"Throw the ball!" 

Coach Ashbury has undergone a terrifying transformation. No longer is she the gorilla-like creature before, with the gruff voice and beady eyes. Now, with a grace akin to Godzilla, she stalks around the gymnasium with her whistle in her mouth, barking out death orders like Hitler. 

The constant shriek of the whistle blares off the walls surrounding us, and I courageously hide behind Miley. She uses one of the squishy blue balls to bat away some of the balls thrown at us. 

"Throw the ball," Coach Ashbury screams at us, each word emphasized like a sentence.

Miley quickly chucks the ball at some unsuspecting victim, lest the beast venture closer to where we stand. I watch as Coach blows on her whistle and turns towards someone else on the opposite team, and then hiss, "This is hell!"

"I told you it would get worse!" Miley squeaks as she dodges a ball.

A ball zips past my head, and it takes me a few seconds to register the fact that I had just --luckily-- moved my face out of its dangerous path. I gape at the blue sphere and then run after it, catching it as it bounces off the wall behind us. I whirl around and throw it with all my might. 

It catches someone in the gut. 

I watch, slightly pleased, as my target drops to the floor, groaning loudly. Coach Ashbury whistles furiously at the player until he crawls off towards the bleachers. Miley squeals and jumps out of the way of another ball. 

"Not bad!" she calls to me, watching the kid with a pitying look on her face. 

Although I am not the most athletic person in the world, I am pretty good at softball. Jake and I used to play on a co-ed team hosted by our middle school; he loved catching while I liked to pick flowers out in the outfield. It was sixth grade, okay? Don't judge me.

It was while I was dancing around and celebrating my surprising hit, that a ball appeared out of no where and smacked into the side of my head. 

"Owe," I groan, and watch as Miley is clipped in the butt by another ball. 

"Come on," she laughs at me. She walks over and holds out a hand, which I take and allow her to pull me up onto my feet. Coach is having a conniption fit with her whistle, so we limp off the court like wounded soldiers and plop down on the first row of bleachers. 

Miley sinks back and leans against the set behind us. "We have lunch after this," she rubs her stomach, letting out a little huff, "I'm so starving."

I massage my head and ignore her whining. 

"Hey," A new voice sounds from behind me, "Nice shot earlier." 

Eyebrows mashing together, I look back behind me, and lock eyes with the kid I'd brought down moments before my own dodgeball-demise. Upon closer inspection, I noticed he had warm chocolate colored irises, and freckles dotting the bridge of his nose. He ran a hand through his short, spiked brown locks and grinned. 

"Who are you?" I ask, a little weirded out that he'd chosen to talk to me. Especially since I am the one who should have weeded him out from the crowd and apologized, first. 

"Devon," he laughed. Then he held out his hand, "You're the new girl, right?"

I nod and stare at his hand, as if it had miraculously grown an extra finger. "Alice," Hesitantly, I press my palm into his and he squeezes it tight. He shifts slightly on his seat and flashes Miley a sweet smile. "Hey Miles."

"Don't call me that," she mock-glares at him. 

"So you two doing anything for lunch?" He ignores the nasty look and turns his smile to me again, almost blinding me with it. "A bunch of friends and I are planning to go to Subway. It's just down the street, we could even walk if we wanted to. Do you want to come?"

Well, that solves my lunch problems. I look to Miley and she shrugs at me before answering him with a chirpy, "Sure."

Coach suddenly tweets with her whistle, three loud and long blows, and everyone's attention shifts towards her. She gestures for everyone to move closer and gather in the center. Miley and I stand, while Devon sloppily climbs to his feet and scrambles down the bleachers to the gym floor. He's a scrawny thing, I note as we make our way towards Coach, and almost nerdy looking. He walks beside me quietly, kind of like a lap dog waiting for you to drop a scrap of bacon. 

"Alright, for day one, you punks aren't half bad," Coach says in her gruff voice. Her whistle is still clasped between chapped lips, and each word that comes out of her mouth is half whistle. "Go change. You stink. And lunch will start soon."

Miley pulls me towards the girl's locker room swiftly, throwing a quick, "Bye Devon!", over her shoulder. 

Once the door shuts behind us, and we're shielded by the walls of the locker room, Miley stops me. "He can be really annoying sometimes." She gives me a strange look. "I don't want to tell you who to make friends with, but I feel obligated to warn you. He is classified as one of the nerds here."

"Okay," I stare at her, "And?"

She cracks a smile, "Some people get really fussy about that. And I wasn't sure if you were one of them."

I shrug, "I don't necessarily care. If he's nice to me, he's nice to me."

"Good then." Miley grins widely now, and I furrow my eyebrows at her in confusion. She shrugs slightly. "I've shown my fair share of people around, and let's just say, most don't want to be associated with me and my friends after they realize we like video games more than Holister." 

