Copyright Disclaimer: Me no own Teen Wolf. If I did I wouldn't have so many issues finding a place I can afford in the big NYC.

Okay, I hope you enjoy!

Chapter 1 – A Not-So-Fresh Start

How was it that schools ended up looking the same? It was like some supremely boring adults had gotten together at the beginning of time and agreed on a particular set of designs that would suppress all sense of creativity and instantaneously make everyone under the age of 30 want to fall asleep. It didn't matter if it was some fancy prep school or some low-budget public school, at the core all schools were the same. They all had those laminate desks that for some reason insisted on masquerading as wood, the checkered tile floors, and the blandly beige walls. And then there were the teachers. At one point they had probably been all fresh-faced and ready to shape the crap out of some lives, but years of apathetic teenagers had slowly turned them into alcoholic shells of their former selves.

The one thing that bothered her the most, though, was the posters. They were all so upbeat, trying to convince the students that, if they took their studies seriously, they would achieve some sort of greatness. Success in school translates to success in life. That was the myth they perpetuated. Study hard, get good grades, and the world would treat you well. Well that's not how life worked. Shit happened, and there was nothing you do about it. It was all chaos—entropy.

Plus for some reason the people in those posters were always smiling and always seemed to be wearing high-waisted pants. That was just plain weird.

This was not how she wanted to spend her Saturday morning. She could probably think of a few worse places to be—the DMV, the dentist, a community theater rendition of 'Cats'—but as far as she could tell there weren't a lot of them. The whole situation was more than slightly ridiculous. Winter break hadn't even ended yet, but here she was, sitting outside the principal's office. And she hadn't even done anything wrong yet. Hell, winter break hadn't even ended yet—the first day back was technically tomorrow. Sure, it was more than likely that she would eventually be sent there for some reason or another, but for now it seemed completely unnecessary.

Slouching low in her plastic, bright orange chair, the girl stared at her hands as she picked idly at her fingernails. The bright blue polish that covered them was flaking off easily. She wasn't sure why she even bothered painting her nails any more. The manicure never stayed intact for more than 48 hours.

"Gwen, you don't need to be so nervous."

Gwen looked up from her nails at the woman sitting in the chair next to her. Her aunt was staring at her with sympathy in her eyes. To the observer, the two of them probably made quite the strange pair. The two of them did actually look quite a bit similar. They shared the same light brown hair and straight nose. They even shared the same strong chin and angular jaw line. Actually, Gwen looked more like Aunt Natalie than her own mother. It was in the presentation that the two of them differed heavily. Aunt Natalie had always been a proper-looking sort of woman. Her hair was always blow-dried and tidy, her makeup light and fresh, and her clothes carried a neat elegance. Gwen didn't have that same softness. Her hair was frizzy and tangled, barely contained in her ponytail, her makeup was dramatic and dark, her clothes were ripped and rumpled, and she always had those headphones around her neck lest she need to block out any irritating conversation happening around her. Clearing her throat a bit, she lifted her feet off the ground, crossing her legs and tucking her combat boot-clad feet underneath her. "What do you mean?" she asked with a shrug. "Why would I be nervous?"

Aunt Natalie gave her a knowing look and shook her head. "You're transferring schools," the woman said, looking at her pointedly. "That's bound to be stressful."

"I don't look at it as 'transferring' so much as 'trading up'," Gwen replied. "I'm not nervous."

"Really?" Aunt Natalie asked, quirking a skeptical eyebrow. Her eyes drifted down to where Gwen's hands were folded in her lap and then back up again, giving her a pointed look. "Then why are you destroying you nails right now?"

"Oh, you mean this?" Gwen chirped, lifting a hand in the air and waving her fingers to display the botched paint job. "This isn't nerves. It's boredom. This whole thing is taking a bit longer than I expected."

Aunt Natalie sighed and wrapped an arm around Gwen's shoulders, pulling her into a light, one armed hug that was probably meant to be comforting. "Well, there's a lot of paperwork for the office to get through," she sighed. "All this has been pretty last minute, you know."

