My alarm starts blaring at half past six in the morning, callously dragging me from my dreamless sleep. I groan and reach over to silence it, rolling out of bed as I mentally prep myself for a quick run before school.

It's a routine I adapted to six months ago, around the time I really started to stress about my upcoming exams. Apparently, exercise is fuel for the brain.

I'll take any help I can get so long as it means I pass.

Come on, up and at 'em – etcetera, etcetera.

Trudging to my dresser, I stifle a yawn as I dig out some grey leggings, a sports bra, and a pink tank top.

As I'm pulling on the tank, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror on the back of my door. Even at a short glimpse (mere seconds, at most) it's impossible not to see it. 

I scowl.

Deep discolouration marks the otherwise pale skin above my belly button, the scar nodulous and fleshy – or, in other words, completely fucking disgusting. I poke and prod at it, the same way I always do, before hiding it underneath the pink fabric of my top.

Don't think about it. Don't look at it. Just look at something else.

So, as I try my best to tame my mane into a more presentable ponytail, I force my eyes around my bedroom, studying the décor as if I haven't lived here for years already.

The colour scheme is primarily made up of light blues and rich purples, the three walls painted powder blue and the fourth decorated in violet, patterned wallpaper. My duvet is purple, too, along with the carpet, curtains, and small dreamcatcher that hangs above my bed.

Charlotte's bed still sits on the other side of the room, dressed in the same duvet set as mine, ready and waiting for her to come back and visit. Even though it's been a year already since she moved away to university, the room still feels empty without her – cold and lonely, like I'm living with a ghost.

Okay, let's not look at this shit, either. It's depressing as fuck.

And, on that cheerful note, I head out for my run.

My feet make fast work of the pavements outside as I place my earbuds in, losing myself to the music as I run in time to the rhythm.

I take a detour down a long, narrow alleyway that smells suspiciously like piss, and eventually get spat out closer to the park. A few more turns and I'm there, racing laps around the grassy perimeter until my lungs are burning, my chest heaving with each new lungful of air I breathe in.

It's liberating and painful; I love it and hate it.

Eventually, I decide to head home, exiting the park through a side gate at a steady-paced jog.

Turning lefts and rights like one of those small, metal balls in a crappy, plastic maze game, I navigate my way with the expertise of someone who's lived on this side of town for over a decade. I know these roads like my own back garden; I could probably run them blindfolded if I tried. So, I don't really need to pay attention to where I'm going as I glance down at my phone, skipping through my Spotify playlist as I search for a decent song.

I don't need to look because I know where I'm going.

And that is my excuse – a fairly crap one, admittedly – for how I manage to barrel straight into some poor, unsuspecting bystander as I take my next left. I can't even try to argue that they run into me, because I'm the only one running. In fact, I'm the only one moving.

All I see, right before I crash face-first into them, is a flash of their dark clothing and the lamppost they lean against.

How. Fucking. Embarrassing.

I register the solid mass of a stranger a second too late, right as I all but ram them back against the lamppost like a human-shaped bumper car. Then, seconds later, I hear a comically loud ping as my phone takes a nosedive against the lamppost too, earbuds ripped from my ears to join it on the floor by the stranger's feet.

How. Fucking. Embarrassing.

"Sorry!" I blurt out on instinct, right as the bloke voices a slurry of colourful cuss words. I back up immediately, eager to return a semblance of personal space as I almost trip backward over my own feet.

A warm hand darts out to wrap around my wrist, keeping me balanced so I don't fall flat on my ass. And, guess what? As if that's not embarrassing enough, I almost die of shame when I see that his other hand is now pressed against the back of his head, held there like it's the only thing keeping his skull together.

I imagine it's an instinctive response, and one that tends to happen when some lard-ass almost knocks you out with a lamppost.

How. Fucking. Embarrassing.

"I'm so sor–"

My second apology cuts off as my brain finally catches up with my eyes, taking longer than normal to function, as if it's my head that's just hit metal.

"...sorry," I stutter out the rest of the sentence, pulling my wrist free with a little too much force as I look into the eyes of Lucas Coleman.

