Nick Peterson isn't sure who he just made friends with, but he supposes he's in no position to be choosy; he only has his mood octopus to converse with, missing decent social skills that are supposed to make up for his disagreeable physical appearance (see: supposed to), his substandard personality and overperforming brain,—both of which keep him up at night, and which have historically been the main and only reasons why Nick still gets up in the morning.

Orion Hirsch: seems like a detached jackass and/or a tortured artist, googles what chicken looks like without feathers, would probably be able to shoot someone politely, uses discount codes.

Yves Grimaldi: has the audacity to exist, narcissist, probably can't even spell the word narcissist, a foreseeable regret in Nick's future, would probably break a Spanish girl's heart and say, "That one's for the Philippines."

Nick could be a social recluse for the rest of his life instead of being friends with these two, but he took the time to also evaluate himself: forgets how to breathe when someone looks at him longer than five seconds, can solve math problems and can recite the periodic table of elements in seconds but can't get a damn washing machine to work, and uses "but will it solve racism?" or "...as the prophecy foretold" as knee-jerk responses when he has nothing else to say.

Yup. He's not exactly the poster boy for a 'friend'. He's a fucking hypocrite.

Besides, his parents and brothers would be proud.

After telling his newly-found regrets he has to iron his cat to get out of being in the space of another breathing thing, he puts on his earphones with his hood down, shoving his hands inside his pockets, and speed-walks to the parking lot in case Yves or Orion decide to follow him and, you know, talk to him some more.

Except it probably won't be those two, but the dark-haired girl slashing car tires with a pocketknife beside the bike stand, and Nick just caught her.

She's crouched, biting her lip in concentration; she's clearly worked out the logistics of this (probably by watching YouTube, Nick guesses), because she's meticulously stabbing the things thrice at certain positions and certain angles. Each tire makes a loud noise once deflated.

Her stabs are quick and clean with no hesitations. Very murderer-like.

It's only then Nick realizes he's still staring, and then the girl stands up, sees him, and he freezes.

She does the unthinkable thing—she smiles, the smile that's teeth baring, scarily pretty, makes you want to rethink your entire life and if the outfit you chose today is a good outfit to die in—and then she moves around the car stealthily and goes about her business slashing the third tire.

That was probably a threat—the look and the smile, no sane girl would do that to Nick. And he won't say anything to anyone—don't get him wrong, he wants to die, he does, but he likes to pretend he's important enough to track down and to interrogate and/or torture to say what he knows about this woman.

Which is. Nothing. He didn't see anything, he didn't see her—he doesn't see her.

And he also doesn't see (or hear) the car reversing behind him, which is why he finds himself, in the next two seconds, on the ground with the pretty criminal on top of him, dark eyes wide, mouth slightly open, hand with the knife near his throat.

Her weight makes Nick forget how to breathe. He looks at her hair instead of her eyes and stays absolutely still.

She says, "I can hear your music through your earphones."

Voice. She has one.

Nick has absolutely no brain function. Zero. "So can I," is his stupid response. One of the buds fell off.

And then he feels coldness on his skin, and the girl pulls the knife away immediately and pocketing it, smiling and pushing herself up on her feet. "I'm not a serial killer, sorry about that."

"Oh." Nick takes the hand offered to him and stands up shakily. "That's, uh, disappointing."

Her smile widens. Curly hair falls over her face messily. "Watch where you're going, yeah? And, uh, this guy cheated on my friend, and guys are supposed to mess up your underwear, not your makeup, you know? Hence the crime you just saw."

Nick's brain supplies helpfully: "What crime?"

The laugh he gets is weirdly satisfying. "Excellent answer." She starts walking backward, eyes shining, and she says, "See you around."

And Nick is bony and awkward. He looks like a bunch of sticks bound together, but he's tall, at least. And he's broad. Maybe.

Doesn't stop him from crashing into the wall when he's pushed, and his skull might've crack open against the bricks had it not been for the hand that swooped in to cradle it at the last minute.

Nick jumps back with a jolt, horrified. Stares into the dark-haired girl's wide, smiling eyes. And then he looks away. "Uh—thank you," he stammers, rubbing his hand up his arm. There's a sting on his body from the crash, but too bad his skull is intact. Ah, sorry, at least his skull is intact.

She pulls her hand back, and Nick's breath catches at the sight of blood on her knuckles. "Hey, it's you again. The cute boy," she says brightly, dusting her hands off. "You alright? That was a nasty push."

Cute? CUTE? What the fuck does that mean—that's an insult, that's gotta be an insult.

"The hall—the um." He swallows thickly, pushes his glasses up his nose, scratches his ear. He looks behind her head. "The hallway is crowded. You're, uh, you're bleeding."

"Huh? Oh." She chuckles, glancing at her knuckles with a shrug. "Nothing serious. Be careful, yeah? See you around!"

And then she's gone in the sea of other faces, and the next time he sees her (Nick doesn't even know how there's even a next time—North Aiken University is a pretty big school. He thinks it's because she keeps saying 'see you around!' and the universe just happens to like her), it's at his job.

