I'm lying on a bench in the school courtyard. The sun's been nothing but one relentless assault since its first appearance, and my oversized shades are doing little to protect me from the harsh glare. There's a shortage of fluffy, imagination-inspiring clouds in the sky. The few that are out just kind of look like cheese doodles. I feel a sigh well up in my chest, but before it can escape, Oliver's big head comes into view, creating an overcast. "What?" I growl, squinting through my sunglasses. I'm still pissed at him.

"I know you're fuming," he starts. Duh. "You're totally entitled to ignoring my existence, but I just want you to know that I'm really, really sorry. I came off as a jerk without intending to. I mean, you're like this ice queen, an emblematic cold-blooded Truscott, and suddenly you have feelings, and not the shallow lusty kinds or whatever, but genuine ones. It just didn't add up. I thought you were kidding," he goes quiet, and brings a disposable coffee cup into my line of sight. It's got the school mascot on it. "Latte? I told Jake Ryan that my grandma was in the hospital so that he'd let me skip him in the coffee line. I think that kid is in remedial classes, or something. That's like the oldest trick in the book."

As much as I hate to admit it, Oliver is right. I try to favor his perspective as I re-rationalize the situation. I've conducted myself like some soulless machine my entire life, and out of the fucking blue I'm breakable and human? I decide to ease up on Oliver's sentence, but robot or not, I let him know there was no excuse for his insensitivity

"Two pumps of vanilla?" I ask. That's a trick question.

He nods, and I can see relief flood across his face. I snatch the latte. "For future reference, because I know you're susceptible to cosmic fuck ups, I like three," I say, wiggling three fingers at him as I sip on the drink.

He rolls his eyes, and clears his throat, signaling that he's about to say something uncharacteristic. "I'm not going to pressure you into that stupid bet," he sighs, ringing his hands. "I jumped the gun, and I shouldn't have." He hangs his head.

"When the hell did you grow up? Or did a fortune cookie tell you to do it?"

Oliver's comeback dies at the back his throat as we both catch Miley Stewart entering the courtyard. She's wearing a flattering selection of customary Seaview Prep duds: a collared button-up, plaid skirt, and a pair of knee high socks. Polly Hernandez, long-lived teacher's pet and president of the welcome committee, is with her, presumably giving her a tour. She looks a little awkward, like a fish out of water, or a newly unveiled zoo exhibit. Everyone else seems to be watching her too, either sizing her up, mentally undressing her, or just blatantly curios.

Polly's yacking away. Her mouth hasn't stopped moving since they've been out there. Sun beams are deflecting off her braces, undoubtedly blinding Miley. Poor Miley tries to act like she's fully engrossed in the shit Polly's spouting. I bet she's giving her a run down of Seaview Prep's extra curricular milieu, maybe even trying to recruit her into a club. I almost want to tug her out of there, but force myself to resist the nagging urge. I still haven't told Oliver that Miley's staying at my Aunt's.

Miley's eyes dart around the courtyard as Polly points things out. Her eyes come into contact with me, and they immediately light up. I think mine do the same, and I'm instantly relieved that my shades are on. She waves, and for a second I don't want to wave back, but before I can indulge the asshole in me, my hand's up in the air. My wave is tardy and subtle, but seems to placate her because she smiles. I give her one back, and as she takes a step towards me, Polly's hand clamps around her arm and tugs her in a different trail. Miley looks frustrated, but follows Polly's direction. She glances back at me, offering an apologetic frown.

I turn to Oliver, who looks like he's got a million questions, and shut him up with two firm words, "I'm in."

He's confused. I can see it in his eyes. They're always pliable and eager to be read, like a slutty library book. "You're in?" He asks slowly, as if he's blanked out on a nonexistent conversation, and then realization dawns on him. He jumps up, ecstatic. "You mean the bet! You're in? Yes! You're in! That's great! I've got to go tell Skipper, he's the one orchestrating this whole thing. I'll see you in Calc though!" He gives me a tight, you-won't-regret-this type of hug and skips off, practically coming in his pants. "You're the best, Lil! Woo!"

I want to get close to her without actually getting close to her. Kind of like those wildlife documentary filmmakers. I want to discretely sweep in and examine her from afar. Any wildlife documentary filmmaker could tell you that interfering with the subject could lead to things like lost limbs, trampled camera equipment, the extinction of an entire species, or worse yet, one mangled Lilly-shaped heart. I'll admit that pursuing her on the cold, pre-established terms of this stupid bet is fucked up. But as pathetic as it sounds, it's the only way I know how to get close to someone. Aside from the effort I put into chasing and bedding girls, romance and intimacy are foreign concepts.

