Ruby Cassidy was the most popular girl at Padua High. Her brother, Neal, was…a little more independent than her.

"Spirited" was how his grandmother described it; "rebellious" from the guidance counselor, Mr. Gold (barely glancing up from his computer screen); and most of his classmates went with, "Antisocial bastard— I mean, he is fucked up, man."

But Neal had no interest in his classmates: so long as they stayed out his way, he stayed out of theirs. They left him to his misanthropic brooding; he left them to their Instagramming. It was a good system, and it worked well: and had Ruby not been so popular, it would have continued to work— right up until graduation, when he would be on his way to Brown, fully content in the knowledge that he would never have to see any of those pathetic, sheep-minded knuckle-draggers again.

The problem was, Ruby was so popular. Everyone knew who she was, and everyone liked her. Particularly the boys in the gym locker room, after class. They liked her so much, they discussed her. Very descriptively. In different scenarios. Without knowing that Neal was behind that corner stall door, and not in a mood to hear graphic reimaginings of his little sister.

That was why Mr. Booth was marching him down to the office, his hand seized around Neal's elbow like he was some kind of deranged criminal. Neal scoffed at the manhandling, but in all honesty, it was probably a good thing he had such a tight grip on him: if not, that little bitch, Killian Jones, would have lost even more of his already precious few brain cells.

"…don't care what your excuse was, young man, you can't go punching other students and not expect to be disciplined for it!" Booth was hissing at him as they walked into Gold's office.

"Concept grasped," Neal exhaled, dropping into the seat across Gold's desk. The guidance counselor didn't look away from his computer screen, his fingers flying rapidly over the keyboard.

"Problems?" he asked by way of greeting.

"Neal Cassidy," Booth reported. "He was beating the crap out of Killian Jones in the locker room. Now I know, boys will be boys, and a little rough-and-tumble is good for them, but Cassidy seemed intent on sending him home in a body-bag, and I think the parents—"

"Thank you, Mr. Booth, I'll take it from here." Mr. Gold glanced away from his screen long enough to shuffle some papers around, presumably hunting down the proper disciplinary forms. Booth gave Neal a curt, "Hmm!" of satisfaction, and stalked out of the office.

Gold drew out a piece of paper from the stack on his desk, regarding it with a slight frown as he skimmed it, then slid it over to Neal. "Fill that out for me, huh?" he said, turning back to his computer.

Neal blew out a breath, and reached for a pen to start scribbling in his name and misdemeanor. Gold mumbled to himself as he typed, slurring words together and snapping his fingers. Clearly not related to academics at Padua High, or at least, Neal hoped not because some of the phrases he caught were: "heaving breasts" and "groaning with desire". Unless detention was suddenly getting a lot more interesting, Gold was once again pursuing his dreams as an erotic romance novelist.

"…Adrian removed her cape, gazing at Reginald's—" Gold stopped, looking at the ceiling with a furrowed brow. "What's a better word for 'engorged'?" he mused. "Swollen? Turgid?"

"Tumescent?" Neal suggested dryly.

"Perfect!" Gold clapped his hands together, and went back to work on his keyboard, typing feverishly. Neal sat back with a grimace, listening to a murmured description of Adrian and Reginald's torrid affair. After Reginald's "final, frenzied thrust", Gold tapped a key triumphantly, and leaned back in his seat with a satisfied smile.

"All done?" he asked, nodding at Neal's disciplinary paper.

"Yep." Neal pushed it over to him. Gold whipped it up and held it out, reading over it with raised eyebrows.

"Throwing fists, eh?" he said. "Oh, Cassidy…What are we going to do with you?"

"I was defending my sister's honor," he said with a wry smile. "If this was France two hundred years ago, I'd get a commissioned painting and a royal insignia."

Gold raised an eyebrow. "Well, unfortunately, this isn't France two hundred years ago," he said, reaching for a pen to sign the form. "And you've got your own reputation to worry about without bringing your sister to the party. People perceive you as somewhat—"

"Tempestuous?"

"The phrase, 'deranged psychopath' comes to mind." Gold clicked his pen shut. "I don't know the whole story, nor do I particularly care, but—"

A knock interrupted him, and the door swung open: a girl with straggly blonde hair spilling from underneath a red beanie poked her head in, flashing a winning smile. Gold grimaced, holding out his hand.

