Jim Hawkins maneuvered his skateboard around the clusters of unmoving cars, one hand relaxed at his side, the other clutching the Discman in his pocket—yes, he still had one of those. He was barely aware of the traffic as he swerved effortlessly through it, his thoughts absorbed by the song that blasted over his Skullcandy headphones:

"I'm Still Here" by John Rzeznik.

This kind of traffic was the norm at 7:55 a.m., but it wasn't the parents clogging up the roads; most parents had been smart enough to send their kids on an earlier bus. No, chaos ensued because the newly-licensed seniors were determined to drive the quarter mile to school in their fancy new cars.

"Idiots," Jim muttered. He veered to avoid the bumper of a red BMW convertible.

Without warning, the front door suddenly flew open, catching Jim square in the stomach. He cried out, flipping forward and landing hard on his back. Meanwhile, is skateboard sped on without him, disappearing beneath a minivan. He blinked up through a sea of stars. Of course: the face peering down at him belonged to Kay King, a tall, broad-shouldered senior with red hair and a long, squared-off chin. He was grinning deviously, clearly relishing his position of power.

I'm in trouble, thought Jim.

"Well, well, well. If it isn't Loner-Boy Hawkins. Didn't see you there. You're so short you didn't show up in my rearview mirror."

Jim tried to reply. He coughed instead.

"Why don't you just sit tight, Hawkins? Wait here in traffic with rest of us?" Kay shrugged. "It's only fair"—and he lifted his foot to deliver a kick to Jim's gut.

"Leave him alone, Kay!"

Jim recognized the boy in the passenger's seat. It was Wart, Kay's adopted brother. 'Wart' wasn't his real name, of course, but few besides Jim knew him as Arthur anymore, not even his teachers. The kid had his obnoxious adopted family to thank for that.

"Quiet, Wart," Kay hissed.

But the twelve-year-old persisted. "You've already knocked him down. Besides, we're gonna be la—"

With a colossal fist, Kay grabbed Arthur by the shirt and pinned him against the car door. "I said quiet."

Arthur wriggled like a worm on a hook. "Hey! Lemme go!"

"Leave him alone." Jim had managed to prop himself up on one arm. "Come on, Kay."

But the senior ignored him. "You'd better keep your mouth shut, pipsqueak," he spat at Wart, "or Dad'll ground you for a month!"

"It's okay, Arthur. I'm fine." Jim was on his knees now, using the open door to pull himself up. Kay grinned. Releasing his brother, he slammed the open door shut, sending Jim staggering into the side of a sea-green Chevrolet.

"Ah, ah, ah," Kay scolded, his eyes glinting wickedly. "You don't get to touch my ride."

The minivan ahead pulled forward, revealing Jim's skateboard. Kay revved up his engine. "Hey," said Jim. "Hey, WAIT!" But the BMW, roaring with power, was already lurching forward. Jim reached for his skateboard, willing it to move. It didn't, and with a sickening CRUNCH, Kay's tires reduced it to a pile of splintered remains.

"Or I get to crush yours."

Jim watched the senior drive away, too horrified to move.

"Oh my gosh!" Meanwhile, the back-right window of the Chevrolet had rolled down, revealing a very pretty face framed by ruby-red hair. Jim barely noticed her—or the mean-looking chauffeur in sunglasses sitting behind the wheel. "Did that guy seriously just—?"

"Whatever," said Jim. "It was old." He slung his backpack over his shoulder, letting his straight, dark bangs fall across his face like a curtain.

Her enormous eyes wide with sympathy, the girl reached across the back seat and pushed the passenger door open. "Here, I'll give you a ride," she said. "You go to Walt High too, right?"

But Jim was already making his way down the road, head down, hands buried deep in his pockets.

Jim spent first period glaring down at his textbook. For once, he was glad he had astronomy first; Dr. Doppler was excitable and scatterbrained, known throughout the student body for his long-winded tangents and his tendency to forget that there were students in the room. Normally, Jim would have been bored to tears, but just then he was glad to be left alone.