I've got my mp3 player on and I'm tapping my pen on the desk, waiting for class to begin. Oliver has yet to arrive. The door opens and Miley walks in. She doesn't see me right away. I straighten up a little. Be cool. Be cool. She hands Mr. Larkin a slip, and he welcomes her to take any seat. I shut my eyes, concentrating on the drum solo. Be cool. Be coo—

Something touches my arm, and the pen flies out of my hand. Shit. I open my eyes and see that the projectile has hit Mr. Larkin. Double shit. He waggles a finger at me, and I yank the ear buds out and quickly apologize. The grumpy wrinkles in his forehead smooth out, and he tosses the pen at me with a warning. I look to my right, where Miley's seated with her hands over her mouth. "I'm so sorry," she whispers. "I didn't mean to startle you."

I want to snap at her, but my tongue's being considerate. "You didn't mean it," I repeat. "How's the school been treating you?"

"Surprisingly well," she admits. "I was expecting…" she purses her lips, trailing off, fishing for a polite substitute of what she really wants to say. I know what she means.

"Bratty rich kids?" I help her.

"Yeah!" She glances at her painted fingernails, and giggles sheepishly. A couple strands of hair fall against her face, and she tucks them back. "I mean--" she stutters, looking pained, realizing she's put both feet in her mouth.

I lean in towards her, sparing her the agony of providing an explanation. "Allow me to disillusion you, Cinderella. Don't let your guard down just yet. Everyone here is big on ideal first impressions. Remember, we bratty rich kids have been cued on all things etiquette-appropriate and polite since our pill-popping Mothers squeezed us out. Your first assumption was correct, don't let it go. Once you've been here for a while, and you begin to blend in with the scenery, you'll get boring and people will stop being so smiley and accommodating."

She opens her mouth, closes it, and faces the front of the classroom. I lean back in my seat, immediately regretting my harsh tone. Oliver saunters in, giving me a thumbs up as he claims the desk in front of me. He nods his head at Miley. "I'm Oliver. Oliver Oken," he introduces, sticking his hand out.

Miley takes it and smiles. "Miley Stewart."

"It's a pleasure. You've met Lilly?" He makes a sweeping hand gesture towards me, like a game show model showcasing a car. "Hey, you should sit with us at lunch. We'll fill you in. I guarantee our introduction to Seaview Prep will be a lot more engaging than Polly Hernandez's. Please say you'll join us?" Oliver lets his bottom lip flop forward, and Miley giggles.

"Alright," she says, but her eyes dart towards me, searching for something. Approval, maybe.

"Good," he sighs. "I'm excited. Aren't you excited?" I can see him grit his teeth. He's really trying to win Miley over for me. I wish he wouldn't. "Lilly?" His voice almost cracks.

I lick my lips, taking my sweet time. He can wait for a response, and so can she as far as I'm concerned. I offer Miley a cheesy grin, like the one I gave my Aunt, and this time she lets her eyes roll back. Her resistance makes my heart beat a little faster. I love a challenge. "Enthused."

The bell rings, and we don't speak to each other for the duration of the class.

We're occupying our usual table with Miley in tow. Oliver's busy pointing other tables out. "You see that group over there? The one with the blonde guy," he says, gesturing in the general direction with his fork. "Not the tubby blonde guy, but the kid who's got a grimace on his face like he's got a stick or something shoved up his ass?"

Miley glances over in a stealthy manner.

"Well," he continues, "Those are the new money kids. Their parents are either very lucky, or self-made. They stick out like sore thumbs due to the way they accessorize. Way too much bling," he points out the excessive jewelry weighing down their arms and necks, and then explains, "They try to overcompensate for the fact that they're only one winning lottery ticket away from trailer trash. Self-respecting old money kids never resort to pony shows. No one likes a blatant brag."

I watch Miley eat her yogurt. She's thoroughly captivated by Oliver's run down. I can tell she wants to laugh at certain characterizations, but she's too genuinely refined to let herself. After Oliver's finished a decent portion of his tutorial, he picks up his falafel and takes a bite. "This is good," he grunts.

I just shrug, and take a sip of my water. The school only serves pretentious glass-bottle mineral water. Personally, I don't care for it. "Where does that leave you two?" asks Miley, breaking the thoughtful silence.

