A/N: Hello there. This is my first 6teen fanfiction, so if you decide to review, please be gentle. I'm also sorry if the first chapter doesn't explain much, but the next one should be up soon and will hopefully clear up any confusion. Well, without further delay, here it is. Happy reading!

Disclaimer: I do not own and did not create 6teen.

"Before you start shouting, let me explain."

I curled my arms into a tight knot against my chest, glaring out of the passenger window of my brother's red Volvo. I could feel the skin above my nose beginning to wrinkle as I narrowed my eyes and pursed my lips.

"Fine. I'll give you thirty seconds," I permitted, still determined not to look at him.

"Mar, this isn't like you. Come on, look at me," he pleaded, and I almost began feeling sorry for him. Almost.

"You just wasted about ten seconds there, Zac."

He sighed and resigned himself to his fate. "Look, I know you didn't come up here to work, but it might do you some good to get a job. I'm not asking you to forget about academics. I just think a part-time job would help you to learn some of the more valuable aspects of being an adult."

"As if my summer regimen isn't going to be strict enough; now I have to add work on top of it," I sulked.

"Oh, it won't be that bad."

I shot him a glare out of the corner of my eye, cursing his shaggy, dark brown hair and tan skin for looking so much like mine (aside from the shagginess). How in the world could I be blood-related to someone whose personality was so different from mine?

Zac fidgeted a bit in his seat. "Really. You might be surprised how much fun working can be, Mar. And there are tons of other teenagers employed at the mall. You're bound to make a few friends . . . and hopefully, almost none of them will be guys."

I couldn't help but smile as his normally over-protective side began to show. The tension in my shoulders dissipated, and I relaxed as I watched the trees whip by outside the car. They all blurred into one gigantic mass of green, contrasting against the ever-still sky above. I wondered why the earth seemed to move so quickly, but the clouds always seemed to stay in one place. It was kind of like my life up to that point; everyone else always seemed so busy, but I never had anything to do, or any place to go.

That is, until I made my big move into Canada with my brother, Zac. Even though my social life was painfully lacking, my academics were stunning, and all of my friendship-sacrificing actions had finally paid off. My last report card clinched the deal; I was allowed to transfer up north for a summer study program (and maybe a year of high school). We would go into further detail about topics like biochemistry, trigonometry, geometry, and algebra. We'd discuss such controversial issues as male chauvinism and human cloning. In short, I would be a nerdy, dark-haired American slowly swallowed up by a mass of equally nerdy Canadians.

Overall, it sounded great. Not only would I get to leave my overbearing mother behind in New Jersey, but I'd also get to board with my super-cool, twenty-two-year-old brother. Sure, I'd have some extra studying to do, but it would be worth it someday. Basically, it was like a dream come true . . . until Zac began to lay down the law.

Curfew was midnight on the days I didn't have "summer school," which were Mondays, Tuesdays, Thursdays, and weekends. On the days I had to study (Wednesdays and Fridays), eleven was the limit. If I wasn't out that night, I had to be in bed by ten-thirty. I could only leave the house if my homework was complete, no snacks after nine o' clock, and no sleep overs (once I made friends) on school nights. It was a bit much, but I could deal with it.

However, getting a part-time job was a different story. I was allowed to visit Canada to focus on my studies. Now, on top of that, I'd have to learn how to be responsible and act more like an adult. It's every teenager's dream . . . in Perfectville.

"We're here," Zac announced and broke me from my thoughts. He cut the engine and opened his door. "Well, come on. You aren't going to fill any job openings just sitting there."

I groaned as I unlocked my seat belt and stepped outside. Galleria Mall, here I begrudgingly come.

It took me about an hour before I found a place that was hiring that day. I got a job as a part-time cashier at the Slush Shop. This exciting vocation consisted of taking people's orders for one (or more) of our specialty drinks, filling up a clear plastic cup with the slush, and handing it back to the person while accepting the money. We also sell corn dogs and soft pretzels for the especially daring customers, or those that are simply hungry. Oh, and I also got the privilege of wearing a bright pink apron with a picture of our Blue Razzle slush on the front. However, my nametag was probably the highlight of my day; somehow, the person in charge of making the aggravating little pieces of plastic hasn't the faintest idea how to spell. So now, everyone in the mall knows me not as Marisol—my actual name—but as Mariquita (which is Spanish for "ladybug," in case you were wondering).

. . . All complaining aside, my day was extremely boring. I had a very hard time trying not to correct people when they read my infernal nametag, and it was practically impossible to be nice to some of those customers. I also started to get annoyed by the cheerful little "ding!" the cash register makes every time it opens. More important, I began to get really hungry and yearned for a break.

As luck would have it, just as my lunch break started calling my name, another customer walked up to the counter. He was fairly tall with dark blue, messy hair and a smug smile perched above his cleft chin. He leaned against the counter like he owned the entire mall, and before I could take the time to roll my eyes, he spoke.

"How's the menu here?"

I tried looking beyond him for the girl supposedly covering the next shift, but no one in a pink apron was to be found. I turned my attention back to him and—despite my increasingly irritable mood—acted fairly agreeably.

"To be honest, I'm not sure," I admitted with a shrug. "But the Blue Razzle slush is a popular choice."

"Blue Razzle it is, then." He rested his elbows on the counter and leaned in closer to the register. "So, listen, are you doing anything later tonight?"

I rushed over to the slush machine and watched as the Day-Glo blue ice mixture began pouring into a clear plastic cup. Maybe if I pretended to be distracted, he'd think I didn't hear him and drop the subject. Or better yet, he'd think I was stuck up and simply wasn't giving him the time of day. Whatever his assumptions, I just needed to turn him off. You see, though I may talk big most of the time, when it comes to guys, I'm clueless. I've never exactly been good at handling situations with attractive examples of the opposite sex. This guy's interest in me only added to the confusion.

Unfortunately, luck wasn't smiling on me at that moment; he asked the question again once I turned to give him his drink. I looked up into his expectant, dark-brown eyes—his pupils drilled microscopic holes into my skin—and froze.

"That's all right. You don't have to answer me right now." I still wasn't sure whether to find his self-assured grin completely nauseating or slightly appealing. "Why don't you just give me your number, and I'll call you a little later, after you've thought things through?"

My number? Oh, right. I have a cell phone. That means I have a number, I reminded myself. I studied my hands religiously, searching for some guidance in the cracks on my knuckles. The only guidance I received was a reminder to use more lotion.

"Well, I uh . . ." Think, Marisol, think! ". . . don't have a pen."

"No worries. I can just put you right in my contacts." I peered up to find his phone already flipped open, his fingers ready to punch in the digits as I recited them. He stared at my chest before looking back to his phone and typing in something. "Okay. I've got your name in."

My tongue began to swell to the size of a wet, industrial-sized, kitchen sponge. My palms became clammy, my forehead dripped with sweat, and my knees locked up. I wanted to shrink to the size of a grain of salt on one of the soft pretzels still warming in the tray: just big enough to be seen, but too small to attract much attention.

This guy, on the other hand, was perfectly calm. He must've thought my stalling was from actual intelligence rather than a blockage in my frontal lobe, as he started to explain himself. "Oh, right, I never told you my name. It's Jonesy."

Before I could stop myself and consider what Zac would do if he found out I was giving my number to strangers, I began reciting the digits as if on cue. Jonesy gave me one last grin and a wink, handed me three dollars, and left. He'd told me to keep the change, granting me an extra penny, which I promptly shoved into my pocket. Then, a chorus of angels sounded and trumpets blared as the replacement cashier showed up, relieving me of my duties (at least for a little while) after a tiring first day.

Little did I know, my day was far from over.