When I was in Grade 4, my favourite teacher - and, now I thought about it, my potential future self - remarked that anything was possible if you planned for it.

I was in emphatic agreement, and, arguably, modelled my life around it. Leave no stone unturned and all that. In the past, I'd been tagged a 'Type B' personality, 'anally retentive', and had, on a number of occasions, been instructed to do everything from 'Christ, would you give the to-do lists a fucking rest?' to 'lighten the fuck up, love'.

I could, if pressed, see where the aforementioned naysayers got their inspiration. In my experience, other people seemed to think of life as this big, awesome thing meant to overwhelm, terrify, and excite. Much as you might feel if you took a cruise in a canoe down a waterfall. Life, other people seemed to think, was supposed to be this awe-inspiring ride where you never knew what was going to happen. I had no qualms with this view. I imagined it was liberating. That said, it wasn't my view. To me, life could be described akin to a...I don't know, a lion in a circus (presupposing the circus was ethical, of course). The lion (life) itself is a volatile creature, yes, but it was a creature that can be tamed with training, structure, and rules. Without the aforementioned regulations, it could just run off and destroy everything, potentially hurting you irrevocably.

I enjoyed the tamed life.

That was why I stood now, in my room, checking off a list of items that were definitely in my backpack, namely post-it notes (a Francesca Wilson staple), a stapler, a hole puncher, a mini sellotape, coloured pens and pencils (fine only), and a bunch of treasury tags. Basic, yes, but my first day at La Push High warranted only a few basic items. Afterwards, I'd be able to gauge what sort of items I'd need to bring in an average day. Hopefully, the high school weren't too big on worksheets, because a) the environment (self-explanatory) and b) I liked all my work to be restricted to the coordinating exercise book. Flyaway sheets are just messy.

"Hurry up, Frankie, or you'll be late!"

"Ha ha, very funny," I said monotonously. My father knew full well that I was about as likely to be late for...well, anything, as the Cassius Gardenia had of appearing in the middle of this November! Statistically possible, yes, but everyone knew it wasn't gonna happen. "Hey, dad, do we have any of those cereal bars with the chocolate chips left?"

"If you're quick! And I hope that's not all you're planning to have for breakfast, young lady."

"I'm having some OJ, too," I said once I was down in the kitchen. I said 'kitchen' but it could hardly be classified as that. Pale oak cupboards in a C-shape and one of those fancy silver refrigerators with an inbuilt water dispenser showed some truly lovely potential, but all that lovely potential was obscured by the boxes upon boxes stacked everywhere. "You need to eat something, too, father dearest. You've got a long day of unpacking ahead.

My father grimaced. "Don't remind me. I know you'll be tired when you're back from school but I'd appreciate the extra pair of hands getting all of this packed and put away. Then we can sit back and relax afterwards. Maybe whack out a celebratory tub of ice cream."

"Of course, daddy. I'm hardly going to sit back while you do all the work. Besides, I meant to ask you to leave the hallway and bedroom stuff to me. You do the kitchen, but I want creative control over our bedroom and the lounge."

"I should have known this move across the country is the perfect opportunity for you to unleash Francesca The Interior Designer in her glorious fullness. What are your plans? You have my OK for anything but not cream walls, OK?"

"But Dad!" I protested. "A really rich magnolia is the perfect basic canvas. Why can't we let our possessions do the talking for us? What about that really cool elephant rug Auntie Jean got me from India? Stuff like that, statement pieces, honestly speak way more volumes than, say, a lick of magenta on the walls."

"This is a definitive no, honey. I left my parents' house at sixteen with barely anything, but one thing I did take with me was a steadfast refusal to be in any way, shape or form like them. And the inside of my house growing up? Cream walls, everywhere, and my dad was so stingy about anyone touching 'em or leaning on them or breathing near them. Anything that could potentially ruin them.. I did not buy this house in a roundabout Freudian wish to live back there again.."

"Oh please, you're telling me a lick of magnolia is all it takes for the flashbacks to start?" At the stubborn set of his jaw, I rolled my eyes. "OK, fine. No cream walls. How about a subtle lime shade?"

