A/N: This is supposed to show things coming together as well before everything collapses. Next chapter is planned to be majority Rainy and Peter. Then maybe two more chapters before this whole story is over because I know everyone is sick of this but it's almost done.

I'm going to wrap this up in about five more chapters or so.

Rainy flips through the pages of the novel in front of her, finding the beginning of the chapter. Her eyes follow the words on the page for just an extra few seconds before closing the cover, keeping the page marked with a finger. Her lips part slowly at the start of a sentence, slowly as she thinks of her words first. "...Can you tell me anything you've learned from this?"

Peter sighs, face burying in the bend of his elbow. He slowly raises his head from atop the wooden table top and straightens his posture as he meets the steely gaze of the girl across him, and then he slouches in his chair. He answers, "that the boy is a little bitch baby."

Rainy's eyes glance from the re-opened pages of Great Expectations, back to him, and then his pulse speeds briefly, faintly, but only for a millisecond. He's sure it's adrenaline, out of slight fear—because this girl has no emotion, and therefore has regret or caution for her actions; she could end he at any moment.

"Seriously, Pietro."

Her gaze is always so steely, cold, and almost aloof. Narrowed, a slight upward tilt at the edges. Once, someone commented that she has cat-like eyes.

He snaps, "don't call me Pietro."

She blinks—if she had the attitude to roll her eyes, she would have then. Her response is to not give one.

Rainy has light, bright eyes that shine in the light

He holds her gaze for a few more moments before heaving an exaggerated sigh. "Fine." His cheeks puff. He pushes back from the study room table, chair scrapin across the carpeted floor. "Seriously…I wasn't really paying attention. I was…uh…" He rolls his wrist around in a thinking gesture. "I spaced out."

She stares.

And blinks.

She stares.

And he holds his breath.

Rainy watches him for another three seconds, and he then realizes that out of the three years of knowing about her, hearing the stories and opinions through the grape vines, for the first time he realizes that she had a vacant, almost empty look to her eyes. For the first time it hits him; the weight of her situation, her condition and complications hit him. He realizes all the complications, the unknowing struggles, and it's sad, for sure, but he doesn't quite know what to do or say or gesture. A shiver runs up his spine. And he swallows. He not longer can hold her gaze and looks away. He almost feels sorry for her...

"I cannot feel.

"I have no feeling of touch...
I have no emotion...

"There's no feeling to me,

"Nothing whatsoever.

"I'm empty;

"Cursed."

Rainy closes the book loudly, and when the speedster jumps, she realizes just how forcefully she had done so, but merely slides the book to the side without an apology. And why should she give one? She doesn't feel bad about it, not like she could have.

Rainy pulls out a notebook from her book bag and begins scribbling notes for a different assignment.

Peter squares his shoulders, cranes his neck. "Hey, Juliet…what're you writing in that thing? Aren't we supposed to be studying here? That isn't very professional of you, not paying attention like that, you know. Hey, what're you writing? What's that for?"

She doesn't bother looking back up; she doesn't bother answering.

"Hey, Juliet…"

He peers across the table, catching something in cursive. She had nice handwriting too...

Again, she shows how heavy hands she is and slams her notebook closes, making Peter jump again. But she remains seated, still, as if listening for something. Until finally, she murmurs, "it seems that we can't continue coming here any longer." She pulls at her folded, lace shirt collar to straighten it, and stands from the table in the secluded library study room.

Peter remains seats, eyes trained on her. "Why? Are we finishing—wait, are you quitting this?" He jumps to conclusions again. "You can't quit!"

"It's already five o'clock," she explains, stuffing her notebook back into her book bag, followed by her paperback copy of the novel assigned for class. Her voice is still so calm. "Plus, I had just went over everything we read and discussed in the last three class days. ...And someone from school must have caught on to us." The silver zipper of her bag is loud in the nearly quiet study room, but that's emphasized by the sudden panic Peter feels.

He perks. "Oh shit! Who?!"

He speeds over to a window to pull back the curtain and peek out into the library. Rainy stops him before he could.

"Don't open that. They're too close by."

"How could you know?" he spits, harshly whispering.

"Listen."

He does, and indeed there is the soft scuffing of Jordan I sneakers across the library carpet floor and the lowered chattering about bimbettes, and the bass of Grandmaster softly thumping the air through headphones

Peter turns to the girl standing beside him at the closed window. "How could they have known?" His eyes are wide with concern, worry, panic. She doesn't think she's ever seen that look on him before.

