A/N: I would like to dedicate this story to farryn, whose story Ugly Duckling Turned Swan is where I drew inspiration from for my own tale. She has kindly allowed me to use some elements of her story in mine.

I Can Eat you for Breakfast

My decision to leave Braxton High two years ago wasn't because of a singular event. It was the culmination of every single incident ranging from hair pulling, name-calling, being shoved and laughed at, publically embarrassed by having projectiles thrown at me and my property vandalized including both my locker and even the mailbox of my house. And my pink flamingos, can't forget that.

To say the least my life was utter hell during that one year. And you must think I'm utterly, stupidly, crazy to even go back.

Well I am. After freshman year I begged my Stepmom who was the easier one to convince and packed my bags to live with my real Mom in Miami.

There was just something about the environment that changed me. Whether it was the sand that got stuck between my toes or the cool wind that whipped my hair into a mess, or the wide, expansive ocean that made everything small and insignificant…

Point is, I lost 30 pounds and maybe that had something to do with my confidence of coming back to Braxton High for my senior year. It made it less likely for me to be called 'Fatty Patty', and Patty isn't even my real name.

So here I am. Car parked and convincing myself that it's okay to get out of my car and face the music. This is literal because the marching band is playing on the front lawn.

I look good, I tell myself. But I know that appearances aren't the only determining factor of my success in Braxton High. There's a bunch of crazies in there and I don't know if they remember me and I don't know if I want them to.

I didn't come back for revenge. I came back to get some answers, to find out why the guys were such pricks and girls such bitches even more than your average high school or if there really was something in the water.

My decision was made for me when there was a sharp tap on my windshield that nearly made me bite through my bottom lip. I have a nasty habit of gnawing at them.

"What do you think you're doing!" the scrawny guy outside my car waves both his arms at me. He was a toothpick. "This spot is reserved!"

I roll my eyes and get out of my car, giving my trusty baby blue VW—Shelly—a pat on the hood.

"I don't' see a sign," I say and cock a hip at him. And that's when he really does get a good look at me. His brown eyes widen as he checks out the black painted toes in my gladiator sandals, up my long legs and my jean shorts, to my off-shoulder shirt and finally my smiling face. I take off my aviators just to hit him with my more green-than-hazel eyes.

"Are we good?" I ask when he doesn't say a word. I take that for a yes and grab my bag out of the car and start making my way to the school entrance. By now people have noticed and I slip back on the eyewear.

My plan is in motion. Parking in the prime 'popular zone' was a deliberate choice. I couldn't let my place in the hierarchy be decided by someone else. I need to be the one in control for once. At Braxton I was always the one being pushed along, clamped up in fear until the next idiot went 'boo' and I was completely at their mercy.

I'm using every asset to my advantage. Somehow over the two years I did grow, and now I have a strange effect on boys. Bout time I want to yell at the Heavens, I've taken my share of crap and turns out puberty has done me good.

"You sure you want to do that?" A girl comes sidling up to me, blowing bubblegum, blonde hair tied up in a high ponytail. "Because you're about to make a mistake. You do not want to know whose spot that is."

"I think I can handle it," I say without breaking my stride.

"You're hot but you're not that hot," the blonde utters to me, "well, it's your funeral."

I give her a two finger wave and plunge into the crowded hallways. A sense of familiarity washes over me. I remember them always waiting for me by the entrance. So whenever I left school, they made sure that my last experience of the day was a bad one. There was never relief for me when the last period bell rang.

The hallway is jam-packed and sweltering as I push past. Everyone is screaming and shouting and the girls are all giggly and affectionate, the boys thumping each other in the back or doing one-armed bro hugs.

I get to my locker in one piece, thankfully a new one and not the original. I don't want to be rolling out the welcome mat for more bad memories. With the excuse of putting my bag away, I take a chance to observe my surroundings.

My peers are predictable. One glance and it's easy to tell who's who by body language, clothing, and the people they surround themselves with. I note a few familiar faces, like Jenny Pitcher who's sucking face with her boyfriend without a care in the world (nice to know she's still boy crazy), Adam Graves with glasses forever sitting crookedly on his nose and surrounded by friends all in a deep discussion—probably about philosophy or quantum physics.

There's a loud whoop and the sound escalates as a larger party moves down the corridor and everyone's eyes are now on them. My body freezes as I recognize the figures—Hayley Cassidy, Winnie Stryder, Allie Sanderson—the three bitches of the West. Noah Michaels and Reed Hemmingway are the two hell boys I remember. There are also other figures surrounding them that I don't recognize too well, their requisite posse I suppose.

The group comes closer and closer in my direction and I turn back around. My heart is suddenly too loud in my ears and I don't like it at all. Did they recognize me? I doubt it. They were too busy paying attention to each other. I breathe out a small sigh when I hear their movement stop, like my body is fine-tuned to what they do. Just like a prey that has to be aware of its predators if it wants to survive.