"Sounds good as long as it doesn't look like puke. Anyway, how you feeling about today?"

Shrugging, I pushed a slice of wholemeal bread into the toaster. "Fine. I was trying to find the La Push High societies database earlier but there was nothing. With the Quillayute River on everyone's doorstep, you'd really think there'd at least be an established kayaking society or something."

I was the sort of person who asked where we were going out for dinner so that I could Google the reviews and menu beforehand. It wasn't that I needed to know everything, it's just that I felt much more comfortable when all variables were face up on the table.. So when I'd found out that the location of my dad and mine's new humble abode fell into the very slim Quileute Tribal High School catchment area, I'd immediately utilised all the forces that be - read: Google - to research my new school in great depth and detail. You could call me a Quileute Tribal High expert. All I needed to do now was, you know, actually go.

"There's whale watching," my dad offered. "Saw quite a few signs for it on the drive up here. Have a go at that, you never know. Try something new."

"I guess so, but I don't know how popular it'll be with people my age." Something I didn't voice to my father but which I'm sure he'd gauged anyway was that I was so determined to make friends. Back in Topeka, I really only had one friend, and he was my absolute bestfriend. But I didn't really have, just, you know, regular friends to hang out with. I didn't even have acquaintances. I knew it was my fault: my standards were too high and I tended to hold a grudge. It's an absolute disaster of a recipe in high school, and a guarantee of no-friendom.

And now I had the chance to do it all again, to do it right. I'd be a fool to mess things up again. Hence the frantic school societies search. I wanted friends, and I wanted them pouring in from all avenues.

"Speaking of which," my father said. "The folk here are pretty...to themselves, I've heard. Suspicious of 'outsiders'." My father made little quotation marks in the air with his fingers.

"Have you been reading TripAdvisor reviews again?" I joked.

"You're white," my father said bluntly, "and are attending a school that is for the Quileute tribe, where 99% of folk will be Native American. I just want you to be careful not to step on any toes."

"I will be careful." I fiddled with the charm on my bracelet. "Besides, it's not like they don't have a reason to be, you know, cautious. History has not been kind to the Native Americans."

"I didn't say they were wrong to be suspicious, but you're the one who's my daughter. I just want you to have a good time, alright?"

I had to smile at that. "Alright."

"Kaheleha was the first of the Quileute people to defend La Push from incomers who tried to covet the land for themselves. Legend has it that Kalheleha used the magic running through the blood of the Quileute people to defend it..."

I sat in my first period class, attention rapt. This was without a doubt the most interesting Religious Education class I'd ever received, and maybe it meant something that it was about Native American, specifically Quileute, history. I had arrived for the class ten minutes early (a Francesca Wilson standard, that) whereupon there'd only been one other student and the teacher populating the class.

The teacher was called Mr. Burke, and if he was surprised to see that his new student was white, he did not show it.

"Francesca, we're currently discussing a figure named Kaheleha. He plays a very central role in the religious education curriculum, so you should try to centre your studies around Kaheleha and try to understand all that you're subsequently taught within context of him. I always tell my students to pay attention to the progression and development of the stories I tell. Notice the change. It will be important."

I nodded, eager to absorb every word. "I'll make a note of that. I'm really excited to learn," I said earnestly.

The side of his mouth quirked up ever so slightly. "Nice to hear. If you feel overwhelmed by information or feeling sketchy about things, talk to me after class."

Then chatty students filtered in, I played with the edges of my fresh, clean lined paper nervously, and Mr. Burke began teaching. When he taught, he spoke in a clear, confident voice with one hand casually tucked into his slacks. His eyes were dark and direct, with posture so upright and regal my old ballet teacher would have swooned.

God, I loved confident men. However, I was also a sucker for nerds, and the intersection for that Venn diagram is very slim indeed. Mr. Burke had just the right nerdy-confidence combo; you could tell he felt passionately about his subject.