A swarm of loud bees come in the door in red and white, and Nick thinks they're a lot like squeaky grocery carts—annoying—which is why he keeps his head down and finishes the table he's cleaning up while they pass through.

Imogen's still serving her section of the tables, and this is his job, so he sighs and sucks it up. He gives himself a mental pep talk and rehearses his lines in his head before he goes to approach them with a smile plastered on his face.

It's his school's lacrosse team—a mix of rowdy girls and boys that like to tackle people and break their bones for fun—and pretty criminal's one of them, seated by the edge of the booth, hair tied up in a ponytail with strands coming out of it, face flushed, jersey and shorts.

Nick's smile freezes.

The girl grins, propping her chin on her fist. "Hi again."

Nick manages to mutter, "Hey." And then he looks down at his notepad, scribbles some spirals into it just to give himself some sense of fucking control, and then looks up again, avoiding the eyes staring at him. "Can I get you started with some drinks?"

It's pretty embarrassing how his eyes never go in the general direction to where this girl is sitting, because somehow, he knows she's looking at him, and it makes him feel all sorts of overwhelmed and self-conscious and worried, because, hey, she may have called him cute, but she probably most likely ninety percent chance meant it as cutely repulsive? Cute, as in, horrendous. Cute, as in, I find your face objectionable and kind of offensive.

It's as they're standing up and leaving that they make some kind of commotion—a group this big and boisterous never walks away from Mo's without a fucking commotion, and Nick just finds one of them spilled a bit of soda on the floor, and there's a tower of mess he has to clean up on the table.

He sighs and takes a tray. When he turns around, he sees the girl stacking up their glasses, and she orders her friends, "We're not leaving until we help clean up."

"Isn't that their jobs?" one of the boys grumble.

Pretty criminal hears it, leans across the table, and smacks the shit out of his head. "Say that again, sweetcheeks. I'll beat your disrespectful ass."

Nick approaches them. Without looking at her, he says, "Hey, no, it's alright. I'll clean this up."

"Sorry about the mess," one of the other girls say, piling up the trash in one bowl and wincing. "And the soda."

"No worries, I—"

Soda. Right.

Fingernails grip his arm before he can bash his head on the tiles. Dark-haired girl's eyes are wide as she holds him up, staring at him. "I should really start charging you."

Nick does the only sensible thing—he runs away as fast and as careful as his soda-filled shoes can take him, hides in the break room, and screams in his hands.

Then he gets a mop, and when he comes back out, the group is gone. They also left a generous tip.

Maybe this girl's bad luck. Maybe it's the universe's way of saying that death is near, it's coming for him. That's the only logical explanation for seeing her in random instances and almost dying in each of those instances.

When Nick's shift is over, four hours after the most humiliating experience he's ever had to go through after catching his parents doing it in the bathroom, he gets a text from Orion: yves is annoying. come tell him he's annoying to his face with me, decides it's not worth the walk and the energy and the time, takes off his apron, replies: no, and leaves Mo's.

No one can blame Nick if he doesn't turn around at the sound of a voice shouting, "Hey, cute face!"

He continues walking to his bike, head bowed, and then the sleeve of his jacket is tugged, and Nick jumps back, coming face to face with the girl again.

She's changed into a small shirt that doesn't do anything to cover her stomach, jeans, and sneakers. She's smiling, and Nick swallows so hard he hears his saliva go down his throat. "I said, hey, cute face. That's you."

"No, it's not," Nick says. He looks at her eyes, then at her shoulder.

She laughs a bit, kind of like in between a chuckle and a giggle. "It is. Well, I don't mean to sound like a creep, but I just came back from drinking with my teammates—well, they drank, I didn't—and I kind of waited in my car for, like, half an hour after peeking at the door to see if you were still working."

Nick scratches the back of his ear. He looks at her eyes again, and she's biting her lip, staring at him. "Your disclaimer meant nothing. It still made you sound like a creep."

Another laugh. His mood octopus never laughs this much. "Sorry, but I was just waiting for you to finish your shift so I can introduce myself. I'm Kaia—with an i. Kaia Porter, I'm in Sociology."

Nick's gaze shifts to her outstretched hand. "I'm in Nick. I mean—I'm in Physics, I'm Nick. Peterson, Nick Peterson." He clears his throat, pushes his glasses up to his nose, and shakes her hand as quickly as he can. Then he pulls it back and shoves it inside his pocket.

"Finally—a name to replace calling you 'cute face' in my head," she says cheerily.

Nick doesn't understand. How can she say something so brave and controversial while Nick's over here dying?

He reverts his eyes to behind her head. She's grinning when she continues, "Well, Nick, I was also waiting because I wanted to know if you were single. Are you?"

"Am I what?"

"Single."

Nick blinks. "I don't know what that is," is yet another one of his stupid responses. Fucking useless brain.

"Do you have a partner?" Kaia asks, in the same tone of voice she's been using—not slowed or annoyed or impatient like he's dumb (even though he is), and Nick's soul kind of just—resurrects. "Are you in a relationship right now, or like, do you love someone romantically? I don't wanna get my hopes up, you know?"

