Chapter One

Last August was different. Not different in the sense that events were different. In fact, they were quite the same. August started school. I got new clothes just for the school year. I even got my hair done just two days before the first bell rang. But I was different. My personality was different. My outlook on life was different. I was a senior in high school, and I was looking forward to my final year of partying and prom. I was anxious for hanging out with my friends and going to local bonfires. This year, is the exact opposite of last August. It’s funny how one year can change you. Well, in my case it changed me completely. Changed the way I lived, the way I thought, the way I even talked to people. The way I dressed, the way I styled my hair. Even my choice of drink. Last year, well, was different. And I’ll tell you how.

I sat down at my first period, with a bottled water on my desk and my freshly cut blonde hair curled. My heavy English book sat in the left hand corner and I set out a brand new white binder in front of me, with a pen glued to my manicured hand. I was ready to take notes, ready to do my best that year. My final year.

Mr. Jones, my English teacher got up and introduced himself. I sat neatly in my chair, listening to every word he had said, though it wasn’t easy. He had visible perspiration stains on his silk shirt, and an obvious toupee, but I listened with my undivided attention, ready to start my school year briskly. A boy entered the classroom late as ever, wearing dark jeans and a black t-shirt. He caught me staring immediately, so I looked away.

“Nice of you to join us today Mr. Wagner. Care to take a seat?” Mr. Jones said sarcastically. The boy smirked at our teacher, and strolled casually to the empty seat next to mine, and slumped down. He looked over at me and grinned, but I looked away again. Guys like that always seemed too rebellious. It was as if I couldn’t even look at him or I knew I would be in trouble with my teacher. Mr. Jones came over and stood over the boy, and I watched our teacher's face go from straight to angry in two seconds.

“This year I won’t take your attitude,” Mr. Jones warned, and walked away, adjusting his tie, but I wondered if he knew about the stains. Otherwise, he would fix that too, right? The teenaged kids fought back laughs like they were all still in fifth grade, then Mr. Jones carried on to talk about his wife and their three dogs.

The boy continued to slump into his seat. Once and awhile I saw him glaring at me, but I couldn’t understand why. He was a stranger to me. I never once saw him before around campus, and being that our campus was crowded, I found that plausible. Maybe there was something on my face. Perhaps there was apple skin in my teeth. A couple more minutes into Mr. Jones long introductory speech, the boy started writing on a piece of paper he had in his binder. I glanced over to see what he could be writing. He seemed like one of those kids that were the druggie types. Depressed maybe. The kind of boy like Christian Slater on The Heathers. He liked black t-shirts. They seemed to be his favorite kind every time I saw him after that first day of school. And he wore his hair so sloppy, I often daydreamed of taking a comb and slicking it back to find his eye color instead.

The boy crumbled the piece of paper, and casually placed it on the edge of my desk. I had to stare down at it first, the shock took its time to register in my brain. Next thought I had was Mr. Jones, and whether or not he saw the paper that was transferred from this rebellious boy's desk to my own. Mr. Jones didn’t notice. I grabbed the paper quickly, and unscrambled the mess he created as quiet as possible under my desk in my lap.

Name? was written sloppily in an italic cursive. It was one word, and yet it I knew what he was doing. I knew his motives. He was flirting with me.

I didn’t look his way, couldn’t look his way. I was too scarred Mr. Jones would hear me mutter in Mr. Wagner’s direction, or see my manicured hand carefully and secretly writing my name for the boy to acknowledge it. So instead of replying, I avoided him.

After a few moments passed, the boy was persistent in getting an answer. He sent me another note. This one I was more nervous to read.

Scared to get into trouble? He asked. I shook my head no at him, though it was a complete lie. Here I was, an honor student on my final year in high school, and the worst I had done was actually eat the cafeteria food. I couldn’t mess up now. Goody goody, my sister Erica called me. I was too babyish for life. The boys she dated got her an earful of trouble from my dad, but me, I had never dated for real. I went to dances with dates, but those didn’t count. And though Erica was probably right, it beat getting grounded. So what if I chose to be safe in life? And so what if I got perfect grades that were much more respected than Erica’s 2.8 average? I didn’t need to be wild, promiscuous or with the dangerous crowd, smoking weed in the backyard when Erica knew daddy was asleep. I was smart in school and in life. That’s the life I chose. And though it seems childish, I did pride upon myself when mom and dad told Erica to be more like me.

The boy shook his head, all disapproving. I didn’t want to admit it to myself, but something about his disapproving eyes made me feel goody goody, and I didn’t like the way I cared about what this stranger thought.

The bell rang and I hurried away with my binder, my book, my water and my purse over my shoulder. I wanted to look back at the boy, but I couldn’t. I had a feeling he was behind me, but if I looked back, that somehow made it more real.