"What do you mean?" Oliver's brows are furrowed.

"You've made everyone else's place clear, except your own," notes Miley. "So where do you two stand?" How perceptive of her.

Oliver laughs dismissively. He gives me a look that says is she kidding? "We're the royal court," he says finally. "The oldest, most abundant money there is. Lilly and I, respectively. The Truscott's have got the deepest pockets in the country, I'm sure even you must know that." His tone is airy and prideful, but not overbearingly so.

Miley gives me a cheeky grin, like she's got me figured out. "You're wrong, you know," I shoot, disillusioning her for the second time today. "Whatever you're thinking is wrong."

Miley's about to frame a rebuttal, but untimely Janice saunters over. She's making moon eyes at me and twirling a strand of her pale blonde hair. "You still haven't called me," she heralds it like a news anchor announcing a breaking headline. The girl is hopeless. I've given her the brush off at least a dozen times. She looks over at Oliver and waves with her index finger, and then over at Miley. Her face instantly sours. I imagine she's trying to dissect the nature of our relationship. I've never invited anyone to sit with Oliver and I. "Who are you?" she asks, not out of curiosity, but out of pure territorial interest.

"Janice, please," I interrupt. "I have a brutal French exam coming up, and Miley's tutoring me. I'll tell you what, in the event that I ace this test, why don't you and I go out to celebrate?" I grab her hand, and use a finger to paint lazy circles along her palm. She's practically swooning. "I discovered this quant little Thai place over the weekend. The atmosphere was breathtaking… sensual and serene. I immediately thought of you."

"You're so sweet," she gushes, batting her eyes. "Okay. I'll let you off the hook. For now! Call me later though," she pleads.

I nod, and she slowly retreats. Oliver just grins at me through a mouthful of falafa. Miley's a little harder to decipher. I can't tell what she's thinking, and she hasn't given me any verbal indications either. It's making me uncomfortable, so I opt to run. "Cigarette break, anyone?" I chide.

Oliver shakes his head, and Miley does the same. I sigh in relief and scram. I ditch the rest of the day in favor of my Aunt Luce's again. On the drive over, I decide that I want Miley all to myself.

I spend the time waiting for Miley's arrival with Abbey. I help her make gumbo and biscuits, and we talk, entertaining random topics as they come. When I finally manage to excuse myself, I realize that Miley's arrival is well overdue, and settle on taking a stroll through the property in search of her. I find her sitting in the gazebo area, reading a book. She's changed out of her school clothes, and her hair is now trussed up in a pony tail. "Atlas Shrugged," I sigh, recognizing the book cover. "Do you like that book? Personally, I think Ayn Rand's work is pretentious crap."

Miley laughs. "It's hard to believe that you of all people can find something pretentious." She says it lightly, but it's an attack.

"Ouch," I hiss in an over-the-top kind of way. "Just what exactly are you trying to say?" I'm not a doughnut. I just want to hear her say it.

She closes the book, and looks me square in the eye. They're smoldering. I think they're burning holes right through me. "That you, Lilly Truscott, are one of the most pretentious people I've ever met. And no, I'm not a fan. It's required reading for my Literature class."

"Good," I laugh, trying to shrug off the stinging sensation her words have induced. "You being keen on bad literature would have been such a turn off."

She pulls a face. "Turning you on is not high on my priority list." Her tone is icy.

"Fortunately for you, turning you on is high on mine," I counter.

She rolls her eyes, and for a moment her flippantness offends me. "Good luck with that." She re-opens the book.

"Oh, that's right," I gasp. "I almost forgot that you're incapable of feeling. I mean, you act so normal. Geppetto would be proud."

"What are you talking about?"

"I've read your magazine spread. Why the coy routine all of the sudden? You seemed entirely eager to bare your pristine little soul to Teen Queen, and those other teeny bopper rags." My grin is wide and impenetrable. I'm on a fucking roll and I don't know how to stop. I step closer to her. "I don't know what's so special about you." I'm eyeing her up and down. "I've been wracking my brain and wracking my brain. I just can't figure it out. I mean, you sound like any other frigid prude. Change the face, and you'd be indistinguishable."

She winces like I've reached out and slapped her. Tears are welling in her eyes, and she quickly climbs onto her feet and walks away. My grin falters, and once she's out of sight it crumbles away altogether. I pull out a cigarette, and light it. I welcome the poison. I want it to choke out the miserable feeling I've got marinating in my gut. For once in my life, I think I might have said too much.