"So, you see," said Dr. Doppler, "physicists have been looking at the solar spectrum since Isaac Newton first used a prism to observe the refractive properties of light. In the early 1800s . . ."

Jim flipped his notebook to the back page. A few months ago he'd started a board design that included the addition of jets and a sail. At the time he'd called it a 'solar surfer,' and he'd fully intended to build it one day—not that he'd ever be able to afford the parts. Still, the idea was a comforting one, so he continued where he'd left off last class: shading the sail.

Then, someone tapped their pencil on the edge of his desk, someone tall and tan and totally ripped: Tarzan Wild. Back in junior high, the now-junior had taught Jim to skate every day after school (and sometimes during school). They'd been buddies ever since. "Hey, Jim. You okay?" he asked.

Jim shrugged. He kept shading.

"I heard about your board," Tarzan continued, his voice low. "That was pretty low, even for Kay."

"I don't know, the guy's out there crushing kids all the time—why not boards?"

Tarzan snorted, but Jim wasn't trying to be funny. The skater's expression sobered. "Maybe he wouldn't have run it over if he'd known your dad had made it."

Jim sighed.

"Look, I know where you can get a pretty good board. If you want, I can—"

The tip of Jim's pencil snapped. "There isn't going to be a new board," he hissed. "Not exactly rolling in cash these days, remember?"

Tarzan sat back. "Yeah, I know." He picked up his pencil and placed it on Jim's desk. "I was talking about mine. You can have it. You know, if you want."

"Which brings us," said Dr. Doppler, "to the subject of astronomical spectroscopy. Fascinating stuff! If anyone's interested, I've written an article that can be found in the forty-seventh issue of Supernova, the leading astronomy journal since 1957. Now, if you'll all turn to page eighty-one in your textbooks, you'll find a perfect example of . . ."

Jim rubbed the bridge of his nose between his forefinger and thumb. "Look, Tarzan, I really . . . um—" His voice cracked. He stood.

"Is there a problem, Jim?" said Dr. Doppler.

"Sick," Jim mumbled, and he left.

Jim didn't go home. Ditching school would only stress his mom out—not to mention he'd never live it down if Kay and his friends found out Loner-Boy Hawkins had 'run home to mommy.' So, instead he went to the one spot in Walt High he knew no one would bother him: beneath the bleachers on the football field.

Well, almost no one. Apparently Meg and Hercules had it in their heads that the spot was theirs. As soon as Jim told the couple to beat it, the place was his to fume in.

He stretched out on the grass and pulled out his pocket knife. With a satisfying snap, the blade flipped open. Jim took a moment to stare at his reflection before stabbing it into the ground beside him. Then he rolled over, gazing at the handle. The initials 'J. H.' had been messily carved into the otherwise-flawless wood, Jim's handy work as an eleven-year-old. He could still picture his dad's face when he'd shown it to him: a hurtful mix of annoyance and bafflement.

Not that that mattered now. As it turned out, Mr. Hawkins had found someone he loved more than his own family.

But abandonment had done more than ensure a future of trust issues for Jim; his financial situation wasn't so hot either. Even with his mom working two jobs—one at Bella Notte Italian Grill, the other at Grandmother Fa's Dry Cleaners—they were only just getting by. Jim had offered to work too, of course, but Mrs. Hawkins wouldn't allow it during the school year, even if that meant Ramen noodles for a month.

So, of course, Jim was planning to get himself a job in secret. Thankfully, Lumiere's French Cuisine was offering custodial positions. It was pretty good money at the end of the day—literally; the hours were pretty late. But Tarzan had promised he would cover for him. This was, after all, a favor for his second mother. A secret favor, but a favor nonetheless.

Jim sighed. He would talk to Chef Louis that evening.

"Okay, you have got to tell me everything. Come on, spill!"

Jim jumped. He'd been so lost in thought he hadn't even noticed two girls climb into the bleachers above him.