His forest green eyes are even darker than I remember, overcast and gloomy, like the heart of the Amazon during the midst of a heavy downpour. His brow furrows into a frown, although glare might be more accurate. He looks pissed off and startled, with the former taking a definite lead.

Well, shit.

He's wearing a tight-fitted black T-shirt today, paired with some ripped jeans and chunky boots – boots that you could quite easily refer to as 'face-bashing boots'. My best friend, Megan, would probably say he looks "hot, with a capital everything!" but no such thought crosses my mind as I stand here, staring back at him, nervous and completely mortified.

"Sorry!" I apologise for the third time. "I didn't see you, there..."

The words fall from my tongue in a torrent of lameness. I wince and wait for his response.

"Well, maybe you should watch where you're going," he mutters, sounding annoyed.

It's an entirely fair statement – but one that still scares me. He makes me nervous, the sort of nervousness that shakes your bones and makes you all but piss yourself.

Nervous and embarrassed: it's a train-wreck combination. Scratch that, it's a train-wreck situation – and one that I have no chance of salvaging.

So I don't bother trying.

"Yeah... sorry," I voice my fourth apology, bending down to retrieve my phone. Then, without another word, I keep walking, determined to put as much distance between us as I can.

Unfortunately, before I can get too far away (probably five steps, at the most), another person appears in front of me. 

It's Finn, walking out from a small alleyway a few yards further down – the very same alleyway that I need to be turning down, if I want to make it home in time for breakfast.

"Alright, man, let's bounce. I've got – oop," Finn's words cut off with a sound of surprise when he sees me, confused to find that his brother's not out here alone.

"Watch it," Lucas snaps from behind me, the words directed at his brother.

It doesn't take a genius to understand why.

I stare, wide eyed and pale faced, as Finn quickly stuffs a bag of white powder into the pocket of his grey hoodie, hiding it from view as his brother lets out a frustrated sigh.

Finn stares behind me, wide-eyed as he shrugs at his brother, lifting his arms in a definite, "Well, how was I supposed to know?" gesture. Then, he looks back at me and has the audacity to try for a smile. He almost pulls it off, too – except for his eyes. Still a little rounder than can be considered normal, they betray his panic as he opens his mouth to speak.

"Hello, I didn't–" He cuts off with a frown of surprise that soon turns to one of recognition. Raising his eyebrows, his voice brightens as he says, "Oh, hey, I know you. You're that girl from the café, right? The one on West Street?"

I blink, horrified that he even remembers.

You saw me once.

Finn returns his attention to his brother, his smile more genuine now as it turns into what I can only describe as a shit-eating grin. Eyes alight with a humour I don't understand, Finn says, "You remember her, right, Luke?"

Probably not, considering the amnesia I just gave him.

Uncomfortable in the awkward silence that follows, I glance back at Lucas. He's returned to his post, his arms folded as he leans a shoulder against the metal. His face is a stony mask, closed and unreadable. Thankfully, this time, his glare is aimed at his brother.

"What's your name?" Finn suddenly asks, his expression friendly. His eyes have become more curious than panicked, now – with his voice far too at ease for someone who has just been seen stashing drugs in his pocket. And by a complete stranger, no less.

"...Jade," I say with an audible hesitancy.

I could lie but there's not much point. I go to school with two of his brothers, one of which I share a political science class with. They could quite easily learn my name without me telling them. Besides, refusing to tell them will only make it seem like I have something to hide, prickling their suspicions.

"So," Finn continues. "What are you doing out here so early?"

"Running." Again, I choose to tell the truth. I glance back at Lucas briefly, heat rising to my cheeks as he scoffs out a disgruntled, entirely judgemental sound. "...into your brother," I add sheepishly, as I turn back to face Finn. Then, I quickly say, "But I should probably get going, otherwise I'll be late."

The brothers share an unreadable look, steadfast and calculating as a chill zips its way down my spine. I don't know what they're secretly communicating to each other but, whatever it is, I hope it's in my favour.