"Yeah, I know," Gwen grumbled bitterly. "It's just…the principal's office isn't exactly where I saw myself spending my last few hours of freedom before school starts up again. Lydia's off 'camping' or whatever with her friends and I….I am here. In the belly of the beast. In the ninth circle of hell."

"Hey, hey, hey," Aunt Natalie said, swatting gently at Gwen's shoulder. "Need I remind you that I teach here?"

"I know," Gwen said, looking up at the woman with wide, innocent eyes. "And your kindness, charm, and effortless beauty are why your class is probably only going to be like the first circle of hell. Maybe even limbo if you flash that winning smile."

"Stop it, Gwen," her aunt said through an affected laugh, placing her hand over her heart and feigning embarrassment. "You're making me blush."

"I'm just trying to butter you up before the school year starts," Gwen sighed. "You know, ingratiate myself before you start grading my papers."

"Yes, well flattery will get you everywhere," Aunt Natalie sighed. "And so will chocolate."

"Are you suggesting bribery?" Gwen exclaimed. She let her mouth fall open in a theatrical gasp. "How unprofessional! How unethical! I like it."

Aunt Natalie just let out a light chuckle and turned back to the issue of 'Vanity Fair' she had in her lap. Gwen on the other hand reached into her pocket and pulled out her iPod, turning up the volume so music blasted out the headphones around her neck like tiny speakers. For the most part she just stared out in front of her, wrinkling her nose at the various motivational posters that papered the wall outside the principal's office, trying to inspire whichever delinquents were forced to sit in that chair. But every once in a while she let her eyes flicker to the woman sitting next to her.

Through most of her life, Gwen had felt like she was born into the wrong family—or to the wrong sister. It had only taken one family Christmas with the Martins when she was five to figure it out. She could still remember peeking around the corner and into her cousin Lydia's room to find Aunt Natalie brushing her daughter's hair. Gwen's mother never brushed her hair. That was the moment she realized the difference. Real mothers brushed your hair and read you bedtime stories. Real parents were there. That was the first time she could remember wishing she lived with the Martins instead of alone in that big, empty house. And it only took ten years and the accident for that wish to become a reality.

Letting out a light sigh, Gwen looked down at her hands again, but this time it wasn't to resume the insistent destruction of her manicure. She opened her left fist and stared down at the lines of her palm. Between those typical creases there were other lines—thin and white. The scars had almost faded, but the traces of them were still there. A reminder of past pain that was still bleeding into the present. Using her right index finger, Gwen traced along those lines. It was a nervous habit she had picked up since it happened.

The car crash. It seemed so far away and so close at the same time. It had to have been about six months ago now. Her parents were out of the country again in one of those exotic places whose names began with one the high-value scrabble letters. Her best friend Liv had showed up with her learner's permit, her mom's new boyfriend's Cadillac, and the promise of a fun night and cute boys. It had taken some persuading—they had only planned on watching romcoms and eating ice cream until they made themselves nauseous—but Liv had convinced her. Liv always convinced her. They didn't even make it half way to the bowling alley before that car ran red light and slammed into the driver's side door. She had ended up with two surgeries and three months of physical therapy. Liv…..Liv hadn't been quite so lucky.

All of the sudden a slightly larger, slender-fingered hand, manicure still entirely intact, covered hers and wrenched her thoughts away from that night. Aunt Natalie had put her magazine away again and was staring at her with that same sympathetic look. It would have been annoying if she wasn't so genuine about the situation. "Hey," she said gently, giving Gwen's hand a firm squeeze. "I know your parents wanted to be here."

"Yeah," Gwen agreed with a bitter laugh. "They just wanted to be in Dubai more."

