On a scale of 'okay' to 'awful' Fiddleford had just had a fucking horrible first day. The young teen leaned over to try and heft his backpack higher, but to no avail. The heavy bag continued to sag, sending an ache through his shoulders and upper back. He let out a frustrated grunt as he tried once more, finally managing to catch it in the right position.

Damn pack, he thought bitterly as he trudged along the sidewalk next to the school. Damn books, damn make-up work, damn everything. If his mother could have heard what he was thinking, she would have pinched him and said, "Now Sugar, that ain't no way to think. You oughtta be lookin' for the bright side o' things." But as much as he loved his mother, he couldn't for the life of him find anything good about this day.

First of all, his homeroom teacher just had to make him get up and introduce himself. He'd made the poignant mistake of greeting the class with an eager, "Howdy, everybody! My name's Fiddleford McGucket!" He'd been greeted with boos, jeers, and several thrown objects; the teacher herself has nearly nailed him in the head with a stapler.

Things had just gone from bad to worse after that. From eating lunch alone, to getting tripped in the hall, to the back of his neck getting covered in spit-balls, everything that could have gone wrong did. He absently rubbed his arms where he was sure deep purple bruises were glowing beneath his sweater. How was he supposed to know that the unmarked door next to the water fountain in the gym wasn't a restroom but, in fact, the girl's locker room? After having the shit beat out of him by a group of half-dressed cheerleaders, he'd managed to escape, only to be slapped with a detention.

Detention itself had been nothing but sitting for several hours while the teacher snored and that one big, sweaty kid (who couldn't seem to quit bumping into him in the hallway) sat in the back and munched on toffee nuts.

Now, here we was, schlepping home an insane amount of books and papers, all because his Chemistry teacher had decided that the only way he could get caught up with the other students would be to make him complete the same work that they'd already done over the past two months. He'd tried to protest, to explain that at his last school he'd been in more advanced classes and didn't need to catch up. But he'd been called a 'wise guy' and was told to shut up. As much as he loved science, even Fiddleford could not fathom how he was going to do it all by the required date.

As he left the sidewalk and began cutting across the parking lot, Fiddleford came to a decision: he officially hated Glass Shard Beach, New Jersey, and everything in it. Why his parents had thought it a good idea to move up here was beyond him - sure they had cousins who were happy to let them stay rent-free, but that was true for just about every state in the country.

Why here? He asked himself as he kicked a stray can. For Christ's sake, why here?

He listened to the can as it clattered across the pavement, until it made a soft conk when it bounced off a car. Fiddleford looked up to see where it had landed - and the sight he was met with only served to make him even more irritated.

There, smack in the middle of the lot, some asshole had decided to park sideways and take up three parking spaces with their beautiful, red El Diablo Convertible. Fiddleford stared at the car for a minute or two trying to comprehend just what he was looking at.

"Seriously?" he yelled to no one, glaring at the car. Because, why? Just why did this person have to park like that? How could anyone feel that they had the right to do something like that? What the hell had happened to common decency? What was wrong with this place?

The more he thought about it, the more his pent up anger bubbled until at last he'd had enough. He'd been teased, picked on, beaten up, and called a walking pencil, all in a span of one day. He'd had enough of this crap, and before he could stop and think things through, he found himself taking his backpack and hurling the ridiculously heavy thing straight at the side door.

"FUCK YOU!" He shouted at the car as his pack hit the side and fell to the ground. "FUCK YOU!" He hollered as he walked over and kicked the pack out of the way. "FUCK YOU, FUCK YOU, FUCK YOU!" He screamed as he started kicking the car door, the tire, the front bumper.

"FUCK YOU, SCHOOL! FUCK YOU, PEOPLE! FUCK YOU, NEW JERSEY!"

After this fierce battle cry he collapsed into angry grunts and growls as he continued to kick the damned thing, and the fact that he couldn't seem to make a dent only pissed him off more.

"Why the fuck did we have to get stuck here?" he asked the car, his voice cracking as his kicking started to slow down.

Why did all of this have to happen? he silently asked of the universe. Why did you make his boss fire him? Why did we lose the house? Why did you make her get sick?

"HEY!"

The shout from behind sliced through Fiddleford's haze and he stopped kicking the car long enough to whip around and yell back a choked, "WHAT?"

Reality slapped the boy across the face when he saw that it was him, the sweaty kid, who had yelled at him from the other side of the parking lot. He stood frozen as the guy stomped towards, him, his face etched with rage.

