Scarlet's POV

I groan as my alarm clock dings me awake. I yawn, longing to stay in bed until I remember that this is the day of Derek's party. Music, movies, friends, staying up and staying out way too late for my parents' liking; the usual. Why he would invite me after he cheated on my sister? Beats me. But hey, he does have a six pack.

I let my plump lips slither into a smirk, imagining what I'll say to him at the party. I bite my lip, picturing him taking me upstairs, far away from any of the other guests. Shaking my head, my fantasy disappears, and I rush downstairs to make myself an omelette. Extra cheesy, just the way I like it.

I fasten my seatbelt and drive off to school, getting my flowy red dress stuck in the door and, to be honest, probably speeding. As if I care. I spent way too long creating the perfect smokey eye and praying to God it would last at least somewhat until Derek's party. Touch ups are inevitable, but it wouldn't hurt to start without a black canvas. I pull into the parking lot of Body High, my boring high school. I sigh in relief when I realize I'm not late after all and apply my lipstick carefully while parked in the school parking lot, painting my kisser with a blood red hue.

Go ahead Derek, just try to stay away.

Mustard's POV

Struggling to focus on calculus, I can't stop thinking about my big game tomorrow. How will I go to Derek's party and get a good night's sleep so I can play well? I am the quarterback, after all.

"Mr. Mustard? Do you know the answer?"

"Malcolm! She's talking to you, bro."

Derek's voice quickly pulls me out of me worries. "U-um, the answer, Mrs. Wellburg, oh yes, um… the answer is 54."

"That is incorrect. Mr. Plum?"

Percival Plum props up his glasses on his thin, freckled nose. "The answer is 69." A few kids chuckle. "At least I got it right, pervs."

"Yes, Mr. Plum, that is correct. Once again a stellar student."

Stellar? What kind of person uses the word stellar? Honestly, sometimes I feel like I'm in one of these iconic, stereotypical teen films. We've got labels for everyone, me, a jock, Percival, a nerd (how could anyone named Percival not be a nerd), Sasha Scarlet, oh, Sasha Scarlet, the beautiful, wonderful popular girl who just so happens to have her eyes on Derek. I may just have to change that. And now we have to add lame teachers to the mix? At least Mr. Gills, the social studies teacher, is a pretty fun, chill guy.

I close my eyes and imagine the party. My friends and I, playing music and staying up late, and Sasha will be there, Sasha with her bright blue eyes, thick red lips, and flowing brown hair. Sasha, my never ending fantasy.

Who cares about the big game? I'll sleep when I'm dead.

White's POV

To go or not to go. That was the question. To be honest, I really did want to go the party, but what if Derek saw me there?

I knew half the school would be there, how could I be any different? He doesn't care who comes to his parties, especially when his parents are out, "having their own fun in their Hawaii beach house," as he likes to call it, but what can I say? I'm the weird back of the class girl. Not exactly creepy, I'm not goth or emo or anything like that, just weird. Few people understand the quiet, ghost-like girl who only wears white and has a poetry journal. Actually, make that no people. Nobody understands. And that's exactly why Derek would try to give me a hard time if he saw me "lurking around" at his party. But contrary to the common belief, I truly do enjoy the party scene. So am I willing to sacrifice my dignity for a little fun?

The truth? Well, you really can't blame me for thinking some things just might be easier without that Derek boy.

Peacock's POV

I attempt to finish my homework quickly, legs still aching from soccer practice. Five subjects of homework in one weekend. If the calculations of Percival Plum - who I have every class with - are correct, that amounts to twelve and a half hours. Am I going to high school or prison?

I do admire his defiant spirit, though, arguing with the authorities that twelve and a half hours is far too much. Even nerds prefer to do all their work during the day and have some free time.

I sigh. Don't categorize him, Peyton. But hey, like Malcolm always says, sometimes it's hard to not fall victim to teen stereotypes. Not like I pay any attention to what Malcolm always says.

Malcolm's like me - a jock. We're not exactly friends but… acquaintances. We know each other, but we rarely talk. He loves to watch all sports, even though he only plays football. And he has the common sense to know that girls can be just as good at sports as guys, which his half-brained friend Derek is a little late to pick up on. And he's pretty smart, too, which is definitely not a stereotypical popular guy/jock dude trait. Why do I know all of this? No reason. You know what, just forget I said anything.

And that's why I'm debating whether or not to go to Derek's party. That reminds me - I have debate team on Tuesday. Making tonight the only night this month that I'm free. I promised myself I would boycott Derek's sexist shenanigans where I'm surrounded by speakers blaring objectifying music and Derek himself trying to find any girl that looks like the girl described in the song to take up to his bedroom. But then again, I do enjoy parties, and most of my soccer friends are going. I walk over to my bulletin board and open my calendar.

April 9th - that dumb tool's party.

Green's POV

"Thank you, Mrs. Taylor," I say gratefully as the wrinkled woman hands me a twenty-dollar bill.

"Oh, don't thank me, Gunner. I've been needing my lawn mowed for weeks! You're such a generous child. They just don't make teens like you anymore." Her accent makes my name sound like Gunna instead of Gunner.

"Thank you, ma'am. That means a lot."

"Now what did I say about thanking me?" She replies with a chuckle. I laugh back in response.

"Now you have a nice day. Feel free to stop by whenever you like. I make cookies every Sunday."

"That's very kind of you, Mrs. Taylor. May I ask, what kind of cookies?"

"Chocolate chip, my dear."

"My favorite. Thank you for the offer. I'll think about coming by this weekend." With that I walk off, making a mental note of the cookies. If I asked to take some home with me, I could start a bake sale. Shady, I know, but hey, I need the cash. Badly. And after all, chocolate chip actually is my favorite.

I feel my phone buzz in my pocket and pull it out to reveal a text from my buddy Dan.

Are you coming to Derek's party tonight?

Confused, I text back as quickly as I can. What? No way! I never talk to him, we're in completely different social circles, and he's a racist! Plus, I have a curfew, man.

I heard they're making bets on who will end up with who by the end of the night. You know, money bets.

So... gambling? Really dude?

His next text takes me aback and I gulp, denying what I deep down know is true.

We both know you need it.

Plum's POV

When my French class finally ends, I hurry through the hallway, grab my phone and backpack from my locker, and head onto bus number 102.

I sit silently on my phone on the bus ride home. My girl friend - mind the space - Lucy is blowing it up with messages about the party.

Why won't you come?

I sigh. Can't I just not want to come? Why would we go to a party when we're not invited? Plus, Derek hates us!

Listen, doofus, I know we're not popular but don't you at least know how popular kids work? There's no invitations. Whoever comes, comes. Do you think he'll notice if we're there? And do you honestly think he'll give a crap?

Huh. I hadn't thought of that. Well when you say it that way…

Well I'm coming whether you are or not. Consider it, Percy.

I will.

And it's not a lie. I do consider it. And at 8:00 that night, I find myself at Derek Jansen's huge, stupid house, knocking on the big wooden door.