"Hey, Mr. Gold," the girl grinned, handing him a crumpled paper. "You're looking radiant today."

"Does that line work with your parole officer?"

Neal raised an eyebrow; the girl caught it, and winked at him. "Social worker," she explained with a little shrug. "And no, actually. But it does work when I mention how sexy you look in your little suit, there."

Gold lowered the page, looking over it with suspicious eyes. "She thinks it's sexy?" he frowned.

"Oh, I couldn't betray her confidence like that. Let's just say, she has an urgent need to leave the room."

Neal coughed into his fist to mask the uncontrollable retching that threatened. Gold didn't seem to notice him: he beamed, repositioning himself in his chair to reach the keyboard.

"Both of you, out," he said, flourishing his hand at them. "You're dismissed, little criminals. Be good, find creative outlets—I've got work to do."

"Beautiful." The girl threw another wink at Neal, and spun out of the room. Neal stared after her, then turned incredulously to Gold— who was not paying him the slightest attention.

After a moment of utter bewilderment, Neal got up and wandered over to the door. He reached for the handle; then turned to look over his shoulder: Gold was typing more furiously than ever, looking rather flushed now and loosening his tie.

"…ripped the suit of the Adonis…teeth scraping…"

"Yikes." Thoroughly disturbed, Neal quickly opened the door and slipped out, walking away hurriedly. So desperate was he to escape the presence of the filthy-minded counselor, he barely noticed the spiky-haired homunculus coming in the opposite direction.

"Whoa!" The kid swerved to avoid Neal, who walked past him without a second glance; as he did with the secretary, Ms. Mills and blonde, beanied girl, both of whom seemed just as content to ignore him.

He'd gotten off easy, he knew it: school violence was a hot button issue, and under a competent disciplinary system, he'd've been facing suspension, at least. But the way he saw it, Killian Jones got off just as easy: the things he was saying about Ruby…he deserved a lot more than a punch, that bastard.

Victor Whale put a hand to his rapidly beating heart, staring after the tall Breakfast-Club-reject who'd nearly bowled him over. Five minutes at Padua High, and he was already fearing for his life.

"You can go in, Mr. Whale," the secretary said in a bored voice, pointing at the office door. She glanced over the top of her glasses. "Make sure you knock."

She said it more as a warning for his benefit than the counselor's—which would have struck Victor as rather odd, had he not forgotten and opened the door to some of the filthiest erotica he'd ever been exposed to.

"Oh, my God!" he yelped, covering his ears.

The counselor—Mr. Gold—snapped his head up in annoyance. "It's poetry!" he insisted. "How dare you close your ears on this art!"

Victor stared at him with wide eyes, cautiously lowering his hands. "Sorry," he said, not quite sure whether or not he was serious. "Um… I-I was told to come to the guidance counselor's office. My name is Victor Whale?"

Gold lifted an indifferent eyebrow. "And?"

"And I'm the new student?"

"Oh." Gold flicked his eyes, adjusting in his seat to reach some papers at the far end of his desk. "The army brat, right? Nine schools in seven years, but perfect records in all." He skimmed Victor's transcripts with a rueful smile. "They're going to eat you alive here."

"What?"

"These are yours," Gold said briskly, handing him a few papers. "Schedule, and a few things for your parents to sign. Map of the school should be in there somewhere, and if it's not?" He shrugged, holding up his hands. "High school's a jungle, make friends with the tigers. Now, get out—I've got things to do."

Victor took the papers, and quickly exited before he heard any more about Reginald and Adrian. He looked around the hallway, briefly wondering which of the scattered clumps of students were "tigers"; then dropped his eyes to his schedule. Spanish… Calculus I…Honors Chemistry…Nothing that he felt really prepared him for the ordeal he was about to go through: such as, How to Fashion Small Weapons Out of Pencil Scraps or Tigers: Where Do I Find Them, And How Do I Make Them Like Me?

He flipped over to the map, nervously chewing his thumbnail as he tried to find his Spanish class. Which hallway am I even in right now? Maybe if I could find the library or cafeteria or something, I could just—

"Careful, sweetie!"

"Sorry!" Victor cursed under his breath, trying to catch his papers as he bumped into yet another person. "Sorry, I wasn't look…" Holy shit.

