A/N: Thanks for all of the encouragement to continue!

Chapter Two: The Snob, the Failure and the Villain

7: 32 A.M.

Claire Standish stood in front of her full-length mirror, admiring the view. She had to admit that she did look nice. Pink was a good color for her and she definitely needed to keep that in mind next time she went shopping. She smoothed out a tiny wrinkle at the top of her linen skirt and stepped away from the mirror, walking over to the vanity right next to the bathroom door. She spent a moment fixing her eye makeup and applying a fresh coat of lip gloss. There. Perfect.

Her father was in the dining room drinking coffee when she walked in. He glanced up at her and smiled. "Morning, Princess. How did you sleep?"

Claire took a seat at the table and sighed. "Fine."

Her father furrowed his brow in concern. "What's wrong, sweetheart?"

"Nothing." Claire sighed again and looked up at him. "It's nothing, really."

"Tell me." He gave her an encouraging smile. "Maybe I can help."

"Well…" Claire brushed a piece of lint from her shirt and took a deep breath. "It's just that I was getting dressed this morning and I realized that I had almost nothing to wear."

Mr. Standish frowned. "I'm sure you're exaggerating, honey."

"I'm not! I stood in front of my closet for nearly half an hour this morning and all I could find was this." Claire tugged at the pink sweater she was wearing and looked back at her father expectantly.

Mr. Standish looked confused. "That's a lovely sweater. You look beautiful in it."

"But, Daddy, it's so out of style." Claire sighed and played with a napkin sitting in front of her. "If you could see what the girls at school are wearing, you'd understand."

"Well, now, I don't want you feeling bad about this."

Claire looked up, refusing to smile. "How can I not? People are going to start making fun of me if I keep wearing stuff like this."

Her father's face flashed with confusion and horror at the idea of his only daughter being make fun of and he reached into his back pocket for his wallet. "Here. I want you to take this with you." He pulled out a gold credit card and handed it to Claire. "You just get whatever you need, alright, Princess? Whatever you need."

Claire shot her father a grateful smile. "Thank you, Daddy."

Her father nodded solemnly and returned the wallet to his back pocket. Claire slipped the credit card into her purse just as a horn sounded out front. "That's Heather." Claire stood up and gave her father a kiss on the cheek. "Thank you, Daddy."

Mr. Standish beamed. "Have a good day, pumpkin."

Claire smiled sweetly. "You, too."

Heather was sitting in the driveway, checking her teeth in the rearview mirror of her silver BMW. Claire opened the door and plopped down, releasing a deep breath.

Heather looked over at her, taking in her friend's sour expression. "What's wrong with you?"

Claire sighed. "Nothing, just my Dad." She paused. "Let's just go."

Heather lifted her eyebrows and put the car in reverse, pulling out of the driveway. When they were out on the road, she glanced over at her friend. "So, what'd he do this time, give you a car?"

Claire glared at her. "No."

"Oh." Pause. "A diamond necklace?"

"Shut up, Heather."

"Because you really need something to go with those earrings. It's about time the bastard finally realized it."

Claire rolled her eyes. "He let me borrow his credit card to go shopping."

"God, what an asshole."

"You don't live with him. You wouldn't know what he's like."

"He gives you whatever you want!"

"Oh, and your parents don't?" Claire scoffed. "Who bought you this car?"

Heather sighed. "Whatever. I just don't see why you hate him so much. He seems like a nice guy."

Claire leaned back in her seat. "It's just… I don't know. It feels so unreal, you know? Like he's trying to buy my affections."

"Well, you let him."

"What does that mean?"

"Well, you took the credit card, didn't you?"

Claire paused. "Well, yeah. It wasn't like I was going to turn it down."

"See?"

Claire shook her head. "It's not like that. I mean, he and my mother, they just fight all the time. It's like they forget I'm even there unless they think they can use me to prove their point." She sighed dramatically. "I may as well get something out of this whole mess."

Heather shrugged, conceding the argument. She pulled into the student parking lot and drove straight to the front row, where all of the seniors parked. It wasn't a written rule, but it might as well have been; everyone knew the seniors had… well, seniority.

Claire stepped out of the car and closed the passenger side door just as a boy on a skateboard whizzed past the front of the car, swiping at the three-pointed star on the front of the hood.

"Hey!" Heather walked quickly to the front of the car and glared at the hood ornament, which was bent slightly. "You asshole!" she shouted after the skater. The boy turned and grinned, blowing Heather a kiss before continuing on his way.