Rainy walks back in the table at the middle of the room, slugs her bag over her shoulder. "…It's probably because I turned down Marcus earlier..." She muse slowly, lifting her chin to stare at a spider web in the corner of the ceiling.

Peter's head whips around, voice holding a suspicious edge. "Who's Marcus?"

"No one you need to be concerned with." Her bright eyes dart to his direction again. "Just some overly self-centered witless bag of hot air who wantee to ask me out last week." It is spoken with such calm and nonchalance that Peter has to remember that none of this even matters in the slightest to her.

His eyes remains on her, almost studying.

"You didn't, did you?"

There is a pause as she straightens her pleads skirt, but he already knows her answer.

"No. I already have to follow after you. Why would I deal with someone who is ten times worse and doesn't seem to hold the capacity that manners matter?"

Hypocrite.

Well...

His eyes narrow. "That seems pretty hypocritical of you, doesn't it?"

"What did I say that could have been taken as hypocritical?"

"...Never mind..."

"Honestly, if someone doesn't have the mental capacity of a toilet plunger or not be able to solve a simple Sudoku puzzle, then there is no interest of mine and I'll simply wait for evolution to take it's coarse for them."

He thinks about his words, thinks about hers, remembers that her thoughts have absolutely no filter to her mouth. "Rainy...I thought this all would have passed by now..." He sighs. He means all the insults. Though given they haven't had a break in study sessions in four days.

"Passed what?" She looks back at him with such oblivion that Peter finds he just can't get mad again. It would be useless to.

"Never mind."

Ronny stares up at the two-story white washed brick building and its large block letters mounted high. It can be seen miles away. It contrasts like a beacon, and it is ugly. Those dark, clunky letters against that ghastly paint of the bland building is enough to make him actually sick and want to return home. But Ronny grips both straps of his backpack and lowers his chin and climbs the steps of the school's main entry doors. He ignores the shoves and pushes as students hurry past and inside as the first bell rings for class and just thinks, hopes, that this year will end on a good note.

Ronny is prone to bad luck

At the same time at a picnic table, Meisha sits with knees crossed and she leans back on her hands, the ankles of her high-waisted jeans rolled up to expose her converse shoes. When she catches sight of her friend slouched over and in his usual melancholy stance, she jumps to her feet, tries to wave for his attention but he isn't looking her way. So, naturally, she races over. Meisha has to tap his side to finally get Ronny's attention.

He wonders if it is just him or is there something…off about her, something different.

"You alright, Ron?" Meisha isn't smiling exactly, but there is a hint of something like it tugging at the corners of her lips and he hesitates to respond.

She joins his side as he enters the school and into the frenzy of students before morning classes. But she also notices that he wouldn't look at her and continues rubbing his arm instead. Meisha visibly frowns catching sight of two bandages on the inside of his left elbow.

"You went to the doctor? You were sick?"

His eyes widen, darts down to her.

There is something wrong. She knows it.

"No..." He begins, and then swallows a lump in his throat. "I...I..."

His words jumble up and become a train wreck on his tongue and comes out in broken, sad fragments. He takes a moment to breathe, forcing himself under control again but just before he can organize the sentences in his head, a second smack on his back greets him from behind, and Ronny stumbles forward a step. When both Meisha and he turns steely glares to the greeter, this one in a much chipper mood, Peter's smiling face is what they find turns around to see.

The speedster has a hand up in greeting but his sharky grin weakens upon seeing his two friends.

"What's up with you two?" A pale brow arches.

Meisha and Ronny share glances and Peter begins to bristle. He jumps to conclusions as they take too long to answer. He worries; he grows suspicious. Did they know something that he doesn't? Were they keeping some sort of secret?—were they actually together?!

Oh god

That would be the absolutely worst situation that could possibly happen, in his opinion. That, and he likely watches far too many dramas.

"What's going on." His tone snaps, holding a clear, cut edge to it. Turning to Ronny, a finger points. "What the hell happened to you last weekend? You totally bailed!" The shorter boy throws his hands in the air, becoming ecstatic.

Meisha watches Ronny's head lower and his frown deepen. "I told you, I wasn't feeling good. You know I'm almost never free on weekends."

Ronny is almost never free because of his parents.

Parents Disturbed

Peter feels his boiling anger beginning to simmer down. He rocks back on his heels, remembering so about the other's parents.

But it isn't like Ronny could have actually had done anything that weekend any how. He was far too busy panicking in his room, isolating himself out of fear and because of his mutation; because his mutation causes him to be a freak and visible anomaly, vanishing before your eyes, and it causes coarse, ugly visible changes that he's begun to notice.

