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apples and snowflakes

" ... Where's the cheek that doth not fade,

Too much gazed at ? Where's the maid

Whose lip mature is ever new ?

Where's the eye, however blue,

Doth not weary ? Where's the face

One would meet in every place ?

Where's the voice, however soft,

One would hear so very oft ? ... "

John Keats

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Everything is new. Unfamiliar. And that is painful because Jack is used to the achingly familiar. To angry eyes and angry grips and angry tears. And wherever he walks in Spirit High School, he is invisible. The school is too large. The people do not care. He is nobody. Nothing.

He does not mind.

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Aster glares. "This is my seat," he growls out, toeing the stranger's scrawny foot. "Move."

The boy – he judges by the short, pale hair instead of the ridiculously girlish eyes – does not make a sound of protest. He simply stands up, hands clutching a brown rucksack, and slumps in the seat in front of the Australian's desk.

Aster's glare darkens. "You could 'ave apologized," he mutters belligerently.

Thin shoulders ahead of him curl inwards, like their owner is attempting to disappear off the face of the Earth. Aster rolls his eyes. Bloody drongo.

"Alright, class!" chirps Ms. Moon. "Today … we're learning about personal struggles, and how to develop proper coping mechanisms."

The class groans collectively.

"Now, now, lose that attitude. This is Guidance class, and I am your guide!"

Aster tugs on a strand of shaggy blonde hair and screws up his face in dislike.

"So," Ms. Moon begins, earnestly spreading her hands wide, "there comes a time in life where you begin to feel, overall, less happy. Hobbies you once loved no longer interest you; grades suffer; it is difficult to sleep or perhaps far too easy; you experience weight loss or gain; you are sluggish, fatigued, slowed down. There is a weight in or on your chest." Ms. Moon stops pacing and picks up a thick piece of chalk. "Or perhaps you are angry, and irritable, and feel little to nothing; you wish for isolation. Or you feel normal except … you are not yourself. You are" – she lifts the chalk to the board and begins to write in bold cursive – "depressed."

Someone to the right of Aster snorts loudly.

Ms. Moon's compassionate expression freezes. "Detention, Mr. Summers, for the next month."

Summers splutters. "What? Why?"

Aster turns his face aside in disgust. What an insensitive prick.

"'Why'?" she tucks a strand of dirty-blonde hair behind her ear. "This is an extremely delicate matter which deserves to be treated with respect and understanding. I will not – so help me God – tolerate any jokes, bullying or cynicism. This is serious. You are nearly grown adults" – she addresses the class, who are now still and somber – "and I expect you to be mature. Please." She turns back to the board and begins to list support systems: parents – teachers – school councilor – friends – online support groups (e.g. "Help is Here") – trusted members of family – support call systems (e.g. "On Call Ur Call").

Aster's sharp ears pick up Summers' quiet sneer: "Fuckin' emos."

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Lunch-time. Aster smiles, revealing overly large front teeth. "About time." He slams his locker shut, large, sun-kissed hands lazily gripping a paper lunch-bag.

North laughs and slaps a hand against his shoulder. Aster barely prevents a stumble. "Food iz good, yes!" the Russian-transfer student booms, eyes twinkling with mirth. The jolly eighteen-year-old is decked out in his usual red and is already eating his everyday snack of chocolate-chip cookies.

"North," Aster chides, "you're gonna get sick from all of those cookies. You need to lay off of 'em."

North gives a childish snort that clashes terribly with his 6"2 size. "Cookies are good for soul. They keep me strong!"

Aster is already walking towards the cafeteria, by now familiar to North's usual defense. The Russian boy, body thickened not by fat but by muscle, languidly follows.

"Wait," North calls. "Where iz Sandy?"

Aster sighs and tilts his head up at the ceiling. "North," he moans, "why do ya even need 'im? Your English is good enough to be without your translator for your whole stay, never mind a single day."

North growls something in Russian that Aster simply knows is unkind, but follows steadily nevertheless.

The cafeteria is an ugly thing, all white walls and steel seats that suck the warmth out of a person. Aster's stomach growls in anticipation and he eagerly strides towards his usual seat.

And promptly freezes.

"Now you're just fuckin' messing with me," he deadpans.

The kid sitting in his damn seat lifts his head. Aster idly wonders whether those eyes would classify as blue or grey.

North bounces on the balls of his feet. "Ah," he cries. "Who iz this?" Bushy eyebrows lift as bright blue eyes slant towards Aster. "A friend of yours, Aster?" he drawls in a surprisingly sly voice.

"No," Aster growls, violently dropping his paper lunch-bag on the table. An apple rolls out and stops just shy of the edge of the table. He ignores it.

"I'm sorry," North says with pseudo-innocence, "my English iz bad. No iz 'correct', yes?"

Aster lets out a snarl and orders: "Move."

Once again, in perfect silence, the kid stands up. Empty-handed, he begins to walk in a slumped shuffle away from them.

Aster feels a twinge of guilt. His hand, of its own accord, reaches out and snatches the stray apple. "Hey, mate!" he calls. The mop of white hair jerks in surprise. "Catch!" he says, and swiftly throws the apple. A violent flinch, and then pale, thin hands dart out with startling elegance and catch the apple.

"Eat the apple," Aster orders. "You're as thin as a snowflake an' as pale as one too."

The new kid's eyes narrow with a sharp flash of something Aster can't identify, but then relax, as if he doesn't have the energy to feel angry. "No thanks," the boy says quietly and sets the apple ever-so-gently down on the table. And then he leaves.

"What's wrong with my bloody apple?" Aster questions, offended.

North snorts and grabs the apple himself. He takes a massive bite out of it, and the juice dribbles down his scruffy chin. "I know who iz the apple of your eye."

Aster sighs and rolls his eyes. "Stop being obnoxious."

"Obnoxious but correct, yes?"

"No. And I don't even know 'is name."

"Jack Frost," a voice chimes in to the left of Aster.

Aster gives a startled yelp and falls off the chair he's just relaxed into. "Sandy? What the – "

The short teen grins, the corners of his hazel eyes crinkling mischievously.

Fuckin' translators.

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