“Hey,” I heard behind me. I took a deep breath in. I almost escaped.

“Yes?” I replied, slowly turning around to see the face that matched the voice.

“I’m Sam Wagner,” He said in a low voice, extending his hand for me to shake. He wasn’t as intense as I thought he would be. He was smiling, a kind smile that made my insides turn, though I pretended it didn’t happen. I juggled my binder and book to my left arm and hand and reached out.

“Samantha Pierce,” I shook his hand. He smiled wide.

“Two Sams, huh?” He shook back his hair with a quick jerk of his head. I finally got a look at his eyes. They were an amazing bright hazel color.

“No. Not Sam. I go by Samantha,” I said curtly. I didn’t mean to be so abrupt with him, but I didn’t want to be late to my second class of the day. He looked hurt and put his hands up in surrender.

“Just making small talk. See you around,” He walked away, but his head didn’t leave my mind all day.

In advanced algebra, he intruded my mind so much I couldn’t even concentrate on anything else. Not even Edmond, the boy I had a crush on for years could change my thoughts. For some odd reason, I was guilty for the hurt look on his face when I was defensive. Crazy right? Well, it gets crazier. I found him walking out to the senior parking lot and I stopped him to talk again.

“I didn’t mean to be so rude,” I said meekly, hoping the frail volume of my voice would catch his attention.

“Huh?” he managed to say as he turned around, staring at me with a wide, satisfied grin. He was happy I approached him.

“I didn’t mean to be so rude,” I repeated myself, hoping the volume increased well enough that he could understand it.

“It’s alright, girl,” Sam said giving me a devilish grin.

“It’s Samantha!” I retorted, shifting my purse on my shoulder. It was way too heavy. I shouldn’t have put my makeup bag in there. Sam's grin dropped.

“Right. The two Sam’s. I think we’d make a great pair.” The devilish grin returned and something about his smile seemed dangerous, almost a sign that I should have backed off right there and then. And with that, he was off. I followed him closely as he got into an old beat up faded black Nova, planting a cigarette into his mouth, cranking up some obnoxious punk rock music and driving off with the tires screeching. I got into my own car, turned down the volume of Ashley Tisdale’s music, as if I were too embarrassed to be listening to it. Someone like Sam Wagner would never listen to pop music. He was everything pop wasn’t.

For instance, his pants. They were somewhat tight. Almost as tight as mine were when I did wear jeans to school. His hair was flat ironed and near black; hanging across his eyes, disguising that hazel hue I saw earlier. He wore leather jackets or flannel hoodies. His face was handsome with a chiseled chin and a narrow nose which made me question why he bothered to hide it so much with that horrible hairdo. I always saw him with a pack of cigarettes in his hand, as if they were his constant accessory. He would pack the cigarette box in the palm of his hand over and over again as if they weren’t ready to be smoked until he did that repeatedly. He was tall, thin and a tad gawky, but for some reason I found this is be appealing, when before that day I never would have. I always went for the built kind, short hair, preppy clothes. But he had some sort of interesting force that had me drawn to him like a sketchbook.

He found me roaming the hallways alone the next day after he was late to English class again. I had my heavy English book in my arms, and I was about to get to my locker to put it away after class. I could feel someone from behind me as I strolled to my locker, like there was a shadow creeping up on me. When I finally reached my locker, Sam got real close to me and said, “What’s your deal?”

“Huh?” I asked confusedly.

“First, you talk to me about being rude for some reason and then you get mad at me for calling you Sam? Oh, then you stalked me out to my car.” He was acting weird, like he didn’t know the reason I spoke to him the day before. And he seemed a little mean now, when yesterday he was all laid back and cool. What was his problem?

“I didn’t stalk you,” I shook my head nervously. He was so intense. I swallowed hard. “And the reason I was saying I was rude was because I snapped at you when you called me Sam,” I added.

“But you snapped again shortly after that, Sam,” His voice playfully mimicked me.

“Whatever, I have to meet my friend,” I said trying to break away. He stopped me from walking away by blocking me with his arm on the locker next to mine. I bit my lip and wished he would go away. Why did I have to bug him yesterday?

“Give me your number,” He ordered.

“No,” I snapped.

“Come on,” Sam practically begged.

“Why do you want my number so bad? Clearly we don’t match, no matter how much you say we’d make a great pair,” I countered.

Sam jerked his head back, but the hair returned to the same spot. “I think you need to be corrupted.”

“I don’t think so,” I pushed his arm down and walked past him, forgetting the fact that I went to my locker for a reason; to put my book away. No way was I going back now, I hugged that book close to my chest and didn’t look back. No matter how tempting it was to see that devilish grin that both scared me and intrigued me simultaneously.