Just a random note: criticism is constructive if you tell someone what the problem is (specifically, dears) and give means to fix it. But thanks to all the reviewers. If I start getting more I'll probably put personalized review replies on the chapters. This chapter is boring, but I'm trying to ease into the drama, etc, and am still introducing characters..

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The party had been a disaster for all but the seven or eight of us who were invited to Anais' private excursion; people were still talking about how "that psycho new girl" gave some of the school's best beloved illegal drugs. Believe it or not, most of my classmates are fairly tame, and I don't think the possibility of cocaine or E had ever entered into their minds.

I had taken Sasha home with the dim, grating knowledge that my best friend was probably fucking said "psycho new girl" at that very moment, and had tried fervently to convince myself that I was bothered for his sake, not hers.

Unfortunately, I've never been a good liar. And I don't think Anais quite realized that just because Ray is a wild boy, he's not necessarily a playboy; he's going to expect some commitment from her, and I doubt he'll get it. A thousand guys could fuck that girl and they'd still never touch her, not really.

The following Monday brought the gossip; I suffered through endless freshman girls in band t-shirts accosting me and inquiring excitedly whether or not I'd "done anything". I worry about these underclassmen; they don't seem to have lives outside of whatever CD they're professing is "alternative" or who's sleeping with whom.

I paced through the halls at the end of the day, not looking up, shoulders slumped, black t-shirt wrinkled. No wonder all the gossiphounds were on me - I looked like I'd partied all weekend and then gone to school without any sleep.

Practice was meant to be that evening, and I really wasn't in the mood. In my four years of playing varsity basketball, I'd never once bailed on practice, but today I knew, wearily, the way you know death is imminent, that I would leave without even bothering to give an excuse.

I would have left promptly, had I not caught sight of the terror herself, chatting amiably with another girl I didn't recognize. The girl looked maybe a pale Puerto Rican, with dark reddish-black hair caught in two collar-length pigtails and shorter strands falling across one eye, framing her face. Almond-shaped eyes, weirdly mismatched in color. She was exotic-looking and cute, in that lean, junkie-chic kind of way. Her low-necked black shirt was sheer in the back, and I caught glimpses of black tattoos. Her dark green pants were cordorouy and flared, with a straight, loose leg, with frayed edges. She paired all this with heavy silver religious jewelry, rings, and dangling earrings.

In a way, she was Anais' complete opposite - indie-casual, the type of girl who was in the Anti-Vivisection League, strange in contrast to Anais' high heels, perfectly tailored jeans, and pinstriped red and black vest. And yet they were similar; both perfectly poised, with a strong sense of self-imposed isolation and heavily stylized.

Anais saw me there, standing awkwardly I imagine, and smiled. Guess she didn't recall the invasion of her personal space that occured at the party.

"So you do travel without the little woman?" Maybe it's just me, but I get the feeling Anais doesn't like Sasha.

"Occasionally," I replied, sneaking another furtive glance at her friend, who was closely examining a few glossy photos she'd tucked from her black leather camera pack, slung over one shoulder (she had no other packing).

"Glad to hear it," she said, surpisingly absent-mindedly, "I was beginning to wonder if you two were attached at the lips or another slightly more lewd body part."

"Why do you dislike her so much? There's nothing you can do about it."

At his her friend's head snapped up and I got the full force of the strange girl's gaze - whoa. I had to shift from side to side to keep from backing up. The girl can't be more than five-eight and a hundred fifteen pounds (she's on the thin side, after all), and she physically unsettled me. Great. What's with the sudden invasion of freaky women?

I must have been staring, because the girl arched one brow and Anais smirked a little.

"She needs a ride to work," Anais said, smoothly gliding past me and towards the door. She paused just near me, then brushed by, and I could feel a sudden weight in my jacket pocket. Hmm. I'd check that out later, although going by the amused expression on the other girl's face, she didn't miss it.

"Anai--" I was cut off by the sound of the metal door clanging shut.

"A friend of yours?" The girl asked, mildly. She was vaguely French.

"Anais?"

"Non, the badly done-up girl standing behind you staring at us." Yep, she had an accent - it was faint enough, but it'd still get her noticed in this town.

"What?" I turned around. Oh, god - Bridget Miller, in a Spongebob Squarepants t-shirt, shoes straight from Gadzooks that imitated tennis shoes but had four inches of platform heel, and denim jeans. She had a scandalized look on her face, and I was very glad Anais had left already - she'd undoubtedly have a scathing remark or seven for the girl.

"Come on.." I trailed off, realizing I didn't know pigtail-girl's name.

"Rosa," she supplied. The way she rolled her R was strange.

"Right. Where do you need a ride to, again?"

"Old Navy."

I nodded and started towards the parking lot, AKA "the pot lot", which was usually hazed with mixed kinds of smoke, though the severity of this small town's drug intake never exceeded weed. Mainly because weed grows in the ditches and is readily accessable. I kicked open the passenger door to my ancient, massive black truck and it bounced open obediently.

Rosa gave me a concerned look, as if she doubted the stability of my transportation. I didn't really blame her, but she got in anyway, slamming the door hard.

I got in the opposing side, and we were off. She fiddled with my radio the whole time, generally seeking out news stations. She paused on 98.7, where a man was talking about a murderer in our area, a few towns over, her hand hovering over the silvery dial. Her eyes narrowed imperceptibly, before she switched it to blaring hard rock music and fell back in her seat.

I cast her a sidelong glance as I pulled into the parking lot at Old Navy. She appeared not to notice, instead nodding to me politely - she's much more well-mannered than Anais, but a hell of a lot icier - and exiting the truck. I left the motor running as she strode through the parking lot, adjusting the camera bag on her shoulder as she moved. Once I had ascertained that she'd entered the store, I pulled out.

It's such a pretty time of year here; the trees, the air, everything seems like a Norman Rockwell painting with the chipmunk cheeked kids skittering across the streets and nearly causing car accidents, and all the sports beginning. For some reason I was dreading sports, almost as much as the next day when Bridget and Sasha and god knows who else would be on my case, and Anais there to make it all so much worse.

I think I have too many women in my life.