Chapter 1:

"Miss Smoak? Would you mind staying after for a second?"

That depends, did I want to be slightly late for English?

Of course. A couple of extra minutes with Mr. Berty definitely beat rehashing old, British lit with the lackluster AP teacher, Mrs. Jenkins. Legend says-well, not technically legend-her husband is mute. She's just been talking to herself for years. I could definitely relate in that aspect.

I pile up my books and smiled to the rest of my classmates that hustled out the door. You know the saddest part? Not a single one of them did the signature "oooh" that graced nearly every high school film post-1980s. It's like they knew that Mr. Berty wasn't going to chastise me and had absolutely no concern for my well-being. I mean, yes, chances are, Mr. Berty was going to compliment me on my lab today, but a little bit of unease would be nice. Come to think of it, my lab results were rather thorough. I also incorporated my own, totally unnecessary chart that mapped out each of the effects on the bacteria from the subjects he gave us. This was all while Helena Bertinelli sat beside me, painting her nails purple.

Mr. Berty smiles, scraggly and old. "Your work today was phenomenal, per usual. I especially loved your conclusions. I've dabbled with that particular bacteria, and let me tell you, the hydrochloric acid..." he pushes his glasses up and grins. "It's positively incredible."

I nod excitedly. "I can't wait to try it. I've got a bit of hydrochloric at home. Do you think I could steal a petri dish?"

"Of course," he says eagerly. "Would you mind emailing me your thoughts? I don't think there's a teacher in this building that has tried it before and I'd love to discuss it-"

"Most definitely."

"Good."

Assuming that's the end of the conversation, I start to walk toward the door. "Miss Smoak?"

I twirl around and raise an eyebrow. "Yes?"

He looks fidgety.

It's so odd to be on the receiving end of that. Usually, I am fidgety. Not even fidgety, really. Just nervous sometimes.

But honestly? I'm probably the person that you should be the least nervous of. My boring ponytail was not the least bit intimidating. My thick framed glasses screamed painful innocence; not hardcore in the slightest. There was some bad-assery in my industrial piercing, I have to admit. I deserve to give myself my P's and Q's for that. But if I'm being one hundred percent honest with myself, the bad-assery is kind of overshadowed by the fact that I was holding on to one of my best friend's hands the entire time.

But he's fidgety, and it's not fake. "I think you're one of the most tenacious, intelligent students in this school. Definitely the most intelligent that I've ever had the pleasure of teaching."

My heart warms. "Thank you, Mr. Berty. That means a lot."

"And I know," he continues, "That students should aspire to be on your level."

I stand a little taller, soaking in his compliments until I'm properly pruned. "...they should have your maturity level, they should at least have the decency to show up to class..."

He spits out the last part with a scowl on his face. When he sees my concern, totally warranted by the way, he backtracks.

"Yes, they should have everything that you have. I truly see you as the ideal student. That's why I believe that you should be utilizing those strengths to help your classmates."

I grimace. "Right. If this is about Helena, she really does understand what she's doing as my lab partner. Unfortunately, I can't force her to participate. We're making nail polish for our end of the year project, I know she'll contribute."

"I'm not speaking about Miss Bertinelli."

My eyebrows furrow and I stare blankly at him. Should I be worried? Probably not, I had a fairly good rapport with everyone at this school. Well, except Ray Palmer...

I kept to myself for the most part. I didn't like to burn bridges so I played it safe. The only two people I spoke to regularly were my two best friends, Laurel and Sara.

The next time Berty opens his mouth to speak, he looks like being around me is the last place he wants to be. "Do you know Oliver Queen?"

I freeze.

Do I know Oliver Queen? Do I know Oliver Queen? Does anyone actually know Oliver Queen? I know of him. Just barely.

Maybe I should've added him to my list of people who don't like me because Oliver Queen, without a doubt, hates me. Passionately, almost.

Let's go back, say, five years. I was in eighth grade, and I hadn't gotten my industrial piercing yet so there was absolutely nothing fearful about me except, perhaps, my chest that had yet to develop to the stage of ninety percent of the females in my class.

I was standing in the auditorium after having given my speech because I was running for president that year. My mother, bless her eccentric soul, had bought these little buttons:

VOTE SMOAK, SHE'S YOUR ONLY HOPE.

I really did applaud the usage of my mother's appear to fear fallacy. Especially since I was up against Caitlin Snow, who won the presidency the year before. I thought the buttons were cute, and my class ate the adorableness up.

Having never spoken a single word to Oliver Queen in my entire fourteen years of life, I handed him a button and I smiled.

Do you know what he did? He looked at it, smiled (I was shocked, too) and dropped it on the ground. Then he stepped on it. Thankfully, no one else followed in his immature fashion and they all kept the buttons and I won.

No one laughed, either. Except him and his hyenas.