"Right," Peter scoffs, shoving his fists in the pockets of his black letterman jacket. Ronny remembers that is the one with the tiger on the back; the one Peter's youngest sister stole once and almost spilled juice all over. Peter's chin points to the other, Meisha. "So, uh, what's with you? What's got you so totally weirded out?"

The three are now walking down the crowded hallway side by side, as if there weren't imaginary lines beginning to be drawn between them all.

Peter winks at a speckled blonde walking by. It's for show and they don't even notice.

Meisha rolls her eyes. The boy constantly insists that he is suave and cool—both embarrassingly un-true.

"My... Uh..." Ronny is butchering his words again. "Uh, my—-I was taken to the doctor this weekend. My mom thought I is sick."

Peter shrugs. "So? Were you?"

Meisha is equally curious.

"No! I mean—I was sweaty and all, but—-" He stops, catching sight of Clarice down the opposite way of the hall and he swallows. "I wasn't sick."

Again, Peter shrugs. "So?"

"So—-?! I wasn't sick! And when I went, I...I had to give some blood and I'm afraid that...that...you know, that she'll find out." His eyes dart around once, as if he is afraid that someone here would overhear and understand and expose him. "...I think...I think there might be something going on with it...with me..."

Meisha blinks, her expression now much softer.

"It" is his mutation.

MUTATION

mutation is a taboo

WRONG

"Ronny," she begins slowly, choosing to ignore Peter's oblivious stare. "I don't think you can find out by blood. How do you even know that—-"

"How do you know? Maybe your parents can just pay the doctor off!"

Peter's eyes widens at Ronny's sudden flares temper.

A kid pushes past, bumping into his arm and Meisha's backpack, making her leer forward.

She gapes. "Wha—-that's—-that's not true!"

"Oh yeah? We-well how do you know?"

They know the differences, they all do—Meisha's parents are accepting of her powers, of her abilities, mutation, and Ronny's...

Well...

NO

"I'd kill it dead the minute I see one of those things walking around!"

His father had spoken once.

His mother had never protested.

Ronny clenches his hands to fists. "Because—-because—-"

His fists are shaking and Peter's eyes glance around, hoping no one is paying too close attention. Ronny's elevate in emotions is what sets his powers off.

"She could have found..." He suddenly stops, takes in a deep sigh. His shoulders slump and his eyes stare at his shoelaces. "I think it's only a matter of time. Something always goes wrong around Spirit Week anyway, doesn't it?"

Ronny believes he is prone to bad luck

"Ronny..."

"Name one instance that it hadn't."

Neither Meisha nor Peter could and thus don't respond.

"I thought so."

"Ron..." Peter tries this time.

A girl Meisha recognizes from the cheerleading team shoves in between the trio and her girl group sends snarls toward the three from over their shoulder. Peter is the only one to sneer back. Meisha looks to the ground sheepishly.

"...Maybe it's not that big of a deal—-I mean, maybe she won't find out?" Meisha adds quickly, saving herself. "She only thought you were sick, right? Maybe that's all she thought it was..."

The tallest mutant shrugs. His jersey seems a size too large, only because of his wide shoulders and lean torso.

His friend places a hand on his lower arm. He notices her hair is still up in a braided bun and when he asks her about it, she gives a shrug of her own.

Peter fidgets. "So..." Since the tension has calmed down, he thinks it is safe to speak. "Are you two even going to go?"

Meisha's hand falls back to her side. "Go where?"

"Spirit Week. Duh. It's so gloomy—changing of subject."

There is a banner hanging vertically on the wall between a row of lockers and a classroom door. The school colors were used in the banner's design and text, and its bright colors make it impossible to miss. Peter hates their school's colors.

Meisha and Ronny exchange glances.

"Maybe," she responds, and this time, Ronny gapes like a goldfish.

"Y-you're going?! With who?"

Her thick brows slant downward. "I talk to other people besides you two, you know!"

Peter snickers.

Ronny is still surprised. "Yeah, but who asked you?" He is genuinely curious but his words come out harsher than intended.

Meisha's eyes blaze and for a split second, her eyes could have been mistaken as amber in the lighting, turn her into a different person altogether. "Not everyone is as stuck up like you two zeeks." Her glare shoots to the speedy one with the last word though her defense had been meant for the both of them. "I'm going with another friend of mine."

