Gil glanced at the index card the secretary had handed him when exiting the office. Room 206. Looked like he was here.

When he walked inside, the group of bored students all turned to look irritably up at him. After they had finished scrutinizing the poor newcomer, they, much to his relief, all went back to doing whatever they had been doing previously. He gingerly sat down next to a peacefully dozing senior with shoulder-length shaggy brown hair, scooting as far away from him as possible.

Less than a minute after he had taken a seat, the door swung open, a young woman with short white blonde hair bouncing into the room. "Good afternoon, everyone!"

Everyone in the room grumbled a greeting. She gave them all one last dazzling smile, before poking her head back out the door and shouting, "Elizaveta, dear! Hurry up!"

Gil froze. Elizaveta? As in Elizaveta Héderváry? The goody-two-shoes student council secretary? Why would she be in a club for delinquents? Unless there was some other Elizaveta that he didn't know about.

He held onto this small sliver of hope, his eyes locked onto the door.

But, as usual, luck wasn't in his favor. The last person he had ever wanted to see practically sulked into the room, carrying a manila folder, a stack of loose leaf, and a plastic box filled with pencils in varying states of shabbiness. She deposited the items onto the teacher's desk with a thunk, before pulling a desk chair up to one of the counters.

The teacher leaned against the teacher's desk and clapped her hands enthusiastically. "Alright, why don't we get started?"

Gil snuck a look at Elizaveta, watching her stare pointedly at a wad of gum plastered onto the counter. Unfortunately, however, she chose that moment to glance up, scowling at him when she caught him looking at her. They locked eyes for a good thirty seconds, before her gaze flitted away and she returned to picking at her nails.

"Hello, everyone!" the woman chirped. "I'm Ms. Braginski, the art teacher for the freshmen and sophomores. This is my first year teaching at this school, so it's a pleasure to meet you all. I recognize some of you from my classes, but since we're rather spread out across the grades, I thought we should introduce ourselves in a fun and memorable way. Elizaveta, dear, please pass out the paper and pencils."

Elizaveta nodded curtly, standing up and padding to the desk. Beginning her dreary shuffle around the room, she slapped a pencil and sheet of paper down onto the sleeping boy's desk, waking him up. "Huh, what?" he mumbled groggily. What's goin' on?"

No one paid him any mind.

Her eyes flickered away when she passed Gil the materials, before skulking back to the front of the room.

"Elizaveta is the advisor of the club. As this is the first year our school's had something like this, the student council wanted to send someone to make sure everything runs smoothly." Ms. Braginski beamed at the girl, but Gil wasn't paying attention.

Didn't Mr. Vargas say that the advisor of the club was going to be his tutor? So that meant—

Elizaveta Héderváry was his tutor? Of all the smart-ass girls in the school it could have been, it just had to be her?

Today really wasn't going his way.

"So, as an introduction activity, since I'm not familiar with most of you, I'd like you all to write three things about yourself on the piece of paper, fold it in half, and pass it to me. I'll read them out loud, and we'll all guess who it is!"

Gil stared blankly down at his sheet of paper. He thought about it for a moment, before leaning forward, writing in his trademark scrawl. 1. My favorite sport is football. 2. I hate Gatorade. 3. Glee is the worst TV show ever known to man.

Ms. Braginski smiled angelically. "Why don't you join in too, Elizaveta? Most of our club members don't know you very well either."

Elizaveta shrugged, grabbing a piece of paper and a pencil for herself. Moments later, she had immersed herself in scribbling on the loose-leaf.

Once the pencil scratches had subsided, Elizaveta was sent to collect the folded papers. Smoothing down the crinkles in her skirt, Ms. Braginski gave a little clearing of her throat. "Now, before we begin, why don't we say our names and what grade we're in? Natalya, let's start with you."

There was a scuffling noise as everyone turned to look at the girl with dirty blonde hair and violet eyes decked out in various goth paraphernalia. She sat slouched in her seat, obviously disconcerted by the overwhelming amount of attention, idly shuffling a deck of cards. Gilbert recognized her as Natalya Braginski, the pyrotechnic chick whom everyone avoided like the plague. He had heard rumors that she had been locked up in a juvenile detention center during her middle school years as a result of torching a couple of billboards and her neighbor's mailbox.

Wait...Braginski? Those two were related?

"Natalya Braginski. Sophomore," she muttered darkly.

A stocky blonde with bushy eyebrows and a permanent scowl glanced around the room. "Arthur Kirkland. I'm a senior," he said, in a thick British accent.

A younger student with disheveled dirty blonde hair let out an obnoxious whoop, glasses slipping slowly off the bridge of his nose. "Alfred Jones. Sophomore," he declared, through a mouthful of potato chips. "The stupid-looking dude who just said his name is my cousin."

Arthur shot him an icy glare, crossing his arms.

Elizaveta twirled a strand of chestnut between her fingers, staring pointedly at the tiled floor. "Elizaveta Héderváry. Junior."

A green-eyed boy ran his fingers lovingly through his majestic mane of golden hair, flashing a peace sign. "Feliks Łukasiewicz, broski. Senior and last year's prom king."