"But there's nothing to tell!"

Jim squinted through the gaps in the bleacher seats. He recognized one of the girls: Jane Porter. Extremely enthusiastic and ridiculously smart, Jane was every teacher's dream student, including her father's. (Mr. Porter taught biology.) She was a couple years younger than Jim, which made her a freshman this year. He knew this because she and Jim had attended the same junior high school.

He only vaguely recognized the other girl, though—mostly by her hair, which was as red as Kay's BMW. Jim craned his neck to get a better look at her.

"Oh no you don't," said the redhead. "You are totally crushing on someone, I can see it in your eyes! Tell me, is it that hot skater kid? You go all to pieces whenever he's around."

"Um . . . that depends. Which one?"

The redhead gasped. "I knew it! Okay, okay, okay, so one of them has short brown hair and this weird pony tail thing in the back."

The blood drained from Jim's face. He frowned.

"You mean the Hawkins boy?" said Jane. "Oh, no! No, no, no, we don't even know each other!"

Yeah, no kidding, thought Jim. Then it clicked. No way. They mean . . .

"Oh my gosh. The super-buff, shirtless dude with dreads! Jane! You like Tarzan!"

Even from his hiding place, Jim could see that Jane's face had turned the color of her friend's hair. "He's not always shirtless."

The redhead squealed. "Aw, Jane, I totally approve! The boy is hilarious. I mean, have you seen his impersonation of Coach Clayton?"

Jim suppressed the urge to second that statement. Coach Clayton was the PE instructor and football coach, and Tarzan did, in fact, do an incredible impersonation of him, booming voice, exaggerated swagger, and all. Jim could still picture him strutting around the cafeteria, barking orders at students—and occasionally teachers. The memory alone was enough to send Jim into fits of laughter—which he suppressed now by slapping a hand over his mouth.

"I know," said Jane. "And his eyes. Have you ever seen such piercing, focused . . . ?" She swooned.

It was all Jim could do not to bust a gut.

"Oh, Jane, you should see your face," said Jane's friend. "Precious. This is too fun—ooh! Tell me more!"

But Jane's demeanor switched from dreamy to haughty. "Absolutely not," she said in her thick English accent. "I've said far too much already. Anyway, it's your turn! Has anyone caught your eye yet?" She nudged her friend.

Oh boy.

"It's too early in the semester to tell. Besides, there's a lot to get used to after we all split up for junior high."

"For example?"

"Well, Hercules has certainly changed. Remember how scrawny he used to be? When did he decide to bulk up? And what the heck, he's dating Meg now? Meg. I'll be honest, I never thought she'd go for him."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you know Meg. I mean, she's super funny, but she's also kind of . . ."

"Sarcastic?"

Emo?

"I was gonna say closed off. And kind of a bad girl, back at Roy Middle. You were at Raymond Middle, so you wouldn't know. Anyway, I'm just glad to see she finally raised her standards a little. They're cute!"

Oh, they're cute, alright, especially if you catch them kissing under the bleachers.

"Anyway, I'm still trying to figure people out. It's nice so many people still remember me, though."

"People like Aladdin?" Jane winked.

"Shut up," said the redhead, but she grinned wickedly. "Anyway, that reminds me—when did that skater kid move in?"

"Tarzan?"

"No, no, his friend. Hawkins, or whatever."

"Oh. He went to Raymond Middle too. He's two years ahead of us."

Jim carefully removed his knife from the turf. He pocketed it, then he shrank back against one of the metal bars and was silent.

The redhead paused. "Is it just me, or does he seem . . . like, not happy? Ever?"

"If the rumors are true, I don't think he's had it easy."

Jim frowned. If the rumors are true: what was that supposed to mean? What were people saying about him now?

Before he could find out, the lunch bell rang out across the school. Seconds later, the sounds of laughing and shouting began to echo across the field as students trickled onto it. Desperate to gossip some more, the girls exchanged a look, and retreated beneath the bleachers for some privacy.

Jim was already long gone.