Roger grinned wryly at Mark before settling into his seat, propping his worn guitar case between the two desks. Mark could feel himself slipping towards the edge of his chair, the coarse material of his pants rigid against his skin. He closed his eyes, wishing the sun-bleached boy next to him would disappear.

He didn't.

The period crept by slowly, and every so often, Mark's glacial blue eyes would dart cautiously towards the desk next to his. Roger's smile remained, unscathed, as he absently drummed his fingers on his desk. Mark wondered what it was like to have that kind of stamina: to have the ability to retain contentment outside of a few seconds of facetious grinning. Roger's unwavering happiness was unsettling, and Mark knew that he was waiting for the right moment to start a conversation. As the class came an end, Mark immediately scooped up his things and bolted before the other boy had a chance to bat an eyelash.

The rest of the morning was a monotonous rerun of English. Roger ended up in the four of Mark's classes preceding lunch, and that Cheshire Cat expression remained. Mark was unnerved, and by lunch, was happy to have an escape from the newcomer.

Opting to skip out on the processed remains of yak the cafeteria would be serving, Mark decided to hide himself in the AV lab. He ventured down the hall, counting the checkerboard tiles of linoleum as he went. Intent on staying incognito and away from Roger, he kept his eyes focused on the ground, not noticing the throng of chiseled jocks standing downwind from the lab. Absently, he began to open the door, but was stalled, interrupted by the distinct baritone voice coming from behind.

"Well, guys, looks like we have some fresh meat."

Mark turned around warily, cautiously eyeing the group of lettermen. He knew what would happen next: it had been an unavoidable occurrence since his first day of school. The blood drained from his face, and his feet became heavy, weighted to the spot.

A tall, dark-haired boy approached Mark, pinning his shoulders to the door. He sneered, his iridescent green eyes caught beneath the hall lights and his breath humid on the younger boy's face. He smiled, releasing one of Mark's shoulders and casually removing his glasses, throwing them to the ground and grinding the lenses beneath the sole of his shoe. Mark groaned. The older boy continued to smile as he drew his hand back again, contracting his fingers into a tight fist before plummeting it into Mark's abdomen.

The younger boy doubled over in pain, panting. His aggressor, whose jacket was embossed with the name Bryan, surveyed the damage. Bryan's cronies simpered in anticipation as he readied his weapon again. Mark squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the next blow. Within seconds, he felt the warm, adhesive sensation of blood trickling from his freshly wounded nose. The blood meandered to his lips, sliding onto his jaw, giving Bryan a ready target. As Mark felt the fist connect with his jaw, he lost his bearing and went sprawling, knocking his head on the door. Bryan chuckled in satisfaction, and drove his sneaker-covered toe into Mark's side. The pain was sharp, and the younger boy writhed on the floor. The kicking continued, sharp jabs to the side or whatever other parts Bryan could plant a toe on. Mark could feel a few of the other boys joining in the fun. Defenseless, he lay still, biting his lip so as not to cry out in pain. The seniors laughed, watching the freshman's spasms of pain in delight.

"Hey!"

Mark's head swiveled. The voice was familiar, but angry. He could see a pair of navy sneakers hitting the linoleum, running towards the fray, and a guitar case banging against a denim clad leg. Inwardly, he felt himself groan. Roger.

"Hey! Leave him alone!" Roger screamed, barreling towards the cluster of upperclassmen. He lunged at Bryan, dropping his guitar case and shrugging off his backpack. He crashed into the older boy, knocking him away from Mark. The two were wrestling on the floor while the group looked on, amused, when their skirmish was interrupted.

"What is going on out here?"

Bryan and Roger both looked up, abandoning their brawl as the other boys, with the exception of an all but unconscious Mark, darted away. Mrs. Fishburn stood in front of them, her perfectly manicured hands resting on her hips. Clicking her tongue in dismay, she gestured for Roger and Bryan to separate. Quickly, they did so, glaring at each other.

"Boys..." Mrs. Fishburn waited for an explanation.

"He started it!" Roger and Bryan said in unison, pointing at one another.

The woman shook her head, "Oh, I've never heard that one before. Mr., uh, Davis was it?"

Roger nodded tentatively.

"You and your friend here," she waved a hand to indicate Bryan, "will be spending some quality time in detention this afternoon. Mr. Cohen, on the other hand, will be spending some quality time in the nurse's office."

Bryan groaned, shooting Roger a dirty look. Roger shrugged it off, and moved to help Mrs. Fishburn haul the comatose Mark to the nurse's office.