Mr. Burke paused in his speech and looked around at the class. "Anyone confused about anything thus far and need it cleared up?" To his credit, his gaze didn't dwell on me. "No? OK. I'm going to pass round this worksheet. Take one each. On one side you'll see two familiar figures and on the other side two more familiar figures. I want you to write down everything you know about all four so far."

Drat. First period and already a worksheet? I hope this wasn't going to set a precedent.

"Do you need some help?" A soft voice beside me asked.

To my left, a girl with a beautiful, black sheet of hair hanging over one shoulder, and the longest eyelashes I'd ever seen, was smiling at me shyly.

"Oh!" I exclaimed, excited and grateful at the same time. Could this be it?! My first friend at La Push High? "I'd love some. Thank you! What's your name?"

"I'm Kim," she said, twiddling a pen between her fingers in what I could only describe as a nervous manner. "What's yours?"

"I'm Francesca." As I smiled at her, I saw something that I thought was a blush rising on her cheeks. I was surprised I could see it on skin so dark.

"So," I said, scrambling for something to say. "Have you...have you always gone to school here?"

Lame. I inwardly winced at my blatant attempt to make small talk. Lame, lame, lame.

Kim nodded. "I've gone to school here since kindergarten."

I blinked, impressed. "Wow. Is that - is that normal?"

Even as I realised my social faux pas, I was too busy being surprised at the snort of laughter that left the mouth of the girl I'd known all of five minutes. "I don't know what 'normal' is, but it's pretty standard on the rez, yeah. Born here, grow up here…"

"And stay here," I supplied, and then began to worry my lip. Could that have been construed as rude?

That said, while I was worried about my potential lack of social skills, the innate nerd in me was getting restless. Time was ticking, and the blasted worksheet before me was still blank.

Kim seemed to be thinking the same thing. Sitting up straighter, she asked, "So, ever heard of Q'wati?"

Kim was nice. I liked her a lot. These were the thoughts that swirled around my head as the two of us walked to lunch together about two hours after I'd first met her. Kim had been an angel as we were walking from R.E and asked if I wanted to sit with her at lunch, which was after second period. My 'yes!' was quicker than the dart of a goldfish, embarrassingly enough.

But there was something that confused me about her. While it was lovely of her to take little old me under her wing, I kept thinking, the more our conversations went on, that she really just didn't seem like the sort of girl to just turn around and talk to someone she'd never spoken to before. Kim was shy. Really shy. The most I counted was four seconds of eye contact before her eyes skittered away from mine to rest in their favourite place: her lap. Whenever I asked her a question, or said anything that required some sort of personal input or thought, her second-guessing of herself was almost audible; her mouth would open, and then shut, and then open, and then shut again. And then when she finally said something, it was in this voice so suffused with self-consciousness that it was actually painful to listen to. Yes, she was a nice girl, but it wasn't an understatement to say that I felt bad for talking to her because I felt like I was too taxing on her own self-comfort.

As we walked to lunch together, side by side, I tried to level the playing field a little. "I'm really happy I got talking to you," I said earnestly, as we walked through the courtyard. I watched a small bird pecking at the inside of a flower flutter up and away at the merest gust of wind. "I was pretty nervous. I still am, really. I'm really paranoid I won't make any friends."

"I like talking to you," Kim said quietly, a small but genuine smile on her mouth. "You shouldn't have any problems with anyone else."

"You think so? I...I guess I was worried that...I don't know. I've heard that the people in and around La Push parts keep to themselves mainly."

"You mean people on the reservation?"

I flushed at my poorly disguised transparency which Kim had swiped away with no issue at all. "Well - yes," I said lamely, my stomach fluttering with real nervous butterflies. "I - obviously I don't mean to be rude or forward, it's just I - obviously I know I'm different from everyone else here and I've heard that some people don't - don't like that. Obviously I can understand why and I don't blame anybody, I just…"

I trailed off. When I got started on one of these flustered tangents I was occasionally prone to, I normally relied on the interjecting powers of the other person I was letting loose on. Curse Kim's shyness for not being able to save me from myself.

"Some people are more cautious than others," Kim said finally, still not looking at me, using the word I'd used earlier to defend the attitudes of the Quileute people to my father. "And I don't think you're different from everyone else."

