A/N: So I realized halfway through writing this chapter that I was using second person present tense. I kinda freaked, until I went back to the prologue and saw I had written it the same way. I was nothing short of relieved.

A little bit of Cade interaction this chapter, but not too much. Mostly just setting up some stuff, and character development for Jade. Boo. But don't you worry, we'll get to the meat and potatoes soon enough.

A few days pass. You don't see her much. Occasionally you'll catch a glimpse of familiar dark hair, or think you'd heard her voice. You can't be sure, though. There was only that one meeting after all, and you both spent most of it silent, and not looking at each other.

As far as you're aware, you're not in the same homeroom class. You haven't started electives yet, though - they're still trying to fit you in, - but that's a wild card. You don't hold out any kind of hope that she's interested in the arts. It's not like you really know anything about what she's like. Maybe she had just taken pity on the weird new girl, decided to try and make friends, but didn't know what to say. Not like you would've known how to break the ice either, even if you had wanted to.

You haven't really talked to anyone, yet. The socialites are wary of you, and the more introverted aren't exactly apt to reach out. Not to say no one has tried striking up a conversation. There's been a few people who have tried being nice. But they've all had a plethora of better friends, so after one or two awkward and tense conversations, the novelty runs out and they stop trying. Cat must fall into that category too, you think.

It's something you hate, shallowly sorting people into categories, and plastering labels all over them like they don't mean anything. They're human beings too. They're complex, and they have feelings. But so do you, and that's why, against your better judgement, you do so. It allows you to keep all these people at arm's length, so you don't disillusion yourself. Getting hurt just isn't worth it, and it's something you already know all too well.

After a week, you've started to forget about her, and let the monotonous and dreary nature of the school to numb you. Classes are uneventful. Boring, even. Basic level Spanish is compulsory, and Science is as horrible as ever. Math is easy, but droning, with History on the flip side. You find the stories of war and revolution to be strangely fascinating, though you're absolutely shit at remembering all the names and dates.

The one course you actually really enjoy is English. Your teacher is on the younger side. Late 20s, early 30s. She's easygoing, and doesn't yammer on about unimportant things everyone should already know. Instead, she discusses literature - not the boring, early 1900s sort, that the older generation all have boners about. Rather, she enthuses about modern poetry, and mostly unheard of novels that sculpt grandeur worlds. She sometimes informs the class of rarely-used punctuation marks. Your first day, she had told everyone of the interrobang, and how it combined the uses of an exclamation mark and a question mark.

Most importantly, she talks about Broadway plays. When she heard you were from New York, she had immediately asked you which performances you had seen, and which your all-time favourite was. Of course you had seen plenty of productions; almost every major show since the time you were six. Your favourite, though you've never seen it personally, is RENT. She smiles and nods, and you know that she can tell you're a performer yourself, just by the way you say it's name. There's a certain tearful glamour to the life of a starving artist. It's part of the reason why you love the arts so much.

Her name is Ms. Webber, and she insists her students call her Kelly. Few of them do. She's only the second person you've met here you can stand.

It's lunch now, and again you've decided to eat in the small garden. You're surprised that not many others eat out here. They appear to favour the cafeteria, which makes sense, you suppose. It's cleaner, and they don't have to walk across the school. And it's air conditioned. Heck, that alone is almost enough for you to eat inside. You're not used to the heat here. New York was cool and wonderfully dreary most days. Even the summer wasn't too warm. Here, you could go to the beach in the middle of winter. There's little to no seasons. You can feel the sweat sticking your shirt to your back. It's disgusting. You can't even wear a shirt more than once without having to wash it. If only you could simply will yourself to stop sweating.

You take a bite of your salad. The lettuce seems to be as limp and lifeless as you feel under the rays of the sun. It tastes bitter, with no real flavour otherwise than the heavy ranch dressing. Private school or not, the food still sucks. You resolve to start packing your own, before tossing the pathetic pile of lettuce in the trash.

Instead of sitting back down on the bench, you decide to lay in the shade of the trees for a while. There's an oak in the middle of the clearing, its foliage offering ample shelter. It would be the perfect place for a picnic. Alas, you have no blanket, instead laying directly on grass and dirt. It feels cool underneath you, a breeze dusting your face with it's comfort. You shut your eyes, and listen to the sound of rustling leaves.

It's been a good while when you're interrupted by a recognizable voice.

"You're a bit odd, you know?" You keep your eyes closed, but smile and lift your brows as a response. "Some of the girls inside were talking about you."

"Let them. I don't care what they fucking think. They're idiots." Yet, your mouth twists down. You're not odd. Not really. If lying down in the shade qualifies as strange here, then-.

"I think you do. Care, that is." You hear her sit, and feel the grass shift slightly under her. "Maybe not what THEY think, but what people think in general." She's right, at least partially. If you didn't care at all, then why would you keep everyone at an arm's length? This isn't news to you, though. You've been psychoanalyzed before by plenty of people. Strangers, friends, family, professionals. Everyone has something to say about you, it seems. That doesn't mean you should be impressed with their meagre deduction skills. Any old idiot could see you don't like opening up to people.

None of them try to figure out why. They just tell you to stop and be friendly for once. Nevermind you already were, once upon a time, and it didn't matter. You can treat others as well as possible, and they can still spit right back in your face. You open your eyes, and stare upwards as clouds roll across the sky.

"Why are you out here, Cat?"

You can hear her hesitation. She was caught off guard. "I just wanted you to know what was going on, is all."

"I already knew. I'm not dumb, and I'm not exactly blind. But I'm not going to stop what I want to do just because of others. And I'm not about to cause a scene by calling a million other people out. I don't have the time, and I don't have the energy."

"…oh. Well, okay." Cat pushes herself back onto her feet, and dusts off her pretty pastel dress. "The bell's going to ring soon."

"Okay. Thanks." You say it tonelessly, not bothering to say goodbye to Cat or watch her go. Instead, you watch as leaves drift to the ground all around you.

A/N: Next chapter should be up this weekend, and from then on I should update on a weekly basis. Maybe twice a week every so often, if I feel up to the challenge.

Review?