"You're in front of my locker," He is saying, as I stare at him with a look of pure stupidity. It takes several long, awkward moments for the words to process inside my head. When they do, I step aside and look at his locker with hardly masked bewilderment.

And, as usually, I utter the first words that cross my mind. "Oh, you have one?"

He twists the dial, unlocking the metallic cubby, and shoots me an amused look. "Yeah," He opens the door and motions for me to move back a bit --so the door doesn't assault my face. I step back and he flattens the door against the locker next to his, "We all do. Do you know where yours is?"

"Of course not," I sigh, forgetting to be witty. I didn't know where anything was in this school; despite the extensive lecture I received from Miley this morning, I am completely hopeless when it comes to finding things. 

The sad thing is, I'm pretty sure she mentioned something about it.

"I can help you find it --if that's alright with you. I don't have a class this period, so I won't be late."

I blink at him, lips parting in shock. He was offering to show me around? Even if it was just my locker, I could probably milk it and ask him to show me my next class as well. Cool, my inner self smiles victoriously. Bonus time!

"That'd be nice," I finally remember to smile. I hand him my schedule, which has my locker number printed at the top.

He shuts his locker with a click and clamps the lock back into place. I watch him, mesmerized by how fluid and graceful his movements were. Unfortunately, the jacket he sports blocks any sight of the muscles of his arms. I avert my gaze quickly when he looks up, praying to anything and everything that may be above my head that the heat I feel in my cheeks isn't visible to him. 

"Let's go~" He sings, and I can't help the grin that works its way onto my face. 

"So we sing now, eh?" I snicker at him.

He wags his eyebrows, "Of course. I plan to try out for American Idol soon."

"Seriously?" I feel my eyebrows raise in shock. 

He snorts, "No. I have the voice of a llama." 

"Llama-voice buddies unite?" I laugh and hold up my fist for a fist bump. I suck at singing --the only victim of my voice-abuse being my shower-- though I'd visualized a different animal comparison. 

I've never really heard a llama before. What did they even sound like?

Blue Eyes blinks at me, and stares at me with wide eyes for a few moments. I freeze in fear that I've totally ruined the beginning of our relationship with my idiocy; it was probably that maybe, just maybe, the idea of being Llama-voice buddies was too childish for his coolness. Suddenly I found myself rethinking all of my life choices so far. 

Then his lips pull back into a beautifully crooked smile, and I melt.

"We'll need a secret password." His knuckles lightly brush against mine. Little tingles errupt beneath the contact-area and I grin like a kid who'd just been locked in a candy store overnight. 

He holds the door open for me, and we step out into the mass of students who litter the courtyard. It's then that I realize just how absorbed I am in this delicious hunk of male beside me; I didn't notice that the hallway had cleared out and the late bell was coming soon. It was so pathetic. I'm so pathetic. 

"Cereal?" I suggest. 

One of his slender brows arch and I smile sheepishly. "It's my favorite word, and food. Don't judge me."

"I'm judging," he teases, and I swim through the crowds of scurrying late-people in order to keep up with him. 

"Not nice," I huff back.

He smiles and opens another door for me --such a gentleman, my heart swoons-- and I duck past him into the hallway. "So cereal, right?" He slows to a stop in front of a locker, glances back at my schedule before reaching out towards one of the locks. 

"If you want," I mentally slap myself in the face. Hearing him say it out loud only made it sound even stupider; only I would manage to come up with something so dumb. 

The locker clicks open and I step forward, glancing over the barren inside before setting some of my books inside. That loud buzzing sound blares again in two short bursts, and Blue Eyes leans against the locker beside mine, waiting patiently. I let the door slam shut --the door creaks loudly as it moves-- and then look at my schedule. 

"This way," he says, before I can ask him about algebra. 

We walk down the hallway, towards the stairs. As we climb, I ask, "Why don't you have class this period?"

He blinks, "I'm a teacher's assistant. I get to skip several classes and play delivery boy." 

"That sounds fun." I would give anything to skip Algebra; I've always had an intense hatred for math. 

"Not really."

"Oh," I let the conversation fall flat. My brain scrambles around to find something interesting to talk about, but I have nothing. Soon we're standing awkwardly in front of one of the many doors in the hallway, and I stare at it with a pained expression. It's like Satan is waiting for me on the other side of that door.

I really don't want to go in.

"Well, I guess I'll see you around," Blue Eyes is saying, his hands shoved into his pockets. His shoes click on the tile as he starts to walk off. 