"Okay," Finn says at last, and I let out the breath I hadn't noticed I was holding. "Well, I guess we'll see you around then... Jade."

No, you won't! What the fuck is that supposed to mean?

I don't reply as I walk away, hoping with everything I have that they'll both forget about this by the end of the day. I'm still hoping this when I make it back to the house, running upstairs to grab a shower before anyone can hog the bathroom.

Then, I change into my burgundy school uniform – the typical, tie and blazer ensemble – before heading down for breakfast.

As soon as I leave my room and reach the top of the landing, I hear the voices floating up from the kitchen. Then, the sound of footsteps in the hallway below.

"Bailey, get up!" George yells, turning the corner to stand at the bottom of the stairs, his face red from annoyance as he tightens the tie around his neck. He sees me on the stairs and his frown softens. "Oh, morning Jade."

"Morning," I reply, stopping halfway down the stairs, my hand resting on the banister as I jerk my thumb over my shoulder. "Is she the last to get up?"

"Yes, and Owen is trying to get the day off by faking a stomach bug so could you please-"

"I'm on it," I sigh, trudging back up the stairs.

I don't bother knocking and just throw the door open so it slams back against the wall, effectively scaring the hell out of the half-asleep, grumpy teenager still lying in bed.

"The hell is your problem?" she grumbles, rolling onto her side to face away from me.

"It's gone half seven. Get your ass up or you're going to miss breakfast," I inform her.

"Go moan to someone who cares," she grumbles. "I'm not going in today. I don't feel very well."

"Oh, no you don't," I reply, walking over to her and dragging the duvet off of her, completely ignoring her angry protests. "Owen's already trying this so you can give it up now. Get up, get dressed, and get down for breakfast. Now."

"God, you're such a bitch!" she accuses venomously as she scrambles off the bed and heads towards her wardrobe, slamming her shoulder into mine as she passes.

I roll my eyes and leave her to it, heading down to the kitchen.

"Owen, your temperature is fine, you're going in," Stella says with a finality in her voice that is not to be argued with, before biting into her toast.

"No, I'm going to be sick. I can feel it!" he insists.

Owen is fourteen, and he has been living here plenty long enough now for everyone to know that he doesn't like school. All I know about his background is what he told me a few years ago when, like today, he'd tried and failed to skip.

Owen used to live alone with his alcoholic father in an apartment in the centre of town. Due to the fact that his only parental authority spent most of his time out of the apartment or lying comatose on the kitchen floor, Owen was usually able to get away with whatever he wanted. This, of course, included skipping school. 

Now that there are not only one, but two functioning guardian figures living under the same roof as him, he's struggling with the concept of rules. Primarily, the rule of going to school.

"You're fine. Stop being such a crybaby," I tell him, laughing when he scowls at me.

"If I'm sick at school today, you'll all be sorry," he mutters, shoving a spoonful of cereal into his mouth.

"Owen, have you ever heard of the boy who cried wolf?" George asks, running a hand through his sandy hair and smirking over his coffee cup.

"Shut up," Owen mumbles around a mouthful of food.

"So, why do you even want the day off?" Stella asks him, passing me the box of cereal so I can pour myself some.

"He's got a test he hasn't studied for," Oscar, Owen's twelve-year-old roommate, answers with a smirk.

"Dude!" Owen complains, glaring over the table at Oscar as everyone in the room laughs.

"Ah," is the only reply Stella gives.

"Busted," I mutter with a laugh as Owen turns his glare back to me.

He opens his mouth to retort, risking a stern look from Stella, but gets interrupted as the sixth member of our dysfunctional family enters the kitchen.

"Good morning, Bailey. Nice of you to join us!" Stella exclaims with an obvious amount of sarcasm that makes Oscar snicker. She moves out of her way as Bailey heads for the cereal.

"Yeah, whatever," Bailey mutters, as grumpy as ever.

From a distance, you wouldn't really be able to tell that Bailey and I are related, we're just too different, both personality and looks-wise. If you look up close, though, you can see that we share the same nose.

Not that she would ever admit it.

