Jack walked into the detention room for the fourth time that week. Sitting at the teacher's desk at the front of the room was Mr. Johnson, an old balding man with a bad attitude who had given up on teaching his students long ago. Jack walked over to his usual desk, since he had practically claimed it since he was there nearly every school day and sometimes Saturdays. It wasn't that he was a bad kid, it was just that he refused to take anyone's bullshit, and being the youngest Mercer brother didn't help since it was the same teachers who had taught his older brothers.

As he took his seat in the back corner of the room other students began to fill in. The room had begun to fill up completely and the buses outside the window began to pull away. The last bell rang out and Mr. Johnson pulled out the list of names of the detention attendees, not needing to call out the names, already knowing who was who by heart.

Jack opened his ever present composition notebook and began to scribble words into it as the door was thrown open and a girl who couldn't name, but looked familiar rushed into the room.

"Miss Leary, late for class and detention," Mr. Johnson said.

"I wouldn't want to be inconsistent," she replied, grinning at him sweetly.

"Go take a seat."

"With pleasure," she said, sarcastically.

The girl rolled her eyes and sat down next to Jack, the only available seat, and threw her bag onto the floor. Jack looked up from his notebook and over at her, smirking. He had seen her around, was even in a few of her classes, but she barely said two words let alone talked back to a teacher before. She wasn't quiet in a way that made it seem like she didn't have time for people under her radar or even in a shy way. It was more a quiet in the sense that if she just kept to herself everything would just go smoother.

"What'd you do?" Jack whispered.

"Tardiness," she whispered back. "I don't think we're supposed to talk."

"Okay, we'll talk when he's gone. In about five minutes he's going to get up and say he's going to get a cop coffee, he'll tell us misfits to behavior ourselves and he won't return until five minutes before the end of detention," he replied. He placed his head on his open notebook and closed his eyes so that it looked like he was sleeping.

Barely five minutes later Mr. Johnson did just as Jack said he would and left. Instantly, cigarettes, lighters, and boom boxes hidden inside backpacks appeared seemingly out of nowhere. Jack lifted his head from his desk and turned toward her, holding out his hand.

"Jack Mercer," he said.

She looked at him, summing him up. He had gorgeous blue eyes that expressed an aged characteristic to them that made her believe he had seen more than most youths should have. He had a crinkled smile, wrinkles around his lips made it seem like he had only learned how to use his smile and was already wearing it out. On his chin was a small ink mark, probably from when he rested his head in his notebook and small hairs that showed he was just learned how to shave. Looking down at his hands, she noticed the soft looking skin on his palm and the harsh, calluses on his finger tips.

If not by name, then by reputation, she knew who he was. They had at least one class a year together since middle school, but they had never spoken. It wasn't that she was afraid of him, though the surname Mercer was rather infamous, it's just that she had never figured a reason why she should talk to him. He seemed nice enough, but she didn't deem him trustworthy enough.

"I know who you are," she replied, not taking his hand.

"Ouch," he said, pulling his unshaken hand away and placing back on the desk. "I know who you are, too. You're Bella or something like that." He thought for a moment and then slammed his hand down on his desk in realization. "Isabelle Leary."

"We've had class together for like six years and yet that still shocks me that you knew that much," she said.

"You know, you're always so quiet that I thought you were nice. Then you come in, talk back to the teacher and I started thinking that you were nice, but now I realize I was wrong."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You're rude."

"I'm not rude, I'm just having a bad day. Some freakin' pervert meathead jock-blocked me in the hallway and made late for my class so I got detention and I can't afford to be here."

"Why, afraid it will look bad on your permanent record?"

"No, I can't lose hours at my job," she admitted.

Jack was startled by this. He always thought she was from one of the middle class families in the town. Not because she dressed like she was, but just because of the way she held herself so properly.

"If you want I can show him what my fist looks like close up," Jack offered. Isabelle laughed softly, shaking her head. She had a pretty laugh, Jack thought. "Are you sure?"

"Thanks for the offer, but no thanks. I can handle him myself."

"Well, if you change you're mind I'm hear practically every Monday to Friday so you know where you can reach me."

"Or in our English class," she replied.

"Yeah, we do have English together, don't we? Homeroom too, right?"

Isabelle nodded and looked away from him. She reached into her bag and pulled out a large book, opening to it to a dog-eared page and silently read it to herself. Jack looked back down at his composition book and turned to a fresh page, starting to write something fervently. Six minutes before detention was over everyone sat back in their seats, put out their cigarettes and hid their boom boxes. Merely seconds after the clamor died down Mr. Johnson walked into the classroom, oblivious to what had been going on.

Smirking, Isabelle bit back at laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. Jack looked over at her, smiling now, as well. Mr. Johnson looked down at the classroom filled with students and dismissed them with a shake of his hand.

"You made detention interesting," Jack said, running up to Isabelle, as she walked away.

"Thanks, I think," she replied.

"It was a compliment." He shoved his hands into his pockets, wishing he had picked up on one of his brother's ability to be calm in any situation. "So, are you gonna grace us with your presence anymore?"

"No, I am probably going to try to avoid it."

"Then how am I going to ever talk to you again."

"Maybe if you actually show up for class we can talk then," she suggested.

"Yeah, but it's not my style."

"Judging by your hair, I don't think you have much style," she joked.

"See, rude," he said. He continued walking alongside her. "So, where do you work?"

"At a diner. Helga's down on 3rd St."

"Oh, I know where that is. You want me to walk you there?"

"I don't think that's such a good idea," she replied. "It's just that it's a new job and if I show up saying that I had detention and I'm with a guy, I'm pretty sure they'll think that I was lying and just got back from making out with my boyfriend or something."

"Well, we can make that true if you want," he suggested, laughing.

"You're cute, but not that cute, Mercer."

Isabelle stood in front of the door and smiled at him, politely and then pushed it open. As she began to walk away she heard him call out to her. She turned around and waved goodbye and then disappeared into the rainy day.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"What did you get in trouble for today, Jack?" Evelyn asked, as Jack walked into the house.

"Nothing, I just had some detentions from last week that I had to pay for this week, I overlapped apparently on the number of teachers who wanted to waste my time by making me sit in a classroom doin' nothin' for an hour and a hour. But I am all clear for tomorrow afternoon, as long as I don't get into trouble," he answered. He kissed her on the cheek and sat down across from her at the kitchen table. "It wasn't all that bad today, though."

"Why?"

"I got some more lyrics written," he said.

"Your writer's block is gone?"

"Yeah, detention had some great inspiration." He stood up and pushed his chair in. "I gotta go try to figure out some music."

"Okay, but don't lock yourself up in your room for too long, Bobby's coming home tomorrow and I need your help getting this house Bobby-proofed."

"Sure thing, mom," he said, running up the stairs.

As soon as he opened the door to his room he collapsed on his bed, grabbing his guitar and began to strum away the chords in his head.