At that, Aunt Natalie's face screwed up into a pained expression, regret etched into every line of her face. It wasn't like she could deny it. Her sister and brother-and-law had left as soon as Gwen's physical therapy had concluded, and things hadn't really changed from there. Gwen was back to living in that huge house with only the caretaker Sabina for company. But given that Sabina was from Brazil and spoke only Portuguese, it wasn't exactly the recipe for great conversation. Though on the plus side Gwen had picked up more than a little bit of Portuguese herself. Most of it was swear words. It was only when the problems in school started that Gwen's parents had seen fit to change something about her living situation. Changing it in the way that had the smallest impact on their jet-setting life-style, of course.

Aunt Natalie gave Gwen's hand another firm squeeze. "Lydia and I are both really glad that you've come to stay with us. You know that right?"

Gwen smiled and squeezed back. "Thank you."

All of the sudden the door swung open, revealing a tall, thin man with a thick file under his arm. He seemed to be the type who, under normal circumstances, probably would have had ramrod straight posture and a professional demeanor. Today, though, he seemed a bit frazzled, his suit rumpled and eyes weary. "Mrs. Martin, Ms. Gilroy," he said nodding at the two of them. "So sorry to have kept you waiting. I'm afraid you found us at a bit of chaotic time. We've had to deal with some….faculty changes and there have been several last minute transfers to process."

"No problem at all," Aunt Natalie said getting to her feet. She turned to Gwen, gesturing for her to stand as well. "Gwen, this is Mr. Allen. He's the vice principal here at Beacon Hills."

"Nice to meet you," Gwen said.

The man extended a hand which she took, giving it a firm shake. "Likewise," he said with a nod acknowledgement before turning back to her aunt. He removed the file from under his arm and lifted in her direction. "I have all of the paperwork that needs to be dealt with here, if you'll just follow me." Then he faced Gwen again. "Your aunt and I can take care of all this. In the mean time I've set up an appointment with our guidance counselor Ms. Morell. She can help ease the transition—give you advice, get you settled. Her office is three doors down the hall."

Mr. Allen stepped out of the doorway and extended an arm, gesturing for Aunt Natalie to move through it. The woman paused in the doorway for a moment and shot Gwen one last encouraging smile, mouthing the words 'good luck' before striding through. Gwen let out a light snort and turned on her heel, walking down the hall in the direction Mr. Allen had indicated. She came to a stop in front of a glass-paneled door. Through it she could a woman sitting at a desk, scribbling some notes. She lifted a hand and rapped her knuckles three times against the glass. At the sound, the woman raised her head and waved her in.

"You must be Gwen Gilroy," the woman said, stowing the papers she was working on. "Please, take a seat."

Gwen unslung the bag from over her shoulder and dropped it on the floor before collapsing into the green, padded chair opposite her. The woman flipped the last folder shut and pushed it to the side of her desk before folding her hands on the surface and staring at Gwen evenly. She was pretty, with flawless light brown skin and shiny, dark hair, but those weren't the features Gwen dwelled on. Her eyes were what drew focus. They were sharp and intelligent, more calculating than sympathetic which wasn't exactly typical of guidance counselors. Which meant that Gwen was probably going to like her.

"Welcome to Beacon Hills High School," the woman said, offering up a polite smile. "I'm Ms—"

"Ms. Morell," Gwen finished for her, returning the smile. "The school's resident head-shrinker. So I've heard."

The woman cocked her head to the side curiously, but didn't appear to be offended in any way. In fact, the tight smile on her face widened slightly. "Actually, according to the sign out there my official title is 'school counselor'. And 'French teacher'."

"Ah, a woman who wears many hats," Gwen said, tipping an imaginary hat in Ms. Morell's direction. "I salute you."

Ms. Morell let out a light snort. "I appreciate that. Give me one moment while I find your file."

As Ms. Morell moved towards the file cabinet, Gwen took the opportunity to survey her surroundings. Yawning widely, she sank low in her chair and let her eyes scan the room. Mostly it was all your standard fair. A few potted plants, and few photos of friends and family, nothing all that extraordinary. But then Gwen's eyes fell on the bookshelf behind the woman's desk. For the most part the books were pretty innocuous, but there wedged between her French-English dictionary and the Vis-à-vis: Beginning French textbook was a copy of the DSM-IV. If her memory served correctly, which it always did, that book was also known as the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders. Yup. 'School counselor' was definitely a loose term.