I laugh and she lets me go, turning around to unlock her locker. We do our business, rushing through swift showers and then dressing quickly back into our normal clothing. When we're finished, we lean against our lockers, as most of the other girls crowd around the exit door. Chatter echoed around us, louder than usual due to the hollow-y walls surrounding us. The bell sounded and the crowd of girls rushed out the door like a group of desperate shoppers on Black Friday. 

Miley and I hold back, and wait until most of the girls cleared the room to avoid getting trampled. Then we walk out, into the chaotic mess that was the courtyard. Devon is waiting for us, and he sits on a bench nearby with another boy. Miley drags me towards them. The other boy looks up as we approach, blue eyes widening behind round glasses. 

"Whoa, you're right," the boy stares a few degrees below my face, "she is hot!"

"Shut up!" Devon sucker punches him in the stomach, and the scrawny twerp topples off the bench, groaning loudly. Devon's cheeks are blotched a bright cherry red. 

I bite back a sigh and look around the courtyard, scanning for Blue Eyes. 

"Alright losers," Miley rubs at her temples, "Let's go get some grub."

 Subway is about a block away from the school, and it is packed with people --teenagers and poor working class adults attempting to get a good meal alike. When we arrive, Devon takes our orders and then waits in line while we find a table. The table we end up getting is outside, and half covered by a dark olive colored umbrella. We swarm around it and plop down, the wind gushing at our faces. 

"We have about a hour before we have to be back," Carl, the boy with glasses, glances at the thick watch wrapped around his wrist. Then he sniffles and pushes at his glasses. "Hopefully it won't take that long to get our food."

"If we starve," Miley glares at him, "I'm blaming you."

"I had to get my calculator! Someone could have stolen it," Carl huffs at her, and his thin pale lips twist into a pout. He slumps back in his plastic green chair and crosses his arms. "It cost a lot of money for that calculator."

"Oh get over it." Miley rubs at her stomach. 

I laugh lightly at their banter, which makes Carl perk up a bit and my eyes roll upwards toward the umbrella. I'm flattered --I really am. It's nice that someone finds me more attractive than my usual potato-equivalent status. But I'm kind of hung up on Blue Eyes.

And my heart can only handle one at a time. 

Carl leans over in his seat, arm bent at an awkward angle atop the table. "Are you good at math? If you ever need help, I would love to help you out. I'm a great tutor." His cheek presses into the palm of his hand. He flashes me a wide smile. 

"Leave her alone, Carl." Devon returns to the table then, balancing several bags filled with chips and sandwiches in his arms. He gently lowers them onto the table and then slides into the open seat across from me. He dishes out the cups, "Go get your own, you losers."

"Awe," Miley snickers, and nudges Devon on the head lightly as she passes behind him, "I thought drinks were all apart of the package."

He shoots her a sarcastic smile and mimics her as he moves around the table toward his chair. I snicker and catch his eye --which makes him blush profusely in embarrassment. Fiddling with the rounded edge of my cup, I walk back into the sandwich shop and toward the fountain machine. Miley is pressing her lid onto the brim of her own cup, concealing dark fizzy soda. She smiles as I approach. 

"So what do you think so far?"

I quirk a brow and press my cup against the little lever for some ice. "What do you mean?" 

Miley nods toward the table. I glance back over my shoulder, and watch as Carl balances a potato chip atop his cheekbone --so it looks like a monocle. Devon snorts and throws a packet of salt at him in response. I shake my head and turn back to her, "They're dorks."

She smiles proudly, "I know."

I roll my eyes, "Good to know you are so aware."

"I just wanted to make sure that we weren't scaring you away," she takes a long swing of her soda, and then starts toward the door. I shake my head and press against the Mtn Dew tab. The fizzy yellow streams out of the nozzle like water spraying from a hose. When the ice starts to lift, I hear a voice behind me note, "Damn. Didn't take you for a Dew-girl."

I whirl around, startled. The pressure I've applied against the dispenser wavers, as does the stream of soda. 

Blue Eyes snickers down at me. 

I make a face, "Is something wrong with Mtn Dew?"

"Absolutely not," he glances over my shoulder, eyes twinkling with amusement. "I believe the type of soda a girl chooses defines her."

Something wet tickles the skin on my hand and I glance over, horrified to find the soda spilling over the edge of my cup. I hastily move my cup away and take a small sip so it won't spill. The bitter liquid fizzles down my throat. Blue Eyes suppresses a smile and reaches around me, his cup directly beneath the Mtn Dew nozzle. I press a lid onto my cup. 

"So how would you define me, then?" I wonder. 

Blue Eyes removes his cup and, once again having to reach past me because I have refused to move from my 'in the way' spot, and sizes me up. "That's a tough one. Usually, the adventurous ones like Mtn Dew, but you don't come across as adventurous." 

I squint at him, "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

He smirks and simply shrugs, before walking away. I turn slightly, watching him stride toward a table in the corner filled with sweaty jocks and slutty blondes. Upon closer examination, I realize that the blondes are none other than Red Roots and the Bimbos. All three glare daggers at me. 

I smile and wiggle my fingers in a wave before walking back toward the door.