But Meisha is the shy, quiet, awkward girl who doesn't have any other friends.

"Like that friend of yours you told us about but he never showed up?" Peter taunts. In the distance, he sees a familiar head of bushy, dark brown hair and a fluttery feeling sprouts in his chest, diverging his attention.

Ronny doesn't give him much mind.

"No," she defends. "I'm meeting up with her later this week, and we're going to be matching on Spirit Week!"

"Oh, it's a girl now?" Peter folds his arms, cheesing a boastful grin.

The redhead is bristling. "Yes, it's a girl. That a problem?!"

Ronny bumps Peter's shoulder. "Man, just leave her alone."

But the speedy mutant grins, waving his hand as if he is actually going to listen. "Yeah, right. That's not the point; it's who asked you. Because..." He rolls his wrist, indicating Meisha, "wouldn't it be a bit too awkward for you?"

Meisha wrinkles her nose.

"With all your hair 'nd stuff and that you aren't the most entertaining at parties?" The silver one continues. "Be careful that you and your hair don't eat this one this time, Big Bad," he jokes, and then waves his hands. He is trying to hold in laughter.

Ronny hisses at him again, to which Peter ignores.

"Sorry. This is just so...funny. Because let's be honest, it's not expected for someone like you to actually get a date. This is funny, no?" He elbows Ronny, chuckling.

"Eat a dick, Peter!"

He freezes, flabbergasted.

Sometimes, Meisha wonders why she is still friends with them? Why she keeps talking with those two half-baked, self-centered jerks. So what they all had went to the same schools and been together for over five years now, they are still jerks. They never know the right things to say and laugh at the first signs of someone appearing "sensitive." And at times like this, they are never very supportive.

After Meisha's outburst, she earns a few appointed looks from students as she stomps off.

Ronny only stands there, not knowing what to think or say. He absentmindedly rubs the inside of his elbow.

And when Peter grows a wide grin as Mckenzie approaches with her usual entourage, gearing up to dash off towards her where he starts his disappointing charm on her and is greeted with a looks of disdain and disgust, Ronny is the last one to be standing in that spot in the hallway,. And when the bell rings for classes to begin, his hands couldn't stop shaking.

He shouldn't be used to these things.

And he wonders, why him?

. . .
. . .

It's been a few weeks since Rainy last saw Michelle—but it's not like she is worried or anything. In fact, right now, she prefers that she wasn't and couldn't be. There is enough she has to deal with now, along with tutoring that Maximoff boy for weeks now is definitely taking up much of her time. And then there are her parents, and on top of that she has to do her own homework, and also that Sherry likes to talk so much when she's so much as caught a glimpse of Rainy's hair in a crowd.

Rainy also should probably re-bleach the tips of her hair again. It is growing out more and tickles past her shoulders, and the lighter brown bleached tips only reach to the top of her shoulders instead of to the middle of her neck like it had before.

But that is not top priority right now.

Top priority is getting away from this Danny Zuko wannabe because she has a book to return and another to check out and if she doesn't get there in the next ten minutes it will be marked overdue.

It is inside the maze of the school's library bookshelves she is now, in a position that would have probably enraged her. Or irritated her. Instead, she remains impassive and collected.

She's finished that cheesy romance novel under her arm almost a week ago, and honestly, it is one of the worst she's ever read. The writing had been terrible, the so-called cliffhangers were cheaply written, the characterization was mediocre, and the plot and happily ever after ending had been far too predictable. But she guesses that that is what she gets for a novel written in the forties.

She also holds a new book in her hand but hides it behind her back because she knows that Danny Zuko here would ridicule her for it. And here in the school library, she looks from the boy in front of her then off to the side, almost in an eye roll. The boy has an arm on the shelf near her head, trying to cage her in. The boy's name is Marcus.

"…Huh, Rainy?" Marcus reaches almost a full foot taller than she and looms. His smirk as he speaks grows.

"Huh what?"

He frowns.

"I know you heard me." She can tell that he is growing irritated, by his tone.

"No." And it is spoken so coldly, so flat, that the boy is dumbfounded, a look that fit him, she thinks.

"Hey, why not?" His eyes widen as a thought suddenly comes to mind then and he frowns. "Oh god, are you a dyke? Is that it?" He's at first disgusted and confused. "Because, really, I haven't met any girl that wants to give this up." He gestures to his physique, from his arms to his chest to his Jordan I shoes. "And that's the only reason I can think of—-"

"I don't socialize with the mediocre, cheap, and the egoistical. And it has nothing to do with how many pushups you can do because, really, that doesn't interest me."

