The second I pulled into the parking lot my car was almost instantaneously surrounded by admiring guys. The disgusting cretins. Seriously, hasn't anyone in this backwater town seen a Ferrari before?

I snarled at them, my lips curling back over my teeth. I had always been proud of the fact that my canine and eye teeth were long and sharp enough for people to notice.

"Get the" (insert swear word of your choice here) "away from my car," I hissed.

I gave them thirty seconds, just to weed out the smart ones, who, wisely, were intimidated by a glowering Goth chick who had muscles -- kickboxing and rock climbing were great -- and spikes. The rest stayed, and I warned them again. Let no one say that I was unfair. Well, unless you really deserved to have your ass kicked. "I have a shotgun, a shovel, and five acres behind the house. Do not trifle with me."

A few more, intimidated by the threat of actual force, scurried away, but the jocks -- they were obviously part of some sort of sport or club, because of their matching jackets -- gave me patronizing smiles. What, did they think they were bulletproof? 'Cause if they did, I would be only too happy to prove them wrong.

One, a cocky-looking blond with a crew cut and brown eyes, decided that I might be easy. "Hey, baby, you must be new here. How about I show you around, help you explore the terrain?" he said smoothly, hitching his hands in his pockets suggestively. A few of his friends laughed.

"That'd be really great," I hissed, my hands balling into tight fists at my sides. "But I don't date outside my own species."

He move closer, undaunted, his hands reaching for me.

"Did I mention the kick in the groin you'll be receiving if you touch me?"

Like most dumb jocks who don't believe a girl would actually be able to kill someone a hundred different ways using just a paperclip or my hands, he ignored me and put his hands right on my waist.

I moved, fast, fast, fast, recalling an amusing self-defense trick from Miss Congeniality. SING: Solar plexus, instep, nose, groin. I tried it. Elbow to the 'plexus, booted heel to the arch on the side of his foot, heel of the hand to the nose, knee to the groin.

"Bad Boy" went down, and didn't stir. "Ten seconds," I said cheerily, feeling better than I had in weeks. I loved fighting. It centered me in a way that meditation and writing and yoga and therapy could not. It gave me control, so no one could hurt me. It was nearly impossible to hurt someone if you were unconscious, and no one was ever going to hurt me again, that I would never be the victim. It gave me control, something I desperately needed. When I fought, I felt like I had control over my opponent, control over my environment, control over myself.

The rest of them scrammed, peeling the crew-cut kid off the asphalt as they went. I was a girl of my word, and wouldn't have attacked until I got to zero, though. I was a lot of things, and I would lie like a rug if I felt like it, but most of the time I tried to be honest.

I was humming to myself when I noticed a throbbing in my side and the side of my face. I thought back. I guess that he had been able to back-hand me pretty good, and land a solid punch on my ribs. I was a little disappointed that it hadn't lasted longer, but shrugged it off and grabbed my bag from the hood of my car, smiling at the beep it made when I locked it. I loved that sound. There was no threat of being told on: the male ego was fragile, and he wouldn't want anyone knowing that he had gotten his butt served to him on a platter by a girl.

I decided not to check in at the office. I didn't need to get my schedule because I had had them mail it to me the week before, so that was one awkward conversation I could skip.

My first class was earth science, which I enjoyed. The teacher didn't seem to care that much about high school drama and a new student, but knew his stuff, and must be firm about the classroom being just for learning because the kids didn't try to talk to me, and I had a seat in the back row. Looking good so far.

2nd period was worse, because by that time the bruise had started to show on my face, and the kids tried to talk to me, and the teacher made me introduce myself to the entire class, and it was Calculus, which is reason enough for me to absolutely loath it.

And I met Jasper Hale.

He was the only person who seemed to be absolutely shunned. There was a whole two-seat deep radius around him that was avoided, and he sat in the very back of the classroom, the corner opposite of the door. When I walked into the classroom, he stiffened, his hand gripping the underside of the desk, glaring at me with revulsion and contemptuous loathing hot enough to melt a glacier. I met his hot stare with a look cool enough to freeze lava, even though my insides were churning and I wanted to go home, curl up on the couch with a big tub of sherbet ice cream, and watch the entire Resident Evil trilogy. Instead of giving in, however, I cocked my head lazily to one side and trying to figure out why he looked so familiar. I was sure that I would have remembered someone so beautiful, which he was.

Then it hit me. Jasper Whitlock, from my book, Dark Flame.

Okay... I thought warily, Either there is something in the water here that makes you crazy, or I really am schizophrenic.