"Sadiq Annan. Freshman," a buff-looking brunette said gruffly, his chin dotted with stubble. Most peculiarly, he was wearing sunglasses inside.

"Lovino Vargas here," a dark-haired boy said flatly, raising his hand in lazy salute. "I'm a junior."

The once-sleeping boy beside Gil mumbled sleepily, yawning he said, "Her-Her-Heracles Karpusi...I'm a freshman."

Gilbert blinked owlishly, before realizing that all eyes were on him. He cleared his throat, flustered. "Uh, yeah. Gilbert Beilschmidt. The awesome junior."

"That's everyone, isn't it? Wonderful!" Ms. Braginski trilled, sifting through the pile of papers on the desk, closing her eyes as she snatched one up. She squinted to read the tiny print, before saying in a clear voice. " '1. I'm a model. 2. My favorite quote is from Coco Chanel- 'a girl must be two things: classy and fabulous.' 3. My mother is a Polish fashion designer.' "

All eyes were on Feliks within moments. He was the only one in the room who could possibly be a model and care so much about Coco Chanel.

"Łukasiewicz," Arthur finally grunted, biting into a Ritz cracker.

"Excellent job, Arthur," Ms. Braginski warbled, grabbing another paper and flattening it. "Alright...let's see...'1. I like Marvel comics. 2. Hamburgers are my favorite food. 3. I cried at the end of Toy Story 3.'...?"

He snickered. "Is it Elizaveta?"

"Seems valid," Natalya murmured.

Elizaveta turned around in her seat to roll her eyes at him. "It's Alfred, you dumbass."

"Language, Elizaveta," Ms. Braginski chided weakly.

Alfred pouted, before pointing an indignant finger at Elizaveta. "Hey, how did you guess? My plan was entirely foolproof!"

Arthur scowled, picking at his nails. "No, it bloody wasn't, you nitwit."

Alfred stuck his tongue out at him. "Oh, go screw yourself. Just because you've got a huge pole shoved up your ass doesn't mean you gotta take it out on everyone."

"I beg your pardon—"

Elizaveta gave them a stare that could curdle milk, silencing them immediately. "There's a Marvel comic sticking out of your bag. Problem solved?"

"Aren't you a right little ray of sunshine?" Natalya grumbled under her breath.

"Like you're one to talk," she retorted.

Ms. Braginski watched helplessly as her irked club members snapped at one another, but managed to come back to her senses, hastily picking up another piece of paper. "Okay, everyone. '1. You're all tomato bastards,'" she choked out with some difficulty, "'2. Antonio Carriedo is a pimp. 3. Don't you dare squish my cheeks.'"

"I'm honestly at a loss," Feliks remarked.

"Antonio is not a pimp," Gil said hotly, fiercely loyal to his best friend.

"I'd think twice about that," Arthur murmured, earning himself a murderous glare.

Meanwhile, Elizaveta was pondering. "Tomato bastards? Where have I heard that before...?"

She snapped her fingers. "Lovino! Right, I remember that!"

"Remember what?" Alfred asked, innocuously enough.

"Nothing," Lovino said hastily. "Moving right along."

Relieved that nothing too terrible had happened, Ms. Braginski complied. "Um...okay...'1. I. 2. Hate. 3. Gilbert Beilschmidt.'...?"

No one could think of anything snarky to say to that.

Gil's tongue seemed to be glued to the roof of his mouth, and no matter what he tried to tell himself to pry it away, that telltale feeling of guilt swamped him over and over again. After all was said and done, it could only be one person: the girl he had done everything he could to forget.

And what made it worse was that her hatred was completely justified.

He had left her behind, insulted her behind her back. She was a nerd. She was a goody-two-shoes. She didn't understand him. She was stupid. He didn't know what he was thinking, befriending such a dork.

He knew he regretted it, but how could he apologize now, five years after it had happened? And so, the only coping mechanism he had left was denial; it was the nature of things, for friendships to break and never mend, and if his twelve year-old self had decided to turn on her, then that was the harsh reality. No turning it around. He couldn't go back and time and change how it fell apart.

It wasn't really his fault.

He wanted to hate her. He really did.

But how could he?

"It's Elizaveta," he choked out, steeling himself to look at her. Her head was down, curtain of chestnut hair hanging in front of her darkened face.

He wondered what was going through her mind. Hate, like she had so openly proclaimed? Disgust? Regret?

Nobody said a word. Not even Ms. Braginski could bring herself to break the ice.

Once upon a time, she told him everything without restraint. Not a thing about her was a surprise to him. She told him her secrets, and he told her his. They had each other memorized. But now, he couldn't even fathom how much she had changed since then. Elizaveta Héderváry was nothing but an enigma to him now, a silhouette on her student council-mounted pedestal, a star far above him.

She hated him. Elizaveta Héderváry hated him.

He told himself that he didn't care, shrugging it off. So what? They had barely spoken two coherent sentences to one another through the course of their high school career beyond partnering for labs. They sat at opposite ends of the cafeteria, averted their eyes when passing by in the hallway, timed study halls and electives to avoid the other.

She wasn't a part of his life anymore.

But of course, as always, he couldn't help but think back to that promise, made by two idealistic children, all of those years ago.