"Wait," I spin around, lips pressed together, and then crack a small smile, "I didn't catch your name."

Blue Eyes is quiet for a few moments, and I feel a brow lift as the seconds tick past. Did he seriously not plan to tell me his name? I'm sure I could always ask Miley, but it still seemed kind of weird that he wouldn't. Maybe he was trying to hide something...

"You really are new, aren't you?" He finally murmurs after a while. His stoic expression morphs into one of pure curiosity and surprise. 

Now my other eyebrow lifts. "Duh."

He laughs lightly and shrugs, hands still hidden inside his pockets. "I'm pretty well known around here, so it's strange to me that you don't know who I am. My name is Seth."

"Seth," I wiggle my fingers at him. "I guess I should ask for an autograph."

"I'll give you one, if you'd like." He winks, and my ovaries explode at the amount of sexiness in the gesture. I struggle to suppress a giggle and feel my cheeks heat up; God, I'm like a prepubescent tween drooling over a celebrity. 

Stop it, I command my body. Not that it listens.

Blue Eyes --err, Seth, laughs at me again, and it only adds to the heat blistering my face. I smile, looking clueless, secretly hoping that my skin isn't as red as a tomato, and shrug. I brush a strand of hair back behind my ear and try to think of something else interesting to say.  

The door opens behind me, and I turn around in surprise. A pretty woman stands there, with a patient smile on her freckled face. "Are you planning to join the class any time soon?"

"Uh," I trail off.

"Sorry," Blue Eyes smiles his eye-twinkling smile, "I was just trying to show her the ropes, Ms. Henry."

Ms. Henry shoots him an annoyed look, "Then show her during lunch period." She opens the door a bit wider and gestures for me to step inside, "Come on, Miss Alice. You need to at least get your textbook before the class period ends. Seth, I'm sure someone is in need of your assistance."

I look back, but Blue Eyes is already walking down the hall, his hands clasped behind his head. Dejected, I turn back to the teacher who has pinned me with a sympathetic look. 

I bite back a scowl and trudge inside the classroom. Did she take pride in ruining students' love lives or something?

The rest of the students look up, watching me curiously. I try to ignore them and stand beside Ms. Henry's desk. "Class, this is Alice. Make sure you're nice to her." She said as she rummaged through some of the papers on her desk. "Here," she handed me a paper workbook, "This is your textbook-"

"Are you sure?" I take the workbook and leaf through it. There's no instructions or anything, at least not like a normal hardback textbook. 

She paused, head lifting and eyes narrowing. "Yes, I don't use actual textbooks. You'll get the notes in class and your homework will be the workbook pages."

Relatively easy, I think as I snap the book shut and unzip my backpack so I can slide the book inside. My ninth grade English class was a lot like this; only instead of a workbook, we just took quizzes about the various movies we watched every day. 

Ms. Henry goes over some of the course materials --I'll need to butcher my mom into buying me a new calculator-- and explains the syllabus. Despite the fact that I am new --and my elaborate excuse about Blue Eyes finding my lost, withered person wandering the hallways like a lost puppy--, Ms. Henry chews me out for standing around and talking instead of coming to class. 

It's kind of interesting to me though. Unlike most teachers, Ms. Henry's chewing out consists of a couple, "Being late is not tolerated; school policy, but I don't expect you to be fluent with the rules yet."

The rules never changed. Each school, even in different states, had the same rule composition: Don't be late, don't chew gum, and don't slut around on campus --whether that be actual PDA or just wearing your stripper clothes to school. Sometimes, the consequences are different. Like my old school chose to really crack down on tardiness; which resulted in detention being moved to the cafeteria, because no one felt the need to run to class. 

It's like she thinks I'm dense. Does she honestly think I am not aware that being late is one of the biggest school-crimes of the century? 

Then again, I did stand outside her classroom for the first thirty minutes of class and attempt to flirt with someone she didn't appear to be fond of. 

"Alright," Ms. Henry leans back away from her desk, dish-water brown orbs roaming over the top of her desk as if looking to make sure she wasn't forgetting anything, "I think that's everything. I reviewed your scores from your previous school and I don't think it'll be hard for you to catch up." 

I give her a half-assed smile, "Great."

The bell rings. Chairs screech against the floor as my fellow students rush to their feet and out the door at a speed worthy of NASCAR. It's like watching a hoard of crows all rushing towards a soggy fry on the ground. I pull out my schedule again, and prepare to leave the classroom. 

