the bridge of my nose, staring straight ahead in forced attention.

For some reason, Ezra Sawyer came to mind. Now that I could think properly, I realised that his actions were...fascinating. He had, after all, attempted to introduce himself to the boy everyone wanted dead. It was risky, and still, he had done it. I resisted the urge to snort. The poor idiot must be desperate for companionship, I thought mockingly. Fortunately, I'm smarter than to make friends with someone of his caliber.

I folded my hands in my lap neatly---drumming impatient fingers on the table was for uncultured lowlifes. I wasn't bored, but I was distracted. I couldn't focus on the task in front of me, my head cluttered with images of what Avery and Nat and all the other Liars would do to me if they got their hands on me. They would most likely completely break my nose, perhaps even damage my brilliant mind with their brutal ways.

Finally, after an eon of worrying, Mr Jonathan's talking fading into background noise, the bell rang. I stared down at a sheet of junk, the foolscap entirely covered with hopeless gibberish. I realised, distraught, that I hadn't even taken down the homework---and I always took down the homework.

I stayed in my seat until Avery walked past, filing out with the rest of the crowd. The students around her parted like they were the Red Sea. Their queen had to be given a wide berth to step where she wished. She shot me a cold sneer and a final, malicious glare. I believed hawking spitballs into my face would have been below her, but at that moment, I was hoping she would do that instead of whatever torture she had surely planned out to keep me silent.

As the classroom grew gradually more empty, I finally stood up---and then I saw her. A girl, with a ponytail of chestnut brown and skin like smooth milk. She was standing near the front, slipping books into a sequined bag. Still, as she did so, her emerald-eyed gaze remained focused on me. When she realised I had noticed her, she averted her eyes and pretended to be busy packing.

I didn't know her name; I hardly bothered to learn the names of the ones that didn't particularly stand out to me. She wasn't anything special, just another pretty girl---probably on the average spectrum of popularity. An African-American girl with a bright smile waited next to her, but she didn't seem to have seen her friend's intense stare.

I knew that Nat and his customers had their eyes on me, but this girl didn't look like she was on anything. Her eyes were too clear, her skin too smooth, her body too lithe. Her expression hadn't been particularly angry, either, just...hungry. That was the word. She looked almost mad with hunger---but not for food.

Who was she?

And why was she watching me?