She watches shock, then offense, and then anger contort his features. His brows arch downward and that gross way his lips turns in a complete upside-down letter U, and yet she feels nothing and continues staring at him with such a placid look and flat-line to her lips.

"Are you calling me a dumbass?"

"I didn't say that exactly. ...But you did."

His other arm hits the shelf, caging her beneath completely.

"What's your problem?" he snaps.

Rainy shrugs, looking down at the floor. "Like I said: I don't get with guys with sweatbands. And frankly, that's what you wear all the time while you strut around and think that you're entitled more than everyone else. And let me guess...you probably smoke in your parents' basement that's decorated with posters of White Snake and Devo? And you must think that you're some kind of hotshot, don't you? I mean, who else would come up and think that physical force is a way of attaining anything—you know, anyone who doesn't fail simple algebra or is destined to be a wasted dropout."

He doesn't have an immediate comeback for that.

And he grows angry.

"Fuck you, you fucking dyke!"

Least to say, he doesn't take her answer well.

"You established that presumption already."

He's always angry, always gets angry too quickly—that is one of the reasons Rainy doesn't pay him any mind.

Marcus leans closer then, his lips pulling back in a snarl. "You think you're some type of high shit, huh?"

She doesn't reply immediately—just keeps that cool exterior that has become default.

He is snarling now, completely lost of the suave held earlier. "And by the way, I saw you at the library that weekend, with that fucking weirdo. That herb. But if you'd rather be around trash, oh well." He tries to appear as if he doesn't care, and fails. "Don't think I'm going to let you think that whatever you got going on," he twirls his finger in her direction, "isn't gong to be kept quiet. You're going to crash and burn like the freaking bitch you are."

One last time, he slams his hands on the shelf near her head, effortlessly trying to frighten her. Marcus walks off with hands in his pockets and Rainy sees that his expensive Jordan shoes are scuffed in the back. They aren't the indestructible and expensive he talked them up to be.

She would have felt disgusted.

"Pitiful."

"He fucking—-How is it something that you just let roll off—-!" Peter stops himself, realizing what he is going to say, realizing that she doesn't necessarily care. He cuts off his sentence, pouts, crosses his arms, and leans back in his seat.

Rainy continues flipping through the noble pages with not a wrinkle of emotion on her face. "You've might've heard that Marcus is a brute that has taken too many hits to the head from football, and doesn't think with the right head that's on his shoulders anyway. And frankly, he's a waste of time." She thinks for a moment. "And effort."

"He fucking cornered you—-"

"And I got away, doesn't I?" Her eyes flicker to his direction.

Notebooks and a history textbook are scattered across the long wooden table, open, and forgotten as of now. This is their third meeting this week and lately, Peter notices that Rainy has become much more talkative, even thought most of what she says is like a knife to a throat.

They haven't returned to that particular library since almost being caught and found out by a trio of not-so-nice students from school. Peter remembers how Rainy described in detail the process how their high school lives would unravel and crumble to dust, as she said, if they were ever found out.

"If it isn't such a big deal, then why won't you just say?"

"Because maggots are just for exterminating, not to be discussed over."

Peter's frown deepens.

"Besides," Rainy continues. "If he is really of any importance, than I would have told you when I started to get worried."

"Only that you don't get worried."

She covers her lips with a hand, imaging shock. "You found my loophole! Maybe you are smarter than I originally perceived."

He sneers. "...I'm taking it that isn't a compliment..."

He could take it as he wishes, she replies.

"...We're going to have to work on toning that down."

Her bright eyes snaps toward him. "Work on what?"

"With you and toning that bitchy-ness down."

If she could have smiled, she would have.

Before they left that day, she stops him, hand nuzzling her cheek with that same slightly bored, monotone voice: "Oh, and one thing, Maximoff. We're going to meet up at my place now on. My parents aren't going to be home after school for a few hours and no one from school will know."

He blinks, speechless.

"Alright?"

. . .
. . .

Ever since that day her mother came storming into the dean's office, Sherry had been looking over her shoulder because she knows that Clarice had heard—how could she not have?—and Sherry is still optimistic that she'd be able to get through the week without running into that blonde demon; she hopes, for at least this day, and since Spirit Week is so close.

Clarice is the worst right after a conflict. And she has ears all around, and really, Sherry's only mistake is forgetting about lunchtime.

How could she have forgotten lunchtime?