"Wait, Alice." 

I look back at Ms. Henry, one eyebrow quirked.

She makes a face --a very unattractive face that makes her look slightly constipated-- and takes a deep breath. "Be careful with who you hang out with, okay?"

Is this supposed to be some sort of cryptic warning?

I stare at her weirdly, "Uh, okay."

She nods, and her face relaxes. Ms. Henry runs her fingers through her auburn tresses and tells me I can leave.

I turn around at the doorway to give her one last quizzical look; the young woman looks kind of ruffled, and exhausted.

But she looks way too innocent to be hiding anything.

"Hey!" Miley greets as I step into the locker room. It took ten minutes to find my next class --well, it took ten minutes to find the door to the girl's locker room. Luckily, a nice boy stopped me before I made a disastrous mistake.

I smile at her and make my way towards her, "Hey. Do you have any idea where my locker is?"

"Right here," she laughs, making a wide, sweeping gesture towards the large locker beside her.

I set my backpack down in front of it and then look at her questioningly. Miley holds her index finger up.

An ear splitting tweet pierces the air and all of the mild chatter around us vanishes, leaving behind a tense silence. I look around for the source of the whistle, and feel my jaw drop as the largest human being in existence moves to loom over me like death itself.

"You're the noob, right?"

I assume it is female, since this is the girls locker room and it would be incredibly strange to have a male supervisor.

The long, scruffy blonde ponytail that trails down her back and the pink polo-shirt also helps that assumption.

But I can't be certain.

Her entire body is constructed of muscle; her bicep alone is bigger than my head. The polo she sports leaves little wiggle room, as its stretched tight across her nonexistent chest. She stands at least six foot tall and pierces me with a beady look so frightening that I feel the urge to shove Miley into her and make a run for the door.

Miley smiles meekly, "Yes, Coach Ashbury,  this is Alice."

"Was I talking to you?" It-She growls in her rough, deep voice.

I gulp, and Coach Ashbury's attention returns to me. She throws a uniform at me and then turns to face the terrified onlookers.

"This is Alice, in case any of you were too dense to understand that. She'll be joining our class today and I expect you all to give her a nice, warm welcome." Coach Ashbury booms, before blowing her whistle again and stomping towards the door to the gym. "Five minutes," She calls behind her, "Or you're all getting twenty laps."

Miley quickly twists the lock on my locker, "Hurry and get changed."

I yank the t-shirt over my head and step into the ugly green shorts, pulling them up and tying the strings. Miley shoves my backpack into the locker, already dressed in the uniform herself, and I throw my original clothes in on top.

"Here's the combination," she hands me a small slip of paper with several numbers scribbled on it. "Don't lose it."

I take the slip of paper and stuff it into my shoe. The pants don't have pockets, so I'm at a loss for a safe place to stuff it.

"What was that?" I ask her as we walk out into the huge, glossy gymnasium --where Coach Ashbury stalks around like an angry gorilla, searching for someone to roar at.

Miley shudders, "Ongoing student debate: Staff Members, Male or Female." She shoots me a look, "What do you think?"

I give Coach Ashbury one long, scrutinizing look and then return my gaze to Miley. "I'm pretty sure she's more ape than anything."

She laughs and then nods with agreement. Her own eyes travel to the coach, "Just be careful, she can easily pick out the weaklings. She likes to torment them. It's like she can smell their fear."

"I'm not weak," I scoff, and we walk towards a group of students lined up in front of Coach Ashbury as another coach's whistle screams.

Coach Ashbury begins to line everybody up. Miley is forced into one of the first two lines --due to alphabetical order. That makes me stand in the middle of them all, surrounded by weirdos I've never seen before. Once everyone is in their place, and the other coaches have removed their groups from the gym, Coach Ashbury blows her whistle.

"I want everybody to take ten laps around the gym and then meet me in the center," she barks, "Then I'm going to teach you the rules of dodge-ball." 

The way she says the latter word makes me gulp; the image of her pegging us with basketballs floats around inside my head. Reluctantly, I break into a run and Miley rushes to fall into place beside me. She shoots me a pained look. 

"Is this going to be bad?" I ask her worriedly.

"No talking!" Coach screams around her whistle, and Miley swallows thickly as we push ourselves to run faster. I watch her curiously, still waiting for my answer. We round one of the corners, the corner farthest from Coach Ashbury. 

That's when she nods and whispers, "It's going to be really bad."