But I'm not prey anymore, I comfort myself. Please God, not again.

"Hey," a voice sounds over my shoulder and it takes me a beat too long to turn around.

"Hi," I respond, completely all smiles, hugging a book to my chest. "What's up?"

It's a boy! My inner voice cries at me. Obviously. But judging by his looks he's more than your average high school boy. Blinding smile, sculpted cheekbones, light brown hair that slips into his eyes… And his physique! Probably a knockout with his clothes off judging by those broad shoulders…

"Could you scoot over a bit? My locker is right next to yours." His tone is at least partly apologetic and not completely entitled, which is a plus on his side.

"Sure, sorry," I chirp and move one step to the left.

I am confident, the words appear in my head. So what if he doesn't seem interested… Pretty girls probably throw themselves at him all the time…

I busy myself and finally gather everything I need and slam the locker shut, just as he does.

"I'm Denver by the way," he extends a hand and a smile and I take it. "Are you new? I've never seen you around before."

"You could say that," I grin. "I'm Sera."

"Cool. What do you have first period?"

"AP History with Mr. Simmons."

"Nice, I'll—"

"Denver, what's taking so long?" A slender girl with caramel locks storms up and halts in front of us. Said girl scans me from head to toe, not even trying to be sly about it. "Why are you talking to this slut?"

My lips curve into a wider smile. There's just something funny about it, exactly the type of reaction I would expect Hayley Cassidy to take. Aside from growing taller and developing more of a chest, she hasn't changed much at all.

"Hayley," Denver takes an admonishing tone and shoots me an apologetic look.

"What? Just look at her! Her shorts are like, short."

"That's because they are short... That's why they're called shorts." The words come out without me even thinking about it.

I hear snickers and guffaws burst around me and some of her friends openly laugh.

"Chill out, Hayls," Noah comes around and puts one arm around her shoulder and with the other, he sticks out a hand. "I'm Noah. And I like you already."

"Sera," I introduce myself again and Noah's hand engulfs mine.

"Didn't I see you wearing a skirt tinier than that the other day, Hayls?" One of the other boys says aloud, they're standing closer now.

"Shut up, Reed," Winnie pipes up to defend her best friend. "No one asked for your opinion."

Reed grabs Winnie around the waist and lifts her up, and for a while all we hear are her shrieks.

"Shut it, Winnie. Your banshee voice hurts my ears." A voice snaps.

I turn around to see who would have the guts to say something like that to one of the golden girls. And it's him, his presence looms over everyone else.

It's not just Winnie who quiets. It's the whole hallway. Reed drops Winnie to the ground and there's no other sound, not even the closing of lockers or scuffle of shoes.

"Hey man, where've you been?" Noah breaks the quiet and thumps the Colton Hayes on the back.

Colton seems livid. His cerulean eyes are bright and his chiseled jaw is clenched.

"Finding parking," Colton states in a flat tone.

Oh shit.

"What?" Reed asks. "Don't you have your own spot?"

Out of nowhere, Colton plucks out a scrawny boy with a mop of sandy hair and dumps him in the middle of the gang. Murmurs break out in the hallway and the place feels more claustrophobic as the student body tightens around us.

Shit. Shit. Shit. I recognize that kid.

"Explain." Colton commands.

"TherewasagirlwhootookyourparkingspotandIcouldn'ts topher," the poor guy spills out in one breath. He's holding both his arms up, ready to cover his face. As though he's afraid Colton might hit him.

Now there's something you need to understand about Colton Hayes. He's unpredictable; mad even. There are nearly no limits with him. He pushes the boundaries every chance he gets in how he treats other students, the way he interacts with teachers or any sort of adult.

He brought terror to the school. He was only a Freshman and he never held his tongue and even picked fights with Seniors. He was petrifying, but there were those who looked up to him and worshipped the ground he walked on. He gained a following very fast, and the rest they say is history.

Colton scowls and kicks scrawny's shoes.

"Who damn it?"

Scrawny lowers his hands and looks around, maybe searching for help, but then his eyes lock with mine.

The s-word resounds one more time in my head, and my heart is now stuck in my throat and I think I've stopped breathing.

In slow motion, like we're underwater, scrawny lifts his hand and points his finger directly at me. At this point, I don't think I'm the only one holding in my breath. The air is now filled with tension, a knife's edge from disaster.

Colton turns his head towards me and I'm now staring right into his eyes—I'm in the belly of the beast.

Right now, where at any moment I might be torn into a thousand pieces—Colton Hayes is stunning. Jaw-droppingly gorgeous.

There are raw waves of masculinity rolling off him and something about him says 'I-don't-give-a-shit-about you' and 'go-ahead-and-try, I-can-eat you-for-breakfast'. It's the combination of his ridiculously blessed good looks and the assurance in himself. He was good looking at a younger age, still muscular and lean but undeveloped, and now he's in a whole different league.

I do the unthinkable. I smile.

"I'm Sera Phillips, and it's great to meet you Colton."