After rifling though a few files, Ms. Morell grabbed a folder and pushed the cabinet door shut before returning to her seat. "So," Gwen sighed out, looking at the woman pointedly, "do all of the transfers here have a one-on-one session with the 'school counselor', or am I just special?"

Ms. Morell pressed her lips in a thin line and narrowed her eyes slightly, like she was trying to analyze each sentence coming out of Gwen's mouth. It was a few more moments before she spoke again. "Your parents want you to be happy here," she said finally. "They were eager to make sure that your transition to Beacon Hills was as painless and convenient as possible."

A bitter, involuntary snort forced its way out of Gwen's nose. "Eager?" she demanded, her eyebrows shooting up so high they practically disappeared into her hairline. "How eager were they exactly? Were they 'new gym' eager or 'new wing of the library' eager?"

Generally Gwen's disillusioned and blasé attitude when it came to her parents made other people a wee bit uncomfortable. Like they weren't quite sure how to react. It was usually followed by an awkward laugh or some shifting in their seat. But Ms. Morell just smiled evenly. "You know what?" she said, leaning in a bit, almost conspiratorially. "I think the lacrosse team got a donation of all new equipment."

"Seriously?" Gwen scoffed. "That's it? Man, Brad and Karen are getting kind of cheap."

At that Ms. Morell sat back in her seat, continuing to study Gwen carefully. "Well, Gwen, I'm not here to talk about Brad and Karen. I'm here to talk about you. So shall we begin?"

Gwen gave a casual shrug and nodded in agreement. "By all means. Proceed. Crack open that file."

Ms. Morell flipped the folder open and began to skim the contents, tracing the words with her fingers as her eyes darted across the page. "Alright," she mused under her breath. "Gwendolyn Gilroy. You're transferring here from Devenford Prep. It looks like you have perfect grades, exceptional proficiency in mathematics….." Her words trailed off as she continued to read. "Past extracurriculars include student government, theater, academic decathlon—" And then the words just stopped. The woman frowned at the page and then glanced back up at Gwen with a questioning expression on her face. Her eyes flicked up and down Gwen's form, taking in her appearance from the black combat boots to the frayed tank top and dark eye-liner. "Pep squad?" she demanded, clearly more than slightly skeptical.

"Ah, yes." Gwen straightened in her seat and smiled sheepishly at her counselor. "About that…back in middle school I was clinically diagnosed with 'excessive pep'," she said using air quotes. "It caused a bit of a scare, but don't worry. They caught it early on and with two years of therapy it has since been entirely removed from my system. I am entirely pep-less. Totally devoid of pep. No pep whatsoever."

Ms. Morell stared at Gwen blankly for a few moments, but for the most part seemed to remain unfazed. Turning back to the file, she continued to read. "It says here that you're a classically trained pianist. A good one—you've placed first in multiple recitals. Beacon Hills has a good orchestra. It looks like you'd be a great addition."

"Afraid not," Gwen replied bluntly. She lifted up her left arm and tugged the sleeve of her leather jacket down far enough to reveal the raised, knotted scar running down the length of her forearm. "Damage to the extensor apparatus of the hand," she said, waggling her fingers in a morbidly cheerful wave. "Doctors say I only have about 80% motility in my fingers, so that means no piano for me."

For the first time since Gwen walked in that room, sympathy showed on Ms. Morell's face, and it made her groan internally. She didn't want any sympathy. She had no use for it. It wasn't like other people feeling sorry for changed anything or made her situation any better. In reality it just ended up being a giant pain in the ass. Unfortunately, 'pain in the ass' looked like the direction this conversation was taking. "I must be difficult for you," Ms. Morell said in that benignly understanding tone shrinks used when they were trying to get you to open up. "To be unable to do something you love—that must be hard."

