Author's Note: Hello everyone! Sorry this took so long - I've been unusually busy, of late.

Thank you so much to those who favorited, reviewed, and followed this story from last time! Without your support, I probably wouldn't have posted anything else.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything but the plot and OCs.

Enjoy!

Transformers High

Chapter Two:

Home Again

It was five o'clock. Classes were over, and the students were going home.

The long yellow buses rolled slowly down the flat pavement of Pissyard's drive, groaning beneath the combined weight of nearly twenty students per bus. Their dirty tires cycled slowly, pressing cruelly against the compact asphalt, and their drivers stared tiredly out of dusty windows.

Nancy sat in the third bus, and ignored the sounds of chaos her classmates' emitted - or rather, the eighty percent that were not like her. Those who were like Nancy stared in much the same manner as she did at their fellow adolescents, with an expression of confusion, as though wondering how such immature beasts could have reached the same place in life they had.

Oliver Hallpoint was one of them. The dark-skinned boy sat next to Nancy, as was his custom, pale eyes devoid of warmth, watching Jade Donnalt as she boomed a loud, boisterous laugh. Oliver was Nancy's closest friend. He was in her year, and shared most of her classes. Unlike Nancy, Oliver had a sharper wit than Voltaire, and an extensive vocabulary to match. He wasn't overly educated, having lived most of his grade-school years as a vagrant boy intent on defying the peaceful, mannerly ways of Lappington, and entirely devoted to the idea of become a gangster rapper. This hadn't proven helpful to his schooling. He'd grown out of that dream (mostly), and had informed Nancy that his new intention was to become a DJ in Chicago.

Oliver was strange, mostly secretive, and quiet, meaning that he and Nancy got on splendidly. Unfortunately, Oliver did not get along with most other people, including the teachers, which meant that she had few other friends at all.

What she had instead was a brother.

Solomon Hamish sat five seats ahead of Nancy with two of his fellow seniors. If Oliver was quiet, Solomon was silent. He rarely ever spoke, preferring to watch, or, in a case where his interaction was necessary, let his actions speak for him. He was tall and good-looking, with pale, pointed features and large, expressive black eyes. His hair was dark and thick, falling about his ears and into his eyes in smooth, straight curtains. Nancy looked nothing like him.

When the bus stopped at their house, Nancy got up first. She bid Oliver goodbye, and rolled her eyes at the smirk he gave in response. Most likely, the boy would be visiting Solomon later in the evening - or perhaps it would be early in the morning. Solomon was the only other person Oliver seemed to tolerate with any grace, and visa versa. The two were almost closer than Nancy and Oliver themselves were, since boys could talk about things to one another that a boy and a girl would never attempt to discuss. Sometimes the two genders were just too different for some topics to be interesting to both.

Nancy left the bus, feeling Solomon's presence just behind her, and stepped onto the sidewalk across the street from their home. The Hamish's house was hidden from their view until the bus drew away with a hiss of hydraulics, it's dirty yellow bulk retreating into the dusky distance.

The Hamish family lived on Cotton Rd and 3rd, in about the center of the row of houses that lay along this particular stretch. The house was - for Lappington - a rather large two story building, its siding a soft yellow that brought to mind buttercups and daisies. The steps that led up to the porch were painted a clean white, and the lawn was well kept, decorated with trimmed trees. A large, rowan door graced the pearly porch with a splash of reddish color, a prominent glass window in its center giving the entrance a fine, elegant air. Graceful weeping willows tickled the trimmed glass of the lawn and draped their tendrils over the clean roof, framing the entire picture with their swooping bodies.

Nancy sighed, noting once again, with embarrassment, that the houses on either side and beyond her own looked simple and drab in comparison. The Hamish family was wealthy, and she was lucky to be a member of it. Solomon had been an only child until, as a seven-year-old boy intent to do whatever he shouldn't and avoid everything else, he had been introduced to a five-year-old Nancy as his adopted sister. The friendship between the reticent Solomon and the excitable Nancy had been instantaneous.

Even as he moved past her across the street, the taller boy threw a smirk backward over his shoulder; a silent "coming?" echoing between them.

Nancy gave him a weak smile in return, and followed.

"So, Nancy, how was school?" Her mother's voice was deceptively pleasant; like a bird of prey masquerading as a peacock. A peacock was an accurate description of Mrs. Hamish; she was tall, like Solomon, and shared her son's attractive delicacy in her features. Her eyes were the thing that most distinguished her from Solomon; she had heavy, perpetually half-closed lids that fell over a dreamy brown gaze. Claudia Hamish's lashes were equally heavy; she often complained that mascara all but rendered her blind. Elegancy was in her every movement, and in her clothes as well. Tonight, she wore a slimming red dress that contrasted perfectly with her glossy black locks. Her lips were very red, and she wore pearls around her pale white throat and wrist. Nancy wondered if her adopted parents were hosting anyone that evening; her mother was rarely painted in such heavy make-up.

"It was alright." Nancy answered plainly, looking down at her rumpled school clothes and appreciating their comfort. She didn't particularly like the hassle of grooming herself, and even less enjoyed looking like an expensive ornament when she was done. Solomon was more attentive to his appearance than she was, and had often stopped dead in the middle of teaching her how to use lotion effectively with a strange, almost queasy look on his face; one that plainly portrayed his opinion of his own skills. Apparently, it was a guilty pleasure - one that was most often instinctive rather than intentional.