"What a jerk!" Heather huffed loudly and shook her head in disbelief. "Look, it's all… crooked now!" She stared at the piece of metal dejectedly, as though someone had just come along and stepped all over her sandcastle.

Claire walked up beside her to admire the damage. "I'm sure you can get someone to fix that for you."

"Still makes me mad." Heather glanced towards the entrance of the school once more. "Stupid stoners."

Claire nodded in agreement and glanced at her watch. "Come on, we're going to be late."

Heather sighed and nodded. "Stupid jerk," she muttered, tossing her purse over her shoulder. "Just whizzing by like that…"

Claire nodded understandingly, tuning her out. As they walked through the parking lot, she started thinking about all of the cute shirts she saw last week at Neiman Marcus and how many she was going to buy. She let one of the football players hold open the door for them as they walked inside and smiled to herself.

All of them.

7:34 A.M.

Brian Johnson was sitting at the desk in his room, staring at a single piece of paper that he held in his hand. In fact, he'd been staring at it for the last six and a half minutes, rereading all of the important bits, memorizing the words. If he closed his eyes, he would still be able to see the paper in his head, every last, horrible detail.

Including the F.

Brian wanted to rip the paper into shreds and burn those shreds until all that was left was a pile of ashes. And then he wanted to take those ashes and spread them out over the four corners of the earth… okay, the earth didn't have four corners since it was a sphere, but the meaning was the same. He wanted to get the paper as far away from himself, and his parents, as possible.

Brian was still glaring at the paper when someone knocked firmly on his bedroom door. "Brian!"

Brian opened the drawer to his desk and stuffed the progress report inside. "Yes?"

His mother opened the door just as he finished closing the drawer. She glanced around the room before looking back at her son, who was sitting nervously at the desk. "Are you doing homework?"

"What? Oh, uh, no. Of course not. I was just…" He glanced at his desk, which was clear except for a jar of pens and pencils. He grabbed a pencil and held it up triumphantly. "I just needed a pencil… you know, for school."

Mrs. Johnson sighed. "Well, hurry up. Your breakfast is getting cold."

"Oh, yeah. Sure. Sorry, Mom." Brian nodded and stuffed the pencil into his trouser pocket. "I'll… I'll be right there."

Mrs. Johnson pursed her lips together and nodded. When the door was closed safely behind her, Brian let out a long sigh of relief, slumped down onto the desk and closed his eyes. For a moment, he just lay there, forehead pressed against the wood, eyelashes fluttering against the slick surface. It felt good to not have to move, to just sit in silence without anyone giving orders or asking questions. For that moment, no one expected anything from him… and he liked it.

But peace like that doesn't ever last. Eventually, reality started creeping back in, reminding him of the things he wished he could forget, like that F. Sooner or later, his mother was going to ask him about his progress report and he would have no choice but to give it to her. And then what was he going to do? Tell her that it didn't matter? Tell her that Yale and Stanford would understand, that Harvard wouldn't hold one tiny, insignificant little F against him? Chances are, he wouldn't even get the chance; his mother would start the yelling before he could even open his mouth. Brian felt his stomach turn over at the thought. He couldn't go through that. He just couldn't. He would do anything not to let it happen. Anything. He would take a bus down to Mexico, ride in the back of a pick-up truck with a gang of drug lords and jewel smugglers. He would take a plane to Fiji and eat nothing but coconuts and leaves and bird poop for the rest of his life. He would go to the four corners of the earth, whether they existed or not, just to get away from his mother and father. He would go anywhere, do anything, to avoid telling them about that F.

And suddenly everything was clear.

Without hesitating, Brian jumped out of his chair and ran over to his closet. He flung open the door and dropped down to his knees, yanking a large camping bag from the corner and dragging it out into the open. His fingers trembled with excitement and more than a little bit of fear as they pulled open the flap and pushed aside canteens and bug repellent and rain gear, finally settling on a small box at the bottom of the bag.

Only serious campers carried flare guns; the average guy in a sleeping bag at the edge of the woods hardly needed be lugging one around since the chances that he would actually need to use it were slim to none. But Bill Johnson was serious about camping and enjoyed traveling deep into the woods, where it would be days, months or even years before anyone would ever find him should he get lost. And even then it would just be his bones.

Brian returned to his seat at his desk and opened the box very slowly, wondering exactly how sensitive flare guns were. Would it go off if he touched it? Or breathed on it? Somehow he didn't think so, but he wasn't exactly sure. He admired it for a moment before someone knocked sharply on his door.

"Brian!"

Brian's heart jumped into his throat. He slammed the box shut, flinching as he did so and hoping that it really wouldn't go off that easily. He looked around for a place to hide it and settled on his backpack, which was lying at his feet, propped up against the leg of the desk. He stuffed the box inside just before his mother opened the door.