Gwen couldn't help but roll her eyes at that one. It was such a boringly predictable move, trying to establish a connection like that. All the therapists tried it. It started out with 'it must have been hard' and progressed to 'how does that make you feel?' and soon enough they were expecting you to spill your guts to them while they scribbled down notes on their clipboard. Gwen hated therapists. Every word they spoke was carefully crafted, and that sympathy they always showed? It was never genuine. It was a move—a tactic. It was fake.

"Yeah," Gwen said snappishly. "It's a real tale of woe. I should sell my life rights—it'll make a great made-for-TV movie." She gestured across the desk at the woman with an expression of realization on her face. "Hey! You could be played by Zoe Saldana! Who do you think would play me?"

Ms. Morell didn't respond immediately, but Gwen got the feeling she wasn't going to get an answer to her question. She also got the impression that Ms. Morell realized that that tactic wasn't going to work. The woman rested her elbow on the desk and propped her head up on her hand, peering at Gwen like she was staring at an amoeba through a light microscope. It was almost as if she could see through Gwen—through her skin—and was analyzing all the bits inside, the levers and gears that made her tick. Then she flipped the folder shut, folding her hands on top of that small stack of paper. "How about we just put the file aside for a moment? I like to get to know my students outside of what's been written in their files. I find that the people doing the writing can be a bit biased."

"Ooooookay," Gwen drawled out, frowning a bit in confusion. "So what to you propose?"

"A conversation," Ms. Morell replied. "Simple as that. I ask a question, you answer it."

"That's not a conversation," Gwen quipped back. "It's an interrogation."

"It's an inquiry," Ms. Morell elaborated, bobbing her head a bit as she spoke. "But we're not here to have a semantic argument."

"Speak for yourself. I love semantic arguments." The look she received in response was not appreciative, so Gwen threw her hands in the air in surrender. "Fine. Shoot."

"Why did you want to transfer to Beacon Hills?"

"The cafeteria food," Gwen answered immediately. "I hear you guys have great tater tots. What's next?"

Apparently that response was not satisfactory. It was a deflection, a non-answer—both Gwen and Ms. Morell were highly aware of that fact. At first Gwen thought that Ms. Morell was going to be angry or frustrated with her blatant efforts to dodge the questioning, but she wasn't. In fact she looked like she had learned something. "Perhaps I'm asking the wrong question," she mused idly.

"And what's the right question?"

"Why did you want to leave Devenford Prep?"

Suddenly, the whole atmosphere in the room changed. Gwen felt her hands clench up into fists, the right one considerable tighter than the left. On the surface it was a simple question. It was almost an innocent question. But the answer cut straight to the middle of everything that was going on in her life. They were straying far too close to the things she didn't want to talk about. The things that, as far as she was concerned, were nobody's business but her own. And Gwen had absolutely zero intention of opening up to a complete stranger. "I thought you were just supposed to help me pick out electives and stuff like that."

When Ms. Morell noticed Gwen close herself off, her posture changed as well. She leaned back from desk and folded her arms across her chest, effectively abandoning her attempts at subtlety as she tried to draw Gwen into conversation. It was time for the direct approach. "Miss Gilroy, as I said before, I am here to make your transition to Beacon Hills as easy as possible," Ms. Morell said in an explanatory tone that somehow managed to be both soft and harsh. "An important part of that is to know what you're looking for—what you want. When I look at your file, it's like I'm reading about two completely different people. On one hand you've been described as outgoing, engaging, charismatic, friendly, and then on the other I see words like closed-off, anti-social, irritable. That's a pretty significant difference."

"Yeah, well I went through a bit of a rough patch," Gwen snapped. "I'm sure you can read all about it in that file."

"I could," Ms. Morell said, nodding in agreement. "I could find every detail in here. But I'm not concerned what happened. I'm more concerned with what is going to happen—what you want to happen. So tell me Gwen, what do you want?"