"What the hell were you doing to my car, you little..."

Just as he got close, the taller boy trailed off and stopped in his tracks to take in the shorter teen, who had unnoticed tears streaming down his face.

"Little…" The brunette tried to think of something to say. He was still kind of pissed off that this kid had been messing with his car, but it looked like maybe he had something bigger going on.

Meanwhile, Fiddleford had finally come unfrozen and he quickly snatched up his backpack and started stammering utterances of, "I'm sorry, I really am, I-I had a bad day and sort of lost it, and I'm really really sorry…"

"Hey." Fiddleford jumped when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He stepped away from the other boy who still had a hand reached out, a look a mild concern on his face. "Hey," he said again, "are you okay?"

Oh, if only Fiddleford could answer that question truthfully. "I...I'm sorry," he said one last time, before turning and sprinting away as fast as his skinny legs could carry him.

If he had looked back, he would have know that the taller teen had stood there and watched him until he ran around the corner and out of sight.

…

The rest of the week was the same sort of awful, and Fiddleford began to hate waking up in the morning. By the time Friday rolled around he'd become submissive to it all, allowing every insult to roll off, becoming numb to the outside world. If this was his life now, then who was he to argue with the universe?

After all, this was better than exploding and nearly getting beat up by an angry car owner.

The teen let out a sigh as he carried his tray into the lunch room and looked around for a seat. As always, the table near the far wall was empty, and he started to make his way over.

"HEY LOSER!"

Fiddleford slowed his step and let out a sigh, having a feeling he knew what was coming. He looked around for the source of the voice, and was surprised when he saw the tall, sweaty kid from that first day standing on a chair, shouting at him from across the room. He was near the window, and a boy with similar features sat across from him, one hand raised toward Fiddleford in greeting while the other adjusted his glasses.

"YEAH YOU!" The sweaty one yelled again. "You know you can sit your ass down over here unless you think you're too good for us!"

The young hippie's eyes widened. Was he hearing correctly? Surely this was a joke.

But no… They were both motioning for him to come over, despite the fact that everyone else in the lunch room was shooting the three of them dirty looks. Fiddleford hesitated for only a moment before he found himself moving towards them.

"H-hey there," he stammered once he got close. "Uh, did you want something?"

"Yeah, I wanted you to sit the hell down."

"Stan," the boy with the glasses admonished, "knock it off. Can't you see he's nervous?" The boy then turned back to Fiddleford and motioned to the seat next to him. "Please, have a seat," he said cordially.

Without much choice, the blond set down his tray and took a seat. Once he was settled, the sweaty one quit watching him and went back to eating his pastrami on rye. The bespectacled next to him reached out a six-fingered hand in greeting.

"Nice to meet you," he welcomed. "Name's Stanford Pines, future scientist and researcher! You can call me Ford."

Fiddleford grinned and gave the hand a hearty shake. "Fiddleford McGucket," he said, relief that he wasn't met with flying staplers this time. "Future inventor and entrepreneur!"

"Inventor, eh?" Ford gave a wide smile. "Neat! Always nice to meet a fellow science lover."

Ford was interrupted by a prodding grunt from across the table, and the future scientist said, "Oh, and of course the sandwich lover over there is my twin brother, Stanley, future researcher's assistant." This statement was met with a much more satisfied grunt as Stanley inhaled the last of his sandwich and eyed Fiddleford once more.

The blond, suddenly nervous again, said, "I'm sorry again about your car. I didn't mean to cause you any grief, I just-"

"Forget about it?"

"Huh?"

"I said forget about it," Stanley repeated and one or two of his fingers a smacking suck. "You were pissed off and took it out on someone else's property. I can respect that. Just don't do it again if you ever expect to get a ride in the Stanmobile - she doesn't appreciate being nerd-handled."

All Fiddleford could do was blink. Was this real? Were two New Jersey natives actually being nice to him? Letting him sit with them and offering to drive him places in the future? What sort of reality was this?

Before he had a chance to think too hard about it, Ford was already talking his ear off about very scientific theories, and Fiddleford found himself caught up in the excitement. It felt good to talk about science. It felt good just to talk to someone. And when Ford headed off to dump his tray, Fiddleford had to admit it felt good when he looked to see Stanley flashing him a big, goofy grin. To think that this was the guy whose car he'd tried to beat up!

As Fiddleford gave him a sorta shy smile in return, he thought, Maybe I don't hate everything about this place… Yes, maybe.