Hopes up for what. Nick shakes his head. "Uh, no."

She brightens, and her heels lift off the ground. "Really?"

"Not—not ever." He turns around suddenly, glancing at his surroundings. "You're not—is this a prank? Or—or a bet?"

"What? No, of course not," Kaia answers quickly. "No, I just think you're cute and funny and I really wanna take you out on a date. If you want to, of course."

This gorgeous girl did not just ask Nick Peterson out on a date. What kind of person would do that to themselves, really.

He opens his mouth. No sound comes out.

Kaia's still smiling. Her brows raise. "Nick?"

"I'm panicking," he says, just to let her know.

"Oh, that's fine." She breathes out heavily. "You can think about it, you don't have to answer me right now. Here's my number." She shoves her hand inside her pocket, and her number's presented to him on a napkin with water droplets smearing the ink, and Nick's hand shakes when he takes it in between his fingers. "You can call or text. I also have lacrosse practice next week every day from five to nine, so you can drop by if you want."

Nick will absolutely not be dropping by.

He scratches the back of his ear, looks at the ground, and says, "Okay."

"Okay," Kaia repeats, breathless, rocking on the heels of her shoes. "You can, uh, go back to your panicking. Be careful, okay? I like you alive."

Nick thinks he's combusting. He watches her turn around and walk to her car, giving him a smile and wave before she jumps in the driver's seat of her Benz.

*

"Phew," Yves whistles, fanning himself. Then he raises his head, looks at Nick, and then looks back at his phone screen. "Dude. Are you—are you sure—"

"Yes," Nick says.

"As in." Orion clears his throat. "As in, she gave you—"

"Yes," Nick grumbles, rolling his eyes. "God, I spend enough time thinking about my insecurities, let's not add to that, hm?"

"So what are you gonna do?" Orion asks, raising his eyebrow.

Nick shrugs, running a hand through his face. "Dream about it, have an emergency meeting with myself with crisis control on the agenda about it, worsen my anxiety and see my therapist about it. Then, if I suddenly find some sort of courage somewhere under my needle-thin bones and acne, then I'm going to text her and say get out of my school because I can't handle any more weight in my overthinking baggage."

"There. Done." Yves tosses the phone—Nick's phone on the bed, smiling proudly, puffing his chest.

Nick stands up. The chair falls down. "What the fuck did you do."

Orion makes a grab for it. Nick tackles him.

To his absolute fucking horror, Yves sent Kaia Porter a message. Hey. I think you're cute too and I'm down for that date. When are you free? :) -Nick

"Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God," Nick whispers, pulling his hair out slowly, fingers threading in his hair. "Oh my God, oh my God, Yves, you son of a fucking bitch—"

"Let's not bring my mother into this—"

"Oh my God, I have to see my therapist."

"She replied," Orion says.

"No." Nick shakes his head, pacing. "No, no, she didn't. I'm dreaming."

"She said, 'Hey, I was waiting for your text!'," Yves reads, with that fucking stupid smug grin on his face, "'I was beginning to think you lost the paper or something. Anyway, even though your message doesn't sound like you, I still hope you mean it, because how's tomorrow night?'"

"I'm dead tomorrow night," Nick says.

"She's good," Orion comments, nodding. "She knows you sound like dried fish when you text."

Yves takes the phone. "'Tomorrow night's fine,'" he says, fingers typing. "'I can pick you up.' Smiley face. There."

"With what?" Nick hisses, blood boiling. "My two-wheel bicycle?"

"Relax," the brunette says. "I have a car."

"A piece of shit car with a horn as threatening as my childhood tricycle. No way, who knows what you've done in it."

"Don't insult Janice," Yves says, frowning.

"She replied again," Orion cuts in.

"No she didn't," Nick says.

"'How 'bout I pick you up instead?'" Yves reads in that annoyingly dreamy voice. "'I was the one who asked you out. Also, tell your friends I said hi and nice to meet them.'"

Orion whistles. "Love her already. Say 'sure' and send her his address, and tell her nice to meet her, too," he tells Yves. "Also, who the fuck names their piece of shit car Janice."

"Yes," Nick says loudly. "That's fine, guys. Send my address to a complete stranger who brings a pocketknife with her to slash tires."

"A gorgeous stranger who brings a pocketknife with her to slash tires who thinks you're cute," Yves corrects, nodding thoughtfully.

"She said, 'great. Super excited!' with a smiley face," Orion reports. "'See you tomorrow, cute face.' Oh my God, she calls you cute face."

Nick grabs the phone from his hands, picks up his jacket and hastily puts it on. He snatches his bag under the desk.

"Where you goin'?" Yves asks.

"I'm calling an emergency meeting with myself," he says, pulling the hood up. "We'll decide if you both get to live or if we're attempting murder. Also on the agenda is to discuss how the fuck we're not going to make a complete fool out of ourselves tomorrow."

When he gets home, Nick reverses his mood octopus from a pink smiley face to a blue angry face. He sighs and tells it, "We have poor taste in friends."

It agrees with him.