Chapter one

For all of you morning people out there, you have my respect. There's nothing I hate more than waking up at 6:30 to hard core rock music, not that waking up to classical or country is any better.

Now that you've learned that little tidbit about me, maybe you can understand my absolute loathing after waking up to my first day of another week. Welcome to Intercity Chicago Boarding School. (And correctional facility. Though that part isn't in the actual title.)

The only thing that makes me actually get out of bed is the thought that if I don't, Dylan will break down my door and DRAG me out. I rather like my door on its hinges. So I force my butt off the bed and put on a white shirt and denim shorts. Then there's the silver necklace, the one my mom gave me as a symbol of her "love" before she shipped me off to this place. Each night I swear to myself I won't put it on, that I'll revenge my mothers betrayal eye for an eye.

All I had done was have a little fun. Some innocent graffiti on that old cat lady's porch. A good laugh all around, right?

Wrong. Someone sold my buddies and I out to the police. I was the only one with a parent that agreed to ship me off to boarding school in Chicago. I shove an angry hand through my green hair. Yes. I said green. My hair is the color of well watered grass, lush green. Not naturally, of course, but since coming to Intercity, I've had to change up my looks a little bit. Intercity is a make it or break it kind of school. And by break it, I mean bones. You can't make it if you don't look the part.

"Leila?" I hear rapid, heavy knocks on my dorm room door. I can see Dylan in the peep hole, but that's not what tells me it's him. Ever since day one, he's been stuck to me like glue. Not in a needy please-be-my-friend way, but with a stubborn and somewhat protective decisiveness. I unlatch my door, inching it open ever so slightly.

"Yes?" I have to rise to my tip toes in order to go face to face with Dylan, which is miffing considering I'm not exactly short (though, granted, I'm not really tall, either.) He has at least five inches on me, not counting his spiky black hair.

"The princess awakes." Dylan commented with a sly grin, a corner of his mouth quirking upward. He brushes off his motorcycle jacket, dark, like Dylan's other clothes. And his hair. And eyes. And his soul.

To be honest, I can't remember exactly what Dylan did to be thrown in here. I vaguely remember mentions of riots against ISIS, which fits his background. His mom, a native Iranian had been an avid freedom fighter, rebelling against the terrorist groups. Which one, I couldn't say. You'll notice I said had and been.

When Dylan was four, he was shipped off to the USA to be with an uncle or something. His mom had been killed by a suicide bomber. Where it happened, wait for it, I don't know.

Before you say I have a horrible memory, I'll clarify. Dylan (gasp of surprise) doesn't like to talk about it.

"The princess is hungry." I say, trying to bypass Dylan and step out of my door. But Dylan has height, weight, and strength against me. It would have been easier to shove a rock. At least the rock wouldn't laugh at me. Anger bubbles up in my stomach. Red hot rage flares within me, like a furnace has been lit.

Who said punks can't be poetic? We all have our moments.

I shove Dylan as hard as I can. He staggers backward just enough for a crack to appear between him and my doorway. I squeeze through and bolt down the hallway. Since Dylan isn't a gentleman (no one at this school is.) he doesn't just take it.

We've already established Dylan has been blessed by the angels, or whatever, in the area of strength, yes? Good. You already have a better memory than me. (Or at least a better memory than what you think I have.)

Dylan catches up to me easily and I feel his hands on my waist, swinging me into the air. He hold me upside down, high enough in the air that only the tips of my hair hang down onto the floor. I can hear blood rush to my head. "Let me go! Put me down!" I shout, twisting ferociously in Dylan's grip. I manage to kick him in the chest, and I feel him wince. Good. Let him feel Princess's wrath.

I realize the sly look Dylan gives me a moment too late. Before I can think of a word to say that would get me banned from a church, Dylan has done as I asked. He dropped me.

On my head. Should've seen that one coming. "Whoops." Dylan gives me a fake apologetic look. "You know, I wouldn't be surprised if that's what your parents did to you when you were young. It would explain a few things." He says sincerely. "I'll bet your mom took you surfing when you were young and you smacked your head on the board." For those of you who aren't Dylan, (and if you are, Dylan, I hate you.) let me explain. My mom was a world class surfer. Back in her teens and twenties, before I was born, she had it all. Sponsorships. Trophies.

Then she had me, and all the sudden dropped it all and went to Colorado. Colorado, of all places, the most landlocked state there is. She became a tour guide to the Garden of the Gods, and buried her surfing things deep in the basement, where she thought I could never find it.

But one day, I did. I saw the surfboard surrounded by magazine articles and shinny gold medals. I remember running my hand along the board and FEELING the ocean. Feeling the power of the waves, feeling the might of the water.

There. That's my sentimental moment of the day. Or week. You know, just savor it while it lasts, 'cause I don't get touchy feely often.

I peel myself off the floor, swinging a punch at Dylan, only half kidding. He grabbed my fist out of the air, wrapping his hand around mine. He yanked my arm upward, pushing me back slowly. I pull back, yanking my arm away from him. "Whatever. I'm going to get breakfast." I turn and walk away. I'm halfway to the dorm cafeteria when I hear Dylan call,

"They stopped serving breakfast thirty minutes ago!" I knew I couldn't be that lucky.