Once we've finished breakfast, we all set off for school, the boys walking a little ahead of me whilst Bailey trails her grumpy ass behind. I ignore them all, my attention too focussed on the phone in my hand as Dylan texts to wish me a good morning.

When we reach the school we all disperse, the other three heading off towards the main building whilst I turn left and aim for the Sixth building, where all of the A-level classes take place. Sixth-form students rarely use the main building anymore, only for buying lunch.

It takes me a matter of minutes to walk up the stairs and reach room 12, which serves to be a maths room throughout the day, and my tutorial room for the mornings. Tutorial is pretty pointless if I'm honest, just a thirty-minute long session for students to mess around whilst our tutor – Mr Griffin – snoozes behind his desk.

When I walk into the room, my eyes hone in on my boyfriend as he sits at our table in the back corner. I make a beeline for the desk, a stupid grin plastered across my face as I take my seat next to him.

"Hey," I greet, tilting my face up and pressing my lips against his.

"Hello to you, too," he murmurs with a smirk when I eventually pull away "How was your weekend?"

"Boring," I admit, rolling my eyes. "I missed you. We hardly ever get to hang out anymore."

"I know, I'm sorry," he sighs. "I'll try and talk my parents into letting me escape prison one evening this week so we can do something."

"Sounds good," I say with a smile, resting my head on his shoulder.

"Good," he smiles. "Oh, and Jade?"

"Hmm?" I murmur.

"I missed you, too," he says. I can't help but smile again as I lift my head from his shoulder to look at him. He gives me a cute smile, a dimple forming on his left cheek, and my heart swells as I lean in to kiss him again.

Every time I think I can't love this guy any more than I already do, he goes and makes my heart feel like it's about to burst.

"You pair make me sick," a voice says, causing us to quickly pull apart just in time to see Megan plonk down at the desk in front of us. 

I quickly poke my tongue out at her as she turns in her chair to face us, crossing her forearms over the back of the seat.

"You're just jealous," Dylan says, leaning back in his chair and putting his arm around me as I lean my head back on his shoulder. 

I grin at my friend's indignant expression.

"You wish, Butler," she replies. "Jade and I have a strict chicks-before-dicks policy. One wrong move and I'll have your ass kicked to the curb before you can even cry for your mommy. So don't mess with me. I hold all the power."

Raising an eyebrow, Dylan glances down at me and I shrug.

"You'd do well not to piss her off," I say.

"See?" Megan gloats with a grin. "I have nothing to be jealous of. Jade is still my girl."

Laughing, I accept the fist bump she offers me.

The remainder of our tutorial time is – surprise, surprise – completely uneventful. Eventually, the bell rings loud enough to wake Mr Griffin with a snort that could rival a warthog, and he sends stink-eye to the few students who laugh at him as we all file out of the room.

***

Lunch begins at quarter past twelve and Megan and I are out the door the second our sociology teacher puts down the whiteboard pen, ignoring her call of "no running, girls!" as we go. Today is pizza day and we fully intend to get to the canteen before all the pepperoni is gone – we always get left with the Margarita.

"So, do you fancy hanging out later?" Megan asks as we make our way across the yard, towards the main building. "I have a huge pile of history homework that I am fully committed to ignoring."

"Can't, sorry," I reply, laughing at her lack of work ethic. "I'm at work tonight."

I tune out Megan's reply as we push through the doors to the main building, my eyes drawn to the two lads further down the corridor – Bradley and Alex Coleman. They seem to be in the midst of some pretty heavy discussion, both scowling at one another as they whisper in hushed voices and gesture furiously. Bradley, the eldest of the two – the one that I'm forced to share three classes a week with – looks about ready to throw a punch.

The sight of the pair sets off an unwanted reminder, my heart dropping as I think of the run-in I had with Lucas and Finn this morning. I remember the angry look on Lucas's face – very similar to Bradley's, right now – and the way Finn stashed those drugs into his pocket, faster than a bullet, when he saw me standing with him.

Secretly, I wonder if Bradley and Alex carry, too.

They wouldn't, would they? Not here, at the school?

Honestly, I wouldn't be surprised. Young, stupid teenagers are probably a target market.