"Other than for this conversation to be over?" Gwen blew out a long breath and her eyes flicked up to stare at the ceiling, feigning a pensive expression. "I gotta say," she said, shaking her head a bit. "That's big question. I want…a pony, I want world peace—you've always gotta say you want world peace—and I want a satisfying conclusion to the TV show 'Lost'. That ending sucked. I want a new one."

"Why do you want to change schools?" Ms. Morell insisted, looking at her pointedly. "Why do you want to leave everything behind? Your friends—"

"Liv was my friend," Gwen snapped. She knew that she shouldn't. She knew that as soon as those words left her mouth she was revealing something—giving Ms. Morell something to use—but she couldn't help it. It was instinct. And she regretted that instinct immediately. As soon as the name has left her lips, Ms. Morell was looking through that file again, trying to find new angles.

"Olivia Masterson," she murmured, flipping through the pages. "She was the other girl involved in the accident? The one who died?" She looked to Gwen for a response, but apparently the defiant expression on Gwen's face was enough to confirm the statement. "I'm sorry for your loss."

"Yeah, everybody is," Gwen hissed. "Can we move on, please?"

Ms. Morell didn't respond immediately. "Gwen," she finally said. "She might have been your best friend, but that doesn't mean she was your only friend."

"She was the only one that mattered," Gwen snapped. "She wouldn't have bailed like those assholes."

"You mean the other students at Devenford?"

"Yeah," Gwen said, nodding like was the most obvious thing in the world. "The assholes. It's a technical term."

"In what way did they 'bail' on you?" Ms. Morell pressed.

"Are we seriously doing this right now?" Gwen let out a loud groan and let her head roll back on her shoulders so that she was staring at the ceiling. How many times was she going to have to go through this process? Why did people always want her to talk? Talking wasn't going to make any of it any better. Talking wasn't to bring Liv back. Honestly, sometimes Gwen thought life would probably be better if she just stopped talking entirely. But that didn't mean people were going to stop talking to her. She had actually tried it out. For the first two weeks after the accident, she didn't speak a single word. Not one. 'Selective mutism' the doctors called it. That's when her parents started with therapists. Lots and lots of therapists. When it came to parenting and ensuring the mental well-being of their child, Brad and Karen were big fans of outsourcing.

"You can keep avoiding the questions," Ms. Morell said in a voice that was almost bored. "The fact of the matter is that you're not leaving this room until I'm satisfied with the conversation."

A grimace covered Gwen's face, but she slowly lowered her head, bringing Ms. Morell back in her eye line. "Fine." She pulled both of her legs up, crossing them underneath her. "Everybody at Devenford…..they expected me to be what I was before accident. They expected me to be something I'm not anymore. And when I wasn't what they wanted me to be…..let's just say some of them didn't like that. Words were exchanged, lines were drawn, in one incident hair was pulled. It didn't end pretty if that's what you're asking."

"And Liv?" the woman prompted.

Gwen sighed and tugged at the end of her ponytail, winding the hair around her fingers. "Liv was the only one who didn't expect anything from me. She just knew me. She knew me better than I knew me. She used to joke that I worked too hard at being nice—that there was no way it came naturally to me. She was convinced that one day I would wake up and realize that I had been sarcastic and jaded the whole time." She lifted her arms in the air, gesturing up and down herself. "Looks like she was right."

A tiny smile pulled at the corners of Ms. Morell's lips. "She sounds like a good friend."

Gwen bit her lip and tapped her thumb against the arm of the chair as she surveyed the woman with suspicion. "The best," she murmured.

All of the sudden, her eyes began to ache again. Crap. It was happening again. Every freaking time. How was she supposed to look pissed off and apathetic—how was she supposed to be able to pretend she wasn't broken—if she kept crying. She wasn't this weak. She wasn't. And she wasn't going to let this woman see her cry. Gritting her teeth, she forced back the tears and stared evenly at the Ms. Morell. "Look, I just wanted to not be there anymore, so I came here. Can't that be enough?"