I rolled my eyes. "You know what I mean." My paleness, duh.

The slightest quirk of her lips was the only indication that she did, in fact, know what I mean.

"This is really nice," I said after I'd swallowed a mouthful of frybread, a Native American concoction that was all golden and warm. "Like, really nice. I've never had Native American cuisine before, in any capacity really."

Kim herself was having at her ceviche, a seafood-based dish with generous lashings of lemon and lime. She politely swallowed her mouthful of food before asking, "What did you eat back in Kansas?"

"There were regular lunch staples there like pizza, French fries...you know, standard American diet." I rolled my eyes.

"How come you didn't get any of this?" asked my tentative new friend, nodding towards her own dish.

"I'm veggie," I explained. "Nevermind, though. I really like this frybread stuff."

"Oh, you're a vegetarian?" Kim's voice was tinged with surprise. "That's cool. I...I don't think I've ever met one in person before."

Now it was my turn to be surprised. "Really? Never met a vegetarian before? I mean, I can understand if I was vegan, but veggie?"

"I guess meat-eating is just the norm here," Kim explained. "More so than anywhere else. Native American food is...well, inescapably meaty, I suppose. It's even in the broth."

"I see," I said, marveling at the fact that this was probably the most substantial thing Kim had said in our short half-a-day-long friendship. "That's fair enough."

"So what made you want to go vegetarian, then?"

But I never got to answer, because at that moment a trio of girls walked past our table, the one in the middle turning to call over her shoulder, "Hi, Kim," in a voice so contemptuous I actually blinked.

"Who...were they?" I asked, gaze lingering over the three receding figures.

Looking back to Kim, I saw that she was steadfastly staring into her lap, and had put down her fork. She seemed to be biting her lip hard.

I knew that I only bit my lip whenever I was worried or upset about something

"They're my...they were my friends." Her voice was feather-soft, wind-soft. So soft I had to lean in and listen hard to catch it.

"Were?" I said gently. "Are you alright? They didn't seem very friendly."

For a long time, Kim didn't answer. Though she looked down, it was impossible to miss the two spots of deep, embarrassed red on her cheeks.

"They can be friendly," she whispered. "If you're friends with them."

I looked after the three girls, who were now perched at least four cafeteria tables away from us, looking as carefree as anything. It made me angry that they had the capability to make my new friend so powerfully sad and embarrassed, when she really seemed like the sweetest girl in the world. Kim wouldn't hurt a fly, and honestly I struggled formulating a reason why they could be treating her this way.

I didn't need to try to formulate an appropriate response, however, because when my eyes flicked back to Kim, there was a guy behind her who was, honest to God, built like a brick shithouse. That's how my dad would have phrased it.

"Kim," the nameless guy said, bending down to take her face into his hands. Before he did, I saw the sadness and embarrassment that had played star roles on Kim's face just moments before wiped clean to be replaced with something else - pure, unadulterated joy.

I blushed and gobbled up more frybread, happy to be in a crowded cafeteria where the hustle-and-bustle (partially) blocked out the sound of kissing.

"What's wrong?" that same, deep voice asked Kim, a sense of urgency rising to the surface of his voice.

A backpack thrown onto the floor next to me startled me out of thoughts of third-wheeling, and I looked to my right to see a guy of similar physique to the one with eyes only for Kim. That wasn't the only thing that was similar about the two men, though. They shared a similar expression, one that I found difficult to articulate. If I was pushed, I'd say I saw a combination of guardedness and mistrust on the faces of these two boys I'd never seen before - though really, they didn't look like boys at all. They looked like men on the ripe side of their 20s.

But that wasn't it. That wasn't what I found so hard to articulate about whatever I saw there. I thought I saw something...lurking there. Expectant, waiting, cautious. Almost as though the two of them were waiting for something to go wrong, and in fact were preparing for it.

It made me a little sad.

"Who are you?" the guy to my right asked bluntly, pushing a tray that was honest to God heaped with food onto the table in a careless manner.

