Well, here's Chapter Two of Edrian's story. Enjoy!

Chapter Two

The old crone's creaky voice scrawled little paper cuts all over my nerves. Biology and cell processes, what else? As she went to scratch something on the board—she never wrote, only carved into the board with chalk like she was butchering and bleeding some massive ancient boar, producing an inevitable and violently chilling racket—I let an ear turn to the faintest hint of news on the wind. The one thing this week that no one could shut up about was the new exchange student from—Wales? Scotland? England?—who was coming. No one seemed to know the name, but word was that she was hot.

Or he? I'd thought I heard 'she,' but even the gender of our new student I could not ascertain. I was hoping for a girl, one who would take my mind off of Alix Evanston.

The teacher continued to trill for some minutes about photosynthesis and cell structure, or something to that affect. I tried to remember her name. It was something with a W. Wilder, Wilson, Williams—

In the back corner of the room, something creaked ominously. Of course, the teacher's exciting lecture had nothing against this new disturbance. What new devilry is this? Boromir had wondered much the same way, deep in the mines of Moria upon the rising of the Balrog. We all turned to see what new devilry the sound of groaning door hinges might herald.

The principal, Dr. MacCalley. Of course. Even normally quiet door hinges, the most silent door hinges that fine carpentry had to offer, inevitably squeaked when that man entered a room, like some pathetic fanfare. Behind him came a mousy little guidance counselor. Her meek shadowing of the principal all too closely mimicked Gríma Wormtongue's gutless cringing behind Saruman atop the pinnacle of Isengard. It was fitting, since Dr. Mac, as he was so affectionately dubbed by students and convicted felons alike, seemed to rule his holdings with powerful black magic and a highly clichéd iron fist.

Great. Principals and guidance counselors. Well, at least it was better than biology. I let myself slouch forward in my chair with great enthusiasm.

Then several girls gasped. I felt my head shoot straight up. Girls gasping meant a new yummy bachelor for them to chase, and a new yummy bachelor for them to chase meant someone else capable of snatching Alix Evanston away from me. I mean, as if my chances of scoring her affection weren't small enough as it was.

Never had I ever before heard a high school classroom so quiet. The attention of the entire room was fixated on one single point.

A third figure followed the counselor to the front of the room. Now I saw what had so captivated the attention of the entire female sex. Tall frame, rather lean but well-muscled and obviously strong. A head of long golden hair, almost too fair and bright to belong on any self-respecting male being, perfectly straight and pulled back in a ponytail. There was a very pleasant scent with the figure as well, leather and fresh open grasslands and something like sandalwood.

Yep, these girls were already itching to get this guy in bed at the next football party.

And just because I was a nerd, albeit a good-looking one, didn't mean that I had no idea how to dress. Or how to recognize nice clothes when I saw them. And trust me, this guy had nice clothes—an olive green shirt, long-sleeved, and perfectly distressed, perfectly tailored jeans. Dark denim. Very edgy, very European. And he had quite a delectable ass, the girls were obviously thinking. Olivia Johansson's cheeks had darkened a shade or two, sure signals of a sudden, natural blush underneath that stuff that females wear on their faces anyway. I could swear a couple of them were squirming in their chairs. There were definitely some new sensations happening under those mini skirts, judging by their giggling.

The teacher immediately relinquished her position at the chalkboard, somewhat shocked and visibly unnerved at the instant loss of our attention. I could have sworn she gulped as Dr. Mac took her place.

"Thank you, Ms. Winston," he declared. The man declared every single thing he ever said

Winston! That was her name. As in Churchill. And Ms. Not Miss, not Mrs. Even the school administrators couldn't figure her out.

"I would like you all to welcome Cedric Greene. He's come to us all the way from Ireland—"

"England," the exchange student cut in. Though his voice was quiet and smooth, with a light accent, he