The thought makes me feel sick.

"Yo, where's your head at?" Megan asks, nudging her shoulder into mine as we make a left into the canteen.

"Sorry," I reply, my eyes finding Dylan at our usual table. He's sat with his friend, Greg. "What were you saying?"

"I was saying that Greg has become quite hot over this past year. He's got that dorky geek look going in his favour now," she repeats as we head to the line to buy some food.

"Yeah?" I ask, my mind successfully distracted from druggie delinquents as I grin over at her. "Are you going to do anything about it?"

"Nah," she admits with a shake of her head, picking up a slice of pepperoni pizza with gleeful victory. I do the same.

"Why not?"

It's no secret to the school that Megan Ford can get any guy she wants. For starters, she's an absolute stunner. With crystal blue eyes and hair that shines like copper, she walks these halls like some fiery Greek Goddess, radiating far more confidence than she knows what to do with. Some – not me, of course – might argue that she has more confidence than is actually good for her.

I love the person she is, though. Mostly because I know how different things were for her back in Primary school – and how far she's come since.

She used to get bullied by this guy, Curt Flemming. He had some sort of problem with her, bullied her for a lot of things but mostly for being ginger – I'm talking your typical immature, pre-teen asshole – and, for so long, Megan let him. She didn't have the confidence to stand up to him back then, shied away from the snide glares he would send her from across the classroom, and ignored me whenever I offered to beat him up for her.

I would have, too, if not for the fact that she begged me not to get involved. She was worried I would piss him off more, that I'd only make things worse for her. In reality, I'm pretty sure he would've run away with his dick shrivelled to the size of a raisin; he was the textbook definition of 'all gob, no knob.'

I wasn't scared of him like she was; I had met so many people worse than Curt Flemming.

When we moved up to Secondary school, Megan changed. She decided that she wasn't going to put up with it anymore – and so she didn't. She transformed from this quiet girl in the back of the class, a wallflower in every sense of the word, and bloomed into an absolute queen. A queen that now takes absolutely no shit from anyone.

The experience has turned her into Marmite, a little bit – one of those people you'll either love or hate. My preference has never wavered; she's my best friend and I love her.

"I don't know, not my type," Megan says with a shrug, dragging me from my thoughts and back to the conversation at hand.

"What... hot, smart and sweet isn't your type?" I ask incredulously.

"No... well, I mean yeah, obviously, but he's not very... exciting, you know?" she says, frowning as she tries to explain.

"You're just too picky," I laugh, rolling my eyes at her as we pay for the pizza.

"No, I'm not. What's wrong with wanting a relationship that doesn't get boring after a few months?" she asks, her tone becoming slightly defensive.

"Nothing," I try to appease her. "Boring relationships are doomed from the beginning."

"Exactly. Thank you," she replies.

"But," I continue on. "How are you supposed to know a relationship's boring until you actually start one?"

"Yeah... I guess," she relents slightly, still not looking convinced as she glances over at Greg.

As we head over to the table, I notice Bradley and Alex as they enter the room. They seem to have calmed down now, not a trace of agitation on their faces. They make their way to the lunch line, completely oblivious to the stares they receive from passing students. 

As I continue to watch them, I notice the girl standing in line in front of Bradley (a year ten by the looks of it) begin to blush and giggle, whispering to the girl standing on her other side. I roll my eyes at her.

Idiot.

"Now he is the complete opposite of boring," Megan says, following my line of sight until her eyes fall on the brothers. I look at her and notice the way her eyes rake over Bradley with obvious appreciation.

"Don't even go there," I warn, shaking my head.

"What?" she asks, feigning innocence when she sees my expression.

"The whole family is bad news," I tell her.

"How do you know? Maybe they're not as bad as people say. Now who's being quick to judge?" she challenges, raising an eyebrow at me.

Thinking back to this morning, I'm reminded once again of Finn Coleman, quickly hiding drugs in his hoodie pocket. Even if they're not as bad as everyone says, they're definitely not good.

"Trust me," I mutter, and leave it at that.

*********