Her vision spins, anxiety constricting her throat.

black pause scene

It hadn't been pretty, no, and she doesn't, hadn't counted the minutes of blissful peace she had before the blonde bully tracks her down through the massive crowd, seemingly effortlessly. How Clarice had purposely sat in the table right behind her with her entourage of populars—her puppets, Rainy has fittingly named them because, really, that's all they were—and she cackles so loudly at jokes about how stupid and ugly heat iron-made curls were on people with red hair and how she couldn't believe someone is so weak to call their mommy to the school.

And Sherry is too nice, too ready to think the best of everyone, too willing to give second chances. But she also has a limit, and she's known Clarice since elementary school and through the abrupt breakup of their friendship before entering middle school.

So when she stands from the table, carton of milk in her hand, Clarice has the gall to take on a look of astonishment and asks, "what do you want?"

And Sherry feels that uncomfortable burning rise up her throat and she clenches her free fist at her side, and for a second, Rainy—who is watching at the opposite end of the circular lunch table—thinks her friend is finally going to throw a punch. But no—instead, Sherry's narrow nostrils flare and she feels her pulse quickening and a sense of almost overwhelming irritation hits her.

"What's your problem?" Sherry snaps.

The two boys sitting near Clarice quiet and stare at the redhead with wide eyes.

"What do you mean what's my problem?" Clarice's short cut bobs as her head shakes, the right side held back by a pink hair clip.

"You know exactly what I mean." Sherry's heart races because it's been so long since she's confronted her friend-turned-enemy, and it terrifies her. Because Clarice has backup fear on her side. Because she also knows Sherry's insecurities and secrets shared between eleven year olds. "All you do is talk behind people's back and act like a coward."

Clarice's thin eyebrows furrows and then arch, and suddenly Sherry feels such a rush of anger, of annoyance, and she becomes more defensive.

"I'm a coward? I'm not the little bitch that went and cried to her mommy because she couldn't grow up and take a joke." The blonde had slowly turned around and is getting to her feet, standing toe to toe to Sherry.

The other wants to take an instinctive step back; she is glad that she doesn't. "When does joking about someone going to go and kill themself a joke?" Sherry's grip around her milk carton tightens and she is starting to shake from her emotions.

One of the boys who had been sitting beside Clarice glance at another girl at the table, this one sitting across from him, and in her own seat, Rainy just blinks and returns to her lunch. This time, her mother had handed her a sandwich her father had bought and hadn't been able to give it to her in person before leaving earlier that morning.

Clarice just huffs, crossing her arms. "Since when are we in elementary again and you have to go get your parents to do everything for you?"

Sherry glares. Her thumb rims the folded, sealed opening of the carton.

Rainy wonders if she is going to pour it one the other.

"What? Are you going to go cry again, Sherry?"

She doesn't say anything at first and is too intent on those closest at Clarice's table watching, staring, giggling.

"What? You're going to go back to mommy?" The blonde taunts. She steps forward.

Sherry falters. She takes one back.

Clarice smirks.

"I'm not a coward, and we've had this conversation, when? Back in sixth grade? When you came crying because...isn't it that your crush ended up liking me instead? Or is it because I had more friends than you, perhaps because people like me better? And not a little gremlin?"

Sherry doesn't reply.

And people are laughing, snickering, giggling—she is sure.

"What? Nothing to say?" Clarice's head tilts to the side, feigning concern. "Hmm, typical. Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to sit over here with the actual cool kids and not some knock off excuse of what you got, all full of weirdoes and freaks and those uncool—but that's right up your alley, isn't it?" She snickers.

And that is it; that's all that Clarice had to say. She only has to lean in, give that look with her bright blue eyes and once again, Sherry is back in fifth grade with everyone looking down at her and laughing and teasing and Clarice just taking it in and laughing with them and hurts. It really, really hurts.

Sherry is too nice sometimes, and this is a perfect example. So close she came that she almost, could have called the other out and called her a bitch, called her faults, called her lies, but Sherry. She is too afraid.

Most times, Sherry is too afraid and hesitates too often.

. . .
. . .

Wanda doesn't like confrontation. She can be compared to a mouse about how quiet she gets, especially when in public. She stays to herself and she rarely interacts unless absolutely necessary, like for a class assignment or called during a lecture. That's how she's managed to remain unknown and off the hit-list of bullies. But because of her tight lips and signature red jacket, she hasn't managed to fade into the background completely. Wanda is moderately known because of these things, and those who have talks to her on few occasions say that she's "a nice girl, I guess," that she "doesn't speak much," and "doesn't ever really cause any trouble." In fact, if you were to ask all those people who possessed those same opinions of her, none would ever suspect Wanda of being one to cause a scene. She goes about her day in fragmented routine: she gets her books in the morning, goes immediately to class, and never converses in the halls. At lunch, no one finds her because she'll usually either be under the bleachers near the soccer field or in the back of the library with a packed bologna sandwich.