Oh yeah, the hyenas. Idiots. That'd be Tommy Merlyn and Floyd Lawton. They just laugh all the time. It's so pathetic and it makes me self-conscious. Why? Because it happens whenever I'm walking down the hallway. I don't even make eye contact with them, so I'm not sure if they're laughing at me specifically, but it feels like it. I know they aren't laughing at Oliver. How do I know this? Because Oliver Queen is not funny. He is mean, and impassive, and failing Chemistry. Funny is not an attribute I'd assign to him or his leather jacket.

"No way," I spit out. "Absolutely not. If he's not getting Chemistry, that's not my fault. He's not even in my class!"

Mr. Berty nods sympathetically. "I know that. I know. And you can say 'no,' but you should think about it."

I let out a gust of air. "Thought about it. No."

"Very well then," he says, sighing. "I'll let him know."

"Who know?"

He smiles slightly. "Mr. Queen. He needed a tutor and he requested you."


I wonder how many cavities Laurel has. She rips open the top to yet another lollipop and shoves it in her mouth.

"Why were you late to English? Mrs. Jenkins was murmuring to herself the entire time so it was basically a free period." That much sugar is not healthy. Even if her saliva destroys it at an alarming rate, think of all the crevices in the average structure of a human's oral capacity...

Pulling myself away from my thoughts, I frown. "That wouldn't have been a very productive class period."

"Oh, come on. Anyway, what was it? Did Mr. Berty confess to his naughty dreams of you and his lab table?" She wiggles her eyebrows at me and grins.

I pause, staring at myself in my locker mirror. "First of all, ew. Second of all, how did you become so crass that you don't even recognize how absolutely disgusting half of the things you say are? Third, Oliver Queen."

Her eyes perk up at that. "Oliver Queen, what?"

"Mr. Berty wanted me to tutor him. I said no. Obviously." I twist the bottom of my lipstick until it's peeking out from the tube. It wasn't my original color for today, but it'll do.

"You said no?" Laurel says, removing her lollipop from her mouth. Clearly, that meant business.

"I said no twice, actually. I don't really want to talk about it. Where's Sara?" Laurel shrugs and folds her arms across her chest.

"I don't know, she's probably slutting up the school."

"Hey!"

"I saw her and some freshman chick head toward a janitor's closet. I'm very privy to my sister's sex life, unfortunately." I cringe and shake my head. Mid-shake, I notice a glob of leather to my right and inhale the undeniable stench of cigarettes.

They reminded me of every cliche bad boy that has ever been written about, but they each pulled it off. Honestly, I don't know how it happened. Floyd Lawton was, well, Floyd Lawton. I think everyone knew where he was headed since the day he tried to stick Carrie Cutter's finger in a pencil sharpener in the fourth grade. She's never really been the same since. He's really scary, but really cute. Kind of fits the mold for them all. He came from this nasty part of town, but he lives with Tommy now which really only means trouble.

Tommy Merlyn is a different story. He was a fairly nice kid for a long time. A little mischievous, yes, but nothing too crazy. Anyway, his mom died when he was young and his dad kind of flew off the the handle. He was in foster care for a year and then came back a changed man. Ish. The courts deemed him suitable to care for himself and now he lived on his own in a shady apartment somewhere in the Glades.

No one really knows about Oliver. He was just quiet. Not mischievous, not scary, not even really charming. He just didn't talk. For some reason, that made him incredibly attractive.

Not to me, of course.

But women flanked him all the time. He wasn't exactly complaining, but he never really seemed interested either. His father owns a company and he has a little sister in junior high. His mother was the total PTA type. Other than that, he was a mystery.

I spare them a glance and immediately regret it. His Hyena's look at me.

Jesus Christ.

Wait for it...wait for it...

There.

They're snickering.

They've begun their descent. "Can I ever catch a fucking break...?" I mutter to myself, rolling my nails along the side of my locker.

"Whoa, F bomb," Laurel laughs before she spots the group of guys. Then she lets out a loud sigh. Leaning a long leg against the lockers she tosses her head back like she's being tortured. Her shiny, brunette curls fell over her shoulder as she moved, her signature feature.

"God, Tommy is so hot. I would climb him like a tree."

I narrow my eyes at her. "Have some tact. And stop looking over there!"

"Why? Also, you do realize that my twin sister is probably the biggest lesbian in the state, right? That means that I absorbed any part of her that likes boys."

"No," I shake my head, "That's not what that means at all."

The snickering gets louder. In my head, I have it planned out that I will stomp over there and demand them to stop laughing, or at least ask them to share what is so funny about me. Do you know how emotionally taxing their laughter is? Do I have toilet tissue on my shoe? I mean, I don't even use public restrooms, but still?

Laurel lays a kiss on my cheek and smiles. "I'll see you after school, okay?"

Um, no. "Where are you going?"

She looks at me and tilts her head to the side. "Are you turning red?"

Yes. "No. Where are you going?" I ask her again.

"Detention. And I can't be late. That's how I got it after all." She twirls away from me and I swear the snickers increase.

Then I feel it.

His stare. Usually it's a glare. But this time it feels different, pleasant almost. I didn't feel any anger behind it, just the warmth of his cerulean orbs on my five foot two form. I don't meet his eyes but it feels like he's begging.

