Smalls was beginning to loath the school bus. Everything about it; from it's faded yellow exterior to its gasoline smelling interior, mixed in with the stench of teenagers who had just come in from ninety-degree weather. He wasn't finding much to like about the kids on the bus either. They were loud, shoving, fighting teens who clearly came from a poor, rural community. Smalls always forced his way to the back and hoped-prayed-that no one would come bother him. He was new at the local high school, new to the town, new to the neighborhood. He'd inspired interest the first week he'd lived there but had quickly been ignored when he'd shown no interest in answering any of there questions. Now, people barely gave him a passing glance. Smalls was okay with this. As long as he didn't get attached, the next move would be easy.

Smalls had never stayed in one spot for more than six months. He'd never finished a full school year with one school system. He'd been to forty-six out of the fifty states by the time he was eleven. His foster-father, Wilfred, said there were safety reasons for this. Smalls just wanted to know what they were. It was just the three of them-Smalls, Evan, and Wilfred, and always had been. Evan was Smalls' older brother.

Evan was sitting next to him, drumming his foot against the floorboards of the bus as he rapidly tried to finish an essay, they'd been assigned a week ago. Smalls had skipped a grade, and shared most of his classes with Evan.

"You won't get that done by 2nd period." Smalls muttered, staring out the window, still half-asleep.

"Not with that attitude." Evan mumbled past his pencil, which, as normal, was half-way in his mouth as he chewed the eraser.

"It's on Assyria." Smalls informed him, hoping that Evan already knew this.

"I know that. I remember the Bible story about them…..." Evan responded, his voice slowly trailing off. Was that the only research he had done? Really? "I think." He looked at his younger brother. "Can I please copy from you? Just this once? It won't look like you wrote it…" Smalls sighed.

"Once." He stated, sitting up further to reach his backpack. He pulled out his own essay (typed neatly, he remembered, unlike Evan's which was a piece of notebook paper scrawled across with his messy handwriting) "And to avoid this happening again, do it ahead of time next assignment." Evan sighed.

"I didn't mean to forget."

"Write it on your forehead this time if you have to." Smalls replied. He was only half-joking. He handed his older brother the paper. "And please," Smalls added, "Don't spill anything on it like last time."

"I won-" The bus jerked to a sudden stop, and Evan's coffee, which he'd been clutching in one hand, spilled past the lid and onto Smalls' paper. Smalls leaned his head against the seat in front of him and groaned. "Sorry." Evan said, wincing.

.

.

.

"Jacks would you get out of the way!" Picket dashed past his younger brother and snatched the piece of toast out of his older sister's waiting hand.

"You could have been ready for school last night." Heather hummed softly, pouring her tea into a to-go cup.

"Where's Father?" Picket asked.

"Already left for the school." Dang it. School bus, great.

"Why didn't you go with him?" Heather usually had some kind of club meeting or student council thing going on before school.

"Mother is in Nashville today; Father didn't want me to leave you two home alone." Picket rolled his eyes. He was fourteen, right? Couldn't he handle watching his eight-year-old brother for a few hours before school? Meanwhile Heather, standing in the kitchen, one earbud in and scribbling across a notebook page, still humming, was trusted far more than Picket ever would be. In so many ways she was perfect-the perfect student, the perfect friend, the perfect everything. Everything was so easy for her, and so hard for Picket. He loved her, of course, she had always been there for him and probably always would be-but it was hard living up to her straight A's and presidency of the Student Council. "Are you ready to go?" She asked, glancing at him.

"Yeah." He replied.

"So am I!" Jacks agreed cheerfully. At least he never caused any problems.

They all dashed out of the house, Heather reminding Picket to turn on the security system before they left. They waited with Jacks until his bus came, and then waited a little more for their own. Picket sulked a bit but tried not to show it. His first year of High School was going terribly. His teachers all pretty much hated him-because he didn't pay attention and said whatever came to mind without filtering. The amount of detention he'd already gotten was ridiculous but didn't look to be changing any time soon. And they were always comparing him to Heather. How wonderful and perfect and talented and special she was, and how miserably ordinary Picket was in contrast. It wasn't Heather's fault, he reminded himself, but sometimes it felt like it. And he knew that no matter what the teachers said, it was more hard work than talent. But sometimes that just made him feel worse, Because if Heather could do it, why couldn't he?

He glanced at Heather, who was now chatting happily with one of her friends, Emma, a girl in her grade who lived down the block. The three had grown up together, being the only kids in a six-mile radius. Fields of corn and cotton surrounded them. Emma was the Vice-President on the Student Council, and since that was what they were currently discussing, Picket tuned them out. The politics of West Wood high school didn't interest him.

Finally, the bus arrived, trundling down a dirt road with exhaust blowing out the back and making Picket cough. It was already packed with sweaty, rowdy kids. Picket stepped on and heard a familiar voice call to him-

"Hey Picket! Over here!" His mood lightened a little as he took his seat next to Jo. Jo lived further in town with his father, a war veteran who had terribly twisted his foot in an accident. He'd retired because of that. Jo's mother had died of Flu when he was a baby-leaving Jo to carry much of the family burden. "Chaos as usual?" He asked, grinning.

"Heather would probably say yes." Picket replied. He happened a glance towards the back of the bus-and saw two boys, a bit older than him, (Probably tenth and eleventh grade, if he had to guess) arguing. One was holding up a homework assignment with a coffee stain on it, which was evidently what they were arguing about. Picket had never seen them before, which was odd, because in a little town like Nick Hollow, in the middle of no-where Tennessee, people rarely moved in, and people rarely moved out.

Picket stood there, watching the argument, which eventually concluded, and the younger boy stuffed his essay back into his backpack and turned to stare out the window, an annoyed look on his face. The second took out a piece of wood and a pocketknife and began to carve the wood, a task that didn't seem especially safe in a moving bus full of teenagers.

"Those guys showed up a few weeks ago." Jo observed. "No one knows where they came from-they don't talk much."

"Whose classes are they in?" Jo shrugged.

"I don't know. I think one of them skipped a grade, because they share classes. They're all right-but count on Kyle to come up with some crazy theory." Jo paused, "Why the interest?" Picket shrugged.

"When was the last time you remember anyone moving in here?"