"Anything out of the ordinary?" Asked her father from the end of their gleaming table, spearing a bit of roasted pork with his fork. Mr. Hamish was more ordinary in his appearance, but no less similar to a peacock than his wife. He wore suits - mostly silk ones - everywhere but in bed. His top two buttons were always fashionably undone, showing a bit of the pale skin beneath. Nancy thought it looked somewhat silly, but she wasn't about to put forward her opinions on fashion to the man who had invented several different fads as a hobby. The suits themselves were quite stylish, and fit Mr. Hamish' lithe frame well, as far as she could tell. The one he wore currently was blindingly white, and the shirt beneath was a smokey grey. The coloring looked odd with his salt-and-pepper hair and goatee, but again, Nancy wasn't about to say anything on the subject.

His black eyes speared her as his fork had speared the bit of pork, and Nancy realized she hadn't replied.

"Well, we got a substitute teacher for Mrs. Peels." She offered, smirking slightly as she remembered Mr. Pax. She turned quickly back to her food, hoping no one noticed. Unfortunately, her mother's dreamy eyes were quite sharp.

"Judging by your expression," The woman began, the hint of a smile on her scarlet mouth. "It must have been interesting."

Solomon saved Nancy from the possible danger of having to describe the event, and she threw him a grateful glance. His lip quirked in response. "I think the main interest was more along the lines of who was going to steal a kiss first." Her brother commented blithely, not a flicker of scorn or humor betraying his poker face. "The ladies in his classes were quite taken with him."

"Oh?" James Hamish's eyes crinkled with a sudden grin. "Is that so? Poor man."

"I would agree, but I was too busy ogling him myself."

"Solomon!" Their mother laughed, blushing and waving her napkin at her son.

Solomon's thin lips slitted into a grin, and a twinkle entered his black gaze. Nancy smiled at the sight, and ate a spoonful of carrot soup. It was nice to see Solomon smiling.

"I was being entirely serious." Solomon continued, his grin widening as Mrs. Hamish continued to laugh, pressing a napkin to her mouth to muffle the sound - as all ladies should. "He's quite the looker."

"And what about that Dawkins girl you fancied not so long ago?" Mr. Hamish cut in with a bark of laughter.

Solomon shrugged. "Too feminine." He replied, and there was a definite hitch in his words, as though he was either close to chuckling out loud or gagging outright. Solomon was many things, but gay was not one of them by any stretch of the imagination.

Nancy removed her own dishes with a wide grin, walking over the tiled dining room floor. She entered the kitchen and placed her plate and utensils on the marble counter. Soft lights lit the wash area and stove, shimmering gently over their surfaces. The conversation had grown quieter in the other room, and she did not return to discover what they were discussing. Instead, Nancy bounded up carpeted stairs, half-dancing her way to the white door that closed her room off from the upstairs hallway. Paintings of green glades and laughing partygoers watched her as she turned the brass knob, pushing the door silently open and entering the precious solitude of her room.

Nancy was not much of an artist, nor did she care much for art in general. She liked the subtlety of a room's color and overall comfort; the method of making an area completely hers without need of decoration. Her room, as a result, was not very pretty, but it was very much in keeping with Nancy's likes and dislikes.

There were three soft beanbags piled in the middle of her carpeted floor, their vibrant colors clashing with the soft, creamy texture beneath. Her bed was a mess of clothes and papers; pillows piled at one end indicated where her head was meant to lie, but it was a rare occasion when Nancy actually obeyed the implied rule. She preferred to sprawl in whatever position her body deemed most comfortable, and she liked to do so with as much cushioning as possible. In short, she wore as many clothes as she could to bed, all thick and woolen, cocooning her with blissful warmth.

But now wasn't the time to sleep. She had homework that required her attention.

Before dinner, Nancy had brought her backpack up into her room. It rested in a lopsided heap on her desk, which was more stylish and modern than anything else in her room. there was even a mirror set above it, held up by two strong arms of wood; the same finished wood that comprised the rest of the desk. She could see herself reflected in the dirt-speckled glass: a young teenage girl with golden-brown hair cascading in thick curls over her shoulders and down her back. A few locks curled alongside her face and over her forehead, framing dull brown eyes and a plump, round mouth. Her nose was pointed, and her eyes were unusually wide and round. It gave her the appearance of looking like she was constantly in shock, mouth puckered in an "O" of surprise. Nancy disliked looking clueless.

She turned away with a scowl, and unzipped her backpack. On the walls around her, posters depicting energetic scenes from random movies stared mournfully down at her. She hadn't bought or placed them there, and she'd barely noticed that Solomon had. For some reason, her brother had decided Nancy needed better decoration, but, not being much of a movie fanatic himself, hadn't quite known which ones she would like.

He should have known Buffy the Vampire Slayer was definitely a 'No'.

But Nancy care much about the posters - in fact, she rarely acknowledged their existence. So they stayed.

As she dug out her history homework, grimacing slightly at the signed 'Mr. Pax' at the bottom (honestly, why had he even signed it?), she heard Solomon's door across the hall open and close, signaling her brother's own start on homework.

Voices still sounded through the floor, and Nancy's suspicions about their parents entertaining someone that evening were confirmed. She didn't know who it was, but some stranger was definitely down there, his unfamiliar tones reaching her ears through the carpet.

Nancy sighed, and dragged her schoolwork to her bed. Stranger or no, her homework wasn't about to do itself.

Author's Note: Well, there's the second chapter. A bit shorter than last time, but hopefully as enjoyable. (So, who do you think the stranger downstairs is?) Please review! ^^ Also, there's a poll on my profile for this story. Please vote for it? It will affect the progression of the story. Thanks for reading!