She was Venus in human form; Helen of Troy reincarnated; the most breathtakingly beautiful girl he'd ever laid bespectacled eyes upon. Dark waves of hair framed a delicate-featured face, bright blue eyes twinkling with the unbridled joy of a girl who knows she is beautiful, and delights in it. But there was kindness, too: a gentle warmth, a sweetness in the way she touched his shoulder and laughed, "Are you okay?"

She's talking to me, Victor realized, a moment later. Oh, God, what do I do? What do I say? Oh, God!

"F-fine," he managed, by some miracle. "Thanks. I'm fine. Sorry."

"It's okay." The goddess gave him a parting smile, and moved on, completely forgetting him. Victor stared after her, his mouth slightly open in disbelief.

Was she an angel? Was that what angels looked like? Or was God finally making up for that ridiculously disappointing bar mitzvah (didn't even break two hundred dollars, what was even the point of learning Hebrew)?

"Your drool is a safety hazard," a dry voice said behind him. Victor blinked, and turned around, finding himself face to face with a rather smirky-looking, curly-haired boy. After a minute of regarding him with a mixture of pity and derision, he stuck his hand. "Jefferson Hatter."

Victor raised his eyebrows, and shook the boy's hand. "Victor Whale."

"New kid," Jefferson guessed, pointing a shrewd finger at him. "Where'd you move here from? Never mind, I don't care. Anyway—" he cleared his throat, giving the red bowtie at his throat a little tug—"I suppose I'll excuse your drool today. First exposure to Ruby Cassidy, it's bound to happen. Don't worry, though—the novelty wears off after a while."

Victor seriously doubted that, but Jefferson didn't give him a chance to argue; he dropped his arm around Victor's shoulder, walking at a quick pace as he guided him down the hallway.

"Caution, my young friend. Padua is a dangerous place, especially for little insects like you. There's a hierarchy, and you have to respect it if you want to survive here." Jefferson pointed at a group of boys by the lockers, all wearing some manner of black leather and chains. "Those are your leaders. You stay out of their way, do as they command, and they won't chain you to the back of a motorcycle and drag your bloody carcass around town."

Victor whipped his head to stare at Jefferson with wide eyes. "Are you serious?"

"Oh, very," Jefferson nodded. "See that kid in the middle? The one with the earring?"

Victor squinted to see the tall kid with purposely-roughed hair, leaning against the lockers with a smirk and folded, tattooed arms. "The one who looks like he was raised in prison?"

"That's Killian Jones," Jefferson said. "Major douche. King of the school. The girls are in love with him, the guys are afraid of him, and his daddy is some kind of oil tycoon or something. That girl you were drooling over?"

"Ruby?"

"You catch on quick, kiddo. Word around the school is, he's got his eye on her, so take my advice—" Jefferson suddenly wheeled him around, bracing his hands on his shoulders—"don't break your own heart, Vito. Find a different girl to write love sonnets to, let loose your romantic spirit on a girl of your own status. My personal recommendation? The ginger who runs the Celibacy Club. She's cute, in a nunnery sort of way, and…well, no one really expects you to lose your virginity in high school, anyway." He poked Victor's Star Wars T-shirt. "Not if you're wearing this shit."

Victor raised an eyebrow, gesturing at Jefferson's bow tie and suspenders. "But this is going to get you laid?"

Jefferson's smile flickered. "Look, Vito," he said. "I like you. You seem like a decent guy. A little green around the ears, but a smart guy. So, do yourself a favor: use those smarts, and listen to me. Give up on your dreams. Ruby Cassidy is out of your league, and you are never going to get her. Hell, you're not going to get within ten feet of her! Because if you do, one of two things are going to happen: 1) Killian Jones is going to beat the ever-loving shit out of you, or 2) Neal Cassidy will."

"Who's Neal Cassidy?" Victor frowned.

"Her older brother," Jefferson said with a grim smile. "He exists outside of the food chain. If there's anyone in the school you should be more afraid of than Killian Jones, it's Neal Cassidy." He clapped a hand on Victor's shoulders. "So there you go: two compelling reasons to stay as far away from Ruby as possible."

But those sparkling eyes…that infectious smile…the way she touched his shoulder, and laughed, "Are you okay?" Those were three compelling reasons to get as close to Ruby as possible.