The silence that followed was almost deafening. Gwen waited for what felt like hours for a response. The ticking of the wall clock echoed in her ears. She glanced at it, watching the second hand move. Tick, tick, tick. All of the sudden this feeling overtook her—an irrational wave of fear. She felt like that second hand was counting down to something, and she didn't have the tiniest clue what it was counting down to. All she knew was that it made her want to sprint out of that room.

Finally, Ms. Morell exhaled sharply and nodded a bit to herself. "Alright," she murmured, looking at Gwen. "Alright. So what kind of electives are you interested in taking."

Gwen let her eyes fall shut and let out a small sigh of relief. The next fifteen minutes or so passed as one would expect a meeting with the school guidance counselor to pass. There were hints, suggestions, little bits of advice. Numerous brochures for various after school activities and 'suggested reading' lists were forced into her hands. The meeting was drawing to a close when Ms. Morell handed Gwen her schedule. "You're going to have home room and first period with Mr. Hamilton. He's your math teacher. I doubt you'll have any problems with him."

All of the sudden the phone rang, making Gwen jump in her seat a bit. Even all these months later, shrill, abrupt noises still made her heart feel like it was about to explode out of her chest. It faded quickly, though. If Ms. Morell noticed her temporary freak out, she gave no indication. She just lifted a single finger, indicating for Gwen to wait. As Ms. Morell spoke, Gwen took a couple of deep breaths and ran her hands down her face, calming herself down.

"Okay," Ms. Morell said, hanging up the phone. "It looks like your aunt is all finished in the administration office, and I believe that we've made all the progress we're going to make today."

"Hold on—today?" Gwen demanded. "As in we plan on doing this more than once?"

Ms. Morell smiled benignly, refusing to answer the question. Which, Gwen supposed, was an answer enough in itself. "You're free to go," she said, pointing in the direction of the door with her pen. "There should be another last minute transfer waiting to meet with me outside the door. Please send him in."

"Alright-y, then."

Eager to get out of there before the woman changed her mind, Gwen threw herself out of the chair and bolted out the door. Once back in the hallway, she pushed all of the fly away hairs out of her face and took a deep breath, grateful that the impromptu and altogether unwelcome therapy session had officially come to an end. It was a few seconds before she registered the tapping noise from somewhere to her left. It was the sound of a leg bouncing up and down nervously—the perennial indicator of anxiety. Her fellow transfer was having a bit of a hard time. At least they still got that motivational poster of the cat telling them to 'hang in there'. That was definitely going to help them feel better about the complete upheaval of their lives.

"Looks like you're up next," she said, still eyeing the cat in the 'Hang In There' cat suspiciously. "Try to keep your shit together, because she is a perceptive one."

As soon as the words left her mouth, the sound of the tapping stopped. Like the person had frozen in place or something. Frowning in confusion, Gwen turned towards the source of the tapping noise. But then she froze as well. For a second it felt like her brain short-circuited—like her brain was physically and psychologically rejecting the information her eyes were relaying. Sandy blonde hair, bright blue eyes, square jaw. He shouldn't be here. He wasn't supposed to be here. He was supposed to be back at Devenford Prep with all the other assholes, playing lacrosse and leaving her the hell alone. And yet here he was. Fan-freaking-tastic.

"Gwen?"

Her name sounded like a question—all high-pitched and confused. And she just stood there, eyes slightly widened, probably looking like she was concussed. Of course this was happening. Something like this had to happen. She wasn't the type of person who could catch a break. She should have expected this. Gwen raised a single hand to her head, rubbing at her forehead to stave off the headache that was beginning to form. She pressed her lips together in a humorless smile and nodded in his direction.

"Liam."

Then, without another word, she took those headphones from where they rested around her neck and lifted them to cover her ears before plodding down the hallway towards where Aunt Natalie was standing.

So much for fresh starts.

PLEASE COMMENT/REVIEW. Sorry if I'm super-needy right now, but I'd love to know what you guys think and if I should proceed. I may or may not edit this heavily.

Thanks for accomodating my crazy!

Love,

Cate