Wanda reads, but not so much as Rainy. Wanda reads out of interest, not necessity. And really, when first glancing at the mutant, she appears nowhere intimidating or even particularly brave. Because she's not meant to be remembered or has a spellbinding face. She isn't gorgeous and she isn't important—heck, most of her peers don't even know that she has a twin brother. She uses her hair and the hood of her jacket to hide herself because if no one knows her face, they wouldn't be influenced to cause problems. Because if no one knows her face, she can't be blamed if and when her powers lash out on accident.

Because Wanda Maximoff is so unknown, Michelle thought she would be such an easy target. And as she enters history class and catches sight of the unmistakable red hood, Michelle smiles, knowing that this would be an effortless opportunity. Because Wanda Maximoff is weird and a loner who very likely doesn't have friends anyway, and she wouldn't talk unless pressed, and there is no way a mouse like her would ever speak up and out. And Michelle really just needs someone to agree now and ask questions later.

Michelle smiles, gripping the strap of her book bag that is slugged over her right shoulder. She slides into the desk in front of the mutant. "Heyyy! Wanda, is it?"

The mutant looks up from the book in front of her. She had been studying before class started. Her eyes dart to the side for a second, thinking Michelle is one of those who only wanted to borrow a pencil she would never honestly return. She keeps a blank face, and doesn't answer. Her mouth has a slight frown to it, her brown hair swooping over one eye and tumbling out from either side of her hood.

"Say... I've been trying to find this girl for the longest." Michelle drew invisible claw marks on the other's desk. "Do you know a Rainy? She's in our year. Rainy Capulet?"

Wanda's brows crinkle, and her eyes squint as she feigns cluelessness. She initially thinks this girl is here to mock her, to tease her because of some lie or rumor that has begun circling. This school loves to do that—spreading false words. She's seen it tear friendships apart, and romance, and create the ugliest of enemies.

"Why?" Wanda finally speaks.

"I just said why."

Wanda hesitates. Maybe Rainy doesn't want to be found, if Michelle has been looking so much..."What do you want?"

"Wow. Rude." But it's obvious that Michelle isn't fazed and doesn't care enough to leave. "Do you know a girl named Rainy or not?" she repeats.

And again, Wanda squints, suspicious.

"Why?"

"Because," Michelle puts on her prized smile. "I heard that you spoke to her and she's been stabbing people in the back."

Again, Wanda hesitates to answer. "Yeah...I did talk to her not too long ago..."

"Ok, good! Can you tell me what happened? Did she hit you, yell at you...?"

"Um, no..." Wanda then thinks. "Why is that important?"

Michelle rolls her neck. "Because, she not only stabbed me and some of my friends in the backs, but she also stole my best friend's boyfriend," Michelle lies. She only needs a reason for this mousey girl to reveal why Rainy hasn't shown up for the past three days.

Wanda's lips make a small "ohh." Her eyes lower back to her desk.

Michelle has always had her suspicions about her odd friend Rainy, and she thinks what is better than to go the closest to her source? It is just a shame Michelle has to lie so terribly to do so.

"So, you see, right? Can you tell me what happened? What'd she say? Who is she with?"

Wanda looks Michelle in the eyes, and she is honestly confused. "You think she's skipping?"

"I'm thinking of a lot of thinks that she could be doing. And I'm just trying to find a friend and stop her before anything bad happens." Michelle brushes a dark brown curl back behind her ear and tucks it under the scarf she wears as a headband. "So, you gonna tell me?"

Wanda's lips tighten, and inside she debates, conflicted. But then she remembers what her brother said and the fact that she personally has never really cared. About his personal decisions or this Rainy girl. She doesn't know why her brother insists on being so secretive and why he is such an ass about her. There is nothing good about Rainy that Wanda can see, and personally, Wanda thinks that the girl is nothing but a magnet for bad luck—and Wand knows bad luck! If this girl, Michelle, knows something about Rainy that would get her out of Wanda's hair, then maybe spilling a little information won't hurt anyone too badly.

Wanda looks back up. The bell for class to sound in a few minutes, so she had better talk fast.