"I'm Francesca." I smiled. Though I felt intimidated, I knew that such emotion were pretty useless in the grand scheme of things. At the end of the day, I was an eighteen year old girl and this was an eighteen year old boy, and I'm sure if I were totally up our differences and similarities, the differences would be a little pea compared to the wealth of marks on the similarities side. "What's your name?"

"Jacob. And you're in my seat."

"It is not your seat," Kim argued from the other side of me. She craned her head around me so she could fix Jacob with an unhappy look. "Don't be so mean, Jacob."

Ignoring how stunned I was that Kim was capable of being mad at someone, even if it was to a really lukewarm degree, I said, "I apologise. I didn't know this was your seat. Did you want to swap?"

A snort of derision was all I got in response before the mardy-looking Quileute boy shoved a gob of frybread into his mouth. He stared at me as he chewed. He stared at me as he swallowed.

"No."

Well, okay then. "Okay, then."

"Ignore him, please, Francesca." When I turned to look at Kim, I found a faint trace of panic in her gaze, as though she was worried I'd taken Jacob's moodiness as a personal slight. "He's always like this when he's, uh, hungry."

"Hangry," I said. "We all get like that sometimes."

"Also, Francesca, this is my boyfriend, Jared," she said, referencing the guy who was now sitting on the other side of her, opposite me. The way Kim said those words - 'my boyfriend - with a heavy dose of self-consciousness - heavy, even, for Kim - and with a blush rising on her cheeks, made me think the two of them being together was a recent thing, maybe. "Jared, Francesca."

"Nice to meet you," I said politely.

"And you."

"Francesca's from Kansas," Kim said brightly to the table at large, obviously scrambling for something to say. "Aren't you, Francesca?"

"I am," I said. "I-"

"You seen tweedle-dum and tweedle-dee yet?" Jacob cut over me with a sneer, his gaze trained somewhere in the distance. "Tell me, Kim, are they actually friends, or is their idea of friendship taking selfies constantly throughout lunch?"

Through a combination of following Jacob's gaze and inference, I gathered that the girls he was talking about so contemptuously were the ones who had passed us before, who had sneered at Kim.

"There's nothing wrong with taking selfies," Kim said diplomatically. "People are allowed to like whatever they like."

"Yeah, and I'm allowed my own opinions about those likes. Come on, admit it, all they do is sit there and pout and take photos of themselves. I mean, can you classify that as a hobby?" Jacob looked to Jared. "Is it? Is that a real hobby?"

"It's a fucking stupid hobby," Jared replied, his own gaze flicking over to the two girls', whose backs were facing us and so could not see the mob forming on our table.

Kim began desperately, "Can we please just-"

"Have you been filled in?" Jacob looked at me.

"Um, no, I don't think I-"

"Those two, over there. Cornrows, and purple backpack." The identity of the unpopular twosome were confirmed as the girls who'd sneered at Kim earlier. "Dickheads, the pair of them. Don't talk to them."

"They are not-"

"Give it a rest, Kim," Jacob interrupted. "They're foul creatures and you know it. You might be the sweetest person ever but even you have to admit it. You just have to."

Kim cast an imploring look at Jared, the latter of whom fixed a steely stare on Jacob. "Leave it, Jacob."

"I'm just saying-"

"Leave it."

Jacob threw a reproachful look at Jared and moodily shoved a forkful of something into his mouth.

Well, okay, then.

"Dad, I think I'm gonna go on a little explore now the rain's died down. You need anything from the shop?"

"No thanks, sweetheart. Have fun, and be safe!"

"I will! Love you!"

Being outside after the downpour, I felt the expiry of the rush in the air, that curious stillness. I breathed out and zipped my khaki parks up to the neck, watching as the bruise-coloured clouds above my head opened themselves up before my eyes, sharp beams of light forcing themselves through.

In line with the commencing sunniness, something inside of me, location inarticulable, was beginning to lighten and warm up as well. I felt...content. My belly was full of earlier's dinner concoction: veggie stroganoff. I had had a pretty good first day at Quileute Tribal High even though I'd had secret fears I would be excluded and nobody would like me. And now, I was in my favourite place in the world: outside.