"Brian, what are you doing in here?"

Brian took a shallow breath, wondering if his heart was pounding loud enough for his mother to hear him. "Um, I'm just-"

"You have school in fifteen minutes!"

Brian's eyes widened. "Um, I'm really sorry, Mom. I was just-"

Brian's mother let out an exasperated sigh. "Just go. Your father is waiting for you in the living room."

Brian glanced down at his backpack. "Um, sure. I'll… I'll be there in a min-"

"You said that ten minutes ago. Now get moving."

Brian panicked. "Yeah, okay, but I just need a second to-"

"I said, go!" Mrs. Johnson marched across the room and picked up his backpack. Brian grabbed it from her before she could look inside, but she took this as a sign of compliance. "Come on. They've been waiting for you."

Brian walked ahead of his mother and into the living room where his father and his sister Jamie were waiting by the front door. "You ready?" his father asked, checking his watch.

Brian looked over at his mother, who was watching him impatiently. A flood of anxiety washed over him, twisting his stomach up in knots again. "Um, yeah." He took a deep breath. "Yeah, I'm ready."

7:51 A.M.

Richard Vernon stood in front of the small mirror on the back of the closet door in his office, adjusting his tie. Why the hell he had to dress up everyday just to babysit a bunch of arrogant little know-it-alls was beyond him, but he didn't make the rules… yet. Within a few years, Principal Geller would retire, God willing, and leave Vernon free to step in and take his place. After a few more years, when he'd proven his worth, he'd move up to district superintendent. Then he wouldn't have to deal with the students at all.

Someone knocked loudly on Vernon's office door, jerking the vice principal from his dreams of glory and power. He finished adjusting his tie before speaking. "Come in."

Principal Martin Geller opened the office door. "Morning, Richard."

"Good morning, Marty." Vernon stepped away from the closet door, buttoning his suit jacket. "What can I do for you?"

"Oh, not much. Did you get that memo I sent you about the faculty meeting next Wednesday?"

"Yes. Yes, I did." Vernon wrinkled his brow with concern, hoping the school wasn't making budget cuts again. Last time that happened, his salary dropped by nearly two percent. "Everything is alright, I assume?"

Geller waved him off. "Of course, of course. Just some policy changes the district wants us to be aware of."

Vernon nodded understandingly. "Well, I'll most definitely be there. You can count on that."

"Good, good." Geller smiled. "You're running detention tomorrow, aren't you?"

Vernon fought the urge to roll his eyes… or cut off his left arm. "Yes, sir, I am."

"Well, you may be in luck. So far, we haven't got anyone on the list."

Again, Vernon had to fight his impulses. "Really? Well, I'm very pleased to hear that." He paused. "For the students' sake, of course. I'm just happy they're behaving and, you know, not causing problems… for the teachers and all." What the hell was he saying? "It just speaks to the kind of leadership we have here at Shermer," he finished lamely.

Principal Geller looked confused, but not displeased. "Well, I suppose it does. I never thought about it that way." He shook his head. "In any case, you may not have to be here tomorrow." He smiled warmly, his pudgy cheeks puffing out like a chipmunk's. "Just have to cross your fingers everything goes well today."

Or just not hand out any detention slips. "Yes, sir," he said, chuckling. "I'll keep 'em both crossed."

The Principal chuckled along with him. "Well, I should go. It's…" He glanced at his watch. "Well, look at that, it's almost time for the bell to ring." He looked up at Vernon and nodded politely. "I'll let you get back to work."

"Well, thank you, sir. I appreciate that." Vernon walked over to the door and followed the principal out into the hallway. "I'll be seeing you around."

Geller gave him a small wave before waddling off to his office down the hall. Vernon shut the door behind him and let out a deep breath. This was good news. Very good news. There was only one thing he hated more than a classroom full of students and that was a classroom full of bad students. And this time it would only take one to ruin what he hoped would be a marvelous day for golf.

If he could just get through today.

Vernon walked back to the closet one more time to check his tie and smooth out his hair. When he was satisfied with his appearance, he cleared his throat and opened the door to the hallway, where the last few students were scurrying to class. A scrawny boy with an armful of books gave Vernon a fearful look and started running faster, eager not to get caught after the bell rang. Vernon didn't tell him that he needn't bother; it was kind of fun watching him try to run with all of those books.

A few seconds later, the bell rang and Vernon smiled.

Let the games begin.

A/N: Constructive criticism welcome. Please let me know what you think.