"Yeah, I do."

. . .
. . .

Mckenzie wouldn't ever call herself stuck-up—of course she wouldn't—but she does likes her high status on the social pyramid of Sherbrooke High. She likes the attention, her friends, the perks, the ego boost from shoving over those ranked beneath her. She gets a kick out of knocking over chessboards and accidentally bumping into others at lunchtime, and accidentally spilling marinara sauce and orange juice on their shirts or slacks. She likes all of it, and swears that it kept her curly hair voluptuous. But most of all, she likes that she's managed to attract the attention of the school's quarterback, Travis Montgomery. Because the boy is a golden haired, blue eyed, tall glass of almond milk with a chiseled jaw and a physique she could watch run the track for days. He has biceps she likes to cling to when she lifts her onto his back and presses her fingertips into when they're in the backseat of his car. And she knows that if she had been in any other social group, none of this would have ever been possible.

Mckenzie loves her school life and admits that it still doesn't excuse her from some of her out-of-school duties—such as her homework.

At lunch she is never alone. And if she answers a question wrong in class, almost never did anyone taunt her for it, fearing. She and Clarice have the school eating out the palms of their hands, and everyone admires them, hates them, or wants to be them.

They were The Populars, of course.

But this—this is the first time that someone likes her. Like, actually, actively made an effort to pursue her. And at first she found it amusing. Then entertaining by dragging him along. And now she hates it.

She hates the attention. She hates his loser, dopey smile and the way he presses so hard and insists. She hates how he clings, how he's like that one spect of glitter you can't pick off. And Mckenzie hates the way her friends would now give her those knowing, mocking smirks and snicker whenever he would walk up as if he truly thought he is all-that. It's sad that he really thinks that he has a chance, and that he keeps coming again and again and again and her friend tease and mock her and she smiles about it in good nature, but—

Mckenzie is embarrassed about it.

That's why she had asked Travis to take care of the troubling Maximoff. She finds pleasure that he is just as uncomfortable about Peter as she, and how her boyfriend is very willing to make Peter Maximoff take a dive in the dumpster behind the cafeteria.

But that had been three weeks ago.

And the damn boy is back, still tightly wound and energetic and so damn determined that Mckenzie freezes for a second when seeing him approach once again.

It is in the hallways during class and he had been on a restroom break and for water. That sly grin had begins growing across his face when he sees her. That heart dropping, stomach twisting feeling of hers returns and yet, she steadies her gaze forward and holds her chin high. She'd be damned if she'd let some lower level geek make her feel uncomfortable.

He waves. "Hey, 'Kenzie!"

She walks straight, determined to ignore him.

What kind of over-confident, tacky, der-brain did he think he is?

Her chin is high and he approaches closer. They were just going to pass, she told herself—or at least, she thinks, wishes. To be honest, she doesn't know because so far, all her known tactics have failed and he is unpredictable of what would make him stop coming back again and again.

She doesn't let out a yelp when Peter hooks an arm around her waist, tugging her close, but some high-pitched sound does come from her, and she becomes enraged. How dare he?!

"Hey, 'Kenzie," he repeats, smiling.

She snaps her head toward him and orders, "don't call me that!" She's bristling like a cat, and he smiles even wider.

"Why've you been ignoring me?"

"Don't—-!" She shoves away from him, breaking from his arm. "Don't touch me, nerd!"

But he isn't fazed.

"Oh, I haven't—yet."

Her brows shoot up. She's appalled. She's offended, disgusted.

"I'm going to get Travis on you again if you don't leave me alone!"

"C'mon, doll—-"

"Look, I'm not your doll, you asswipe—-"

"Alright, 'Kenzie." Peter is smirking again, shoving his hands in his pockets.

Mckenzie's gaze follows him as he makes a semicircle around her. Her hands clutch her chest, and running through her mind is just how she could have attracted the attention of someone like him. He is weird, annoying, and near the bottom of the social pyramid.

Peter walks around her, his hands deep in the pockets of his jeans. He dips his head once, and then speaks. "Ok. But don't try and forget what happened after that football game when we played against Frigon High. I hadn't told anyone, but I doubt Travis wouldn't be too pleased." And he has on a wide, mischievous smile growing because he knows that she has no other corners to run out from. If she wants to play blackmail and threats, then he could too.

Mckenzie fidgets, ignores the hammering of agitation in her chest and the sweating of her palms. Her brows furrows in brief confusion at his comment, then—

"Don't call me 'Kenzie," she snaps.