Back in Topeka, I'd easily gobbled up the arguably very gentle and tame hiking trails that Kansas had to offer; afterall, it hadn't earned the description 'flatter than a pancake' for nothing. And, as a largely flat state, it didn't have a lot to offer a girl with a heart in the shape of Mount Everest. It was an absolute dream of mine to ultimately be able to climb the most challenging ascent on earth. Something about pushing yourself to the absolute max, pushing the boundaries of your comfort zone, conquering something you'd always been convinced you couldn't. It took being in control to a whole new level, and I loved that.

Autumn was a loud voice in the sky as I jumped the fence that separated the main road from the country road commencement. I squinted the sun out of my eyes as bright gold hands of light painted the brush I pushed aside the happiest shade of green on earth. Then the bush moved back into place behind me as I entered the forest, and I was cocooned in a tunnel of dimness and coolness. As my hiking boots crunched on the leaves underfoot, I turned my head in vain and tried to seek out the cicadas who were singing loud and with abandon. When I was little and my dad would take me on baby trails, I used to pretend that the cicadas were trying to tell us secrets, and I would close my eyes, breathe in, and imagine what sort of things they'd confide in me.

As it was my first bushwhacking expedition in La Push, I'd brought along a regional map, but I held it between my hands in a reluctant way as I walked along. I didn't really like bringing along maps while hiking. Sure, I understood that it had a purpose and a function, and it was indeed much safer to always keep a map hands, but I felt ridiculous carrying around a 2D signifier of the world around me when I could just...look around me. My favourite park of hiking was the sense of exploration.

That was why, as I came to the end of the footpath through the forest, I folded the map back up again and zipped it away in my rucksack. My pace quickened in excitement, and the only sound before I emerged from the mouth of the forest was the steady puff of my own breathing, and the squawk of birds in the obscurity of the trees.

And there it was. First Beach.

It was about 8:15pm, and the back of the sea roared to itself in massive, turbulent, unreasonable waves before flattening with relief as they melted against the sand, becoming nearly nothing but wet scope along the sand before rearing back and doing it all again. The sky was alive - golden, and roaring, beginning with the stone of the sun deep in the sky, illuminating everything around me with the most beautiful deep yellow hue all I could do was stand there and be amazed. To my left, a seastack stood supporting birds dancing on the surface of it.

I walked forwards slowly. The wind whipped against my cheeks and my eyes watered instinctively. I cast a look around me, but I was the only figure in sight. I slipped off my shoes, and then my socks, and stepped with bare feet onto the sand, wriggling my toes. After bending down to roll up my cargo pants, I slowly walked towards the shore. The water rolled towards me and swarmed past my feet and I watched as the foam at the mouth of the waves dissolved into a calm, quiet nothing. I shut my eyes and felt the ocean in its uninhibited fullness, all around me.

Like this, I felt so small.

I don't know how long I stayed there. Maybe an hour, maybe two. All I knew was that a howl tore through the otherwise calm surrounding of the sea, and when I whipped my head around, thinking, "did I really just hear…?" the only lightness in the sky was deep in the horizon and as slim as a crescent moon. My watch read 10:02pm. Shit! How had I lost track of time so badly? I'd told dad I'd be back no later than 9!

The dark thicket crunched and crackled as I ran through the dark-obscured footpath, and where before the cicadas sand a pleasant, familiar song, now the owls twitted above me where I couldn't see them, and the sound seemed full of foreboding and the promise of something that belonged exclusively to the night.

Could that really have been the howl of a wolf I'd heard? A wolf? In La Push? The significant amount of research I'd done about the area my father and I now called our home hadn't yielded anything about wolves. Maybe it wasn't a wolf I'd heard. Maybe it was some creature native to the area that sounded like a wolf but was actually…

As though the mystery of La Push could hear my thoughts, I heard another howl. Loud and undeniable. Aggressive. Heart pounding, I amped up my frantic walk to a run.

I didn't stop running until I reached home.

What do you guys think? Are you intrigued, bored, excited, confused? Do you want to read more? Please tell me because I would love to know! Much love to you.