Don't do it.

Then I did it.

I really do wish good-looks were reserved for good people. Oliver Queen is not a good person, and therefore he does not deserve to have that hair, that skin, that jawline, those eyes... He looks like he'd be on the cover of a magazine on tortured men.

I love it.

He stares at me, unsmiling and disinterested for a few seconds. Then his eyes narrow once before they flicker to the history hallway. He looks at me again, then the hallway.

Um...

Does he want me to...?

He gives me his signature glare and I feel normal again. Glares I can handle. Seemingly exasperated, he stomps toward the hallway, giving me a pointed glance.

Oh!

I shut my locker quickly and follow after him. Conspicuously, of course. I spot the Hyenas, and flinch at their laughter. I glare at them, specifically Merlyn, who's clutching his stomach. They laugh harder.

Whatever.

I shouldn't be spending my lunch period in an empty hallway with Oliver Queen. And look at him. He's not even speaking to me-

"You said no?"

I stare at him blankly. His voice is so much deeper than in eighth grade. Hm...

"To tutoring me," he says quickly, annoyed. "You said no."

"Wow, word travels fast," I say back just as fast. "But don't worry, there are plenty of other tutors who can help you."

He rolls his eyes. "Don't be coy. You know you're the smartest person in this school. I don't want another tutor. I want..." he trails off, eyes flickering between me and the linoleum floor.

"You can't always get what you want. I mean, what makes you think that I want to spend hours a day tutoring a guy who probably stomps on puppy graves."

He stares at me disapprovingly. "That's a little extreme, don't you think? I have a dog."

"Oh, so you do have a heart."

"That's not fair," he refutes. "I don't judge you when you spend your time doing science experience with that jackass, Allen."

"He is the only one who knows how to use a boiling flask correctly. It's not a preference, and he is not a jackass!"

He ignores me. "I also don't judge you for having a copy of the periodic table on the back of your binder."

"I use it for my notes..." I say, sheepishly. I found it when I was looking up an Instructable on how to get the pure acetone out of Walmart brand nail polish remover.

"...Point is, I need your help."

"What's in it for me?" I ask quickly. He raises and eyebrow and tilts his head to the side.

"I mean, like, what do I get from you? Not from you you as a person, but maybe you-something you could give me, like a material item, you know?"

He didn't know.

"I just feel very cheated. Helping you doesn't really help me. And to be perfectly honest, I don't see a point in helping someone who hates me and hasn't even spoken a word to me since the eighth grade. Actually, ever! Since all you did was throw my presidency pin down."

"You're still upset about that?"

"Thank you, but no thank you, mister. I've got better things to do then tutor Oliver Queen."

I turn away from him, feeling fairly good about myself. Yeah, my lipstick was fresh, my skirt was flowy. I just cleaned my glasses, so there better not be any dirt on them. And I called him out. Got the last word.

Then he said my name. It was so boyish and so unclear and so beautiful that I think I stopped breathing. I could literally feel my next breath caught in my throat, waiting to hear him utter another syllable in that voice.

"Felicity..."

Actually, I don't even know if he said my name. It was more like a whisper, but not even that. I could only hear the ending of it, and it was heartbreaking enough for me to want to combust. His voice was softer, weaker. Defeated. "I won't graduate," he tells me. "If you don't help me, I won't graduate."

I turn around to face him and he raises a hand up to stop me. "I'm not saying that to guilt-trip you. I...I want you to think about it. Please." He stares at me and drops his eyes to the ground. But for a second, I swear I saw something more than indifference.

As he walks away from me, he decides to twist the knife a little bit more.

"By the way, I never hated you."


The next day, after some much-needed rest and my mother's tofu, I feel rejuvenated and strong. I picked up another shade of lipstick: Berry Beautiful. I drank a cup of coffee and picked up Laurel from school because Sara was still AWOL. Laurel also ran out of lollipops so my car didn't smell like cherries and it left her mostly quiet.

I was riding high.

I had a little bounce in my step.

I strutted through the hallways, on my way to Chemistry a little bit earlier than usual. I spotted Oliver, sans Hyenas, and coughed loudly. He looked up, confused, and met my eyes.

I nodded once and smiled.

He blinked.

Come on, Queen.

I nodded again and lifted my Chemistry book. Still nothing.

I pointed to the classroom he came out of and then at me.

Of course, Ray Palmer had to be the one to notice me. I wonder if I'd ever lose the grudge I held for him. I think it's impossible, though, because he just does little things, you know? Like his shirt he's wearing right now? His haircut? He looks like he's in the third grade about to take his yearbook picture. "What are you doing?"

"None of your business," I hiss at him. He shrugs and walks away. Hate that kid.

Oliver is still staring at me stupidly.

I roll my eyes and scowl. "I'll tutor you!" I practically yell at him. His mouth opens to an adorable "o" and he nods in appreciation. After staring at me for a beat, he lifts his book in a goodbye.

We'd have to get better with the nonverbal communication thing.

felicity is such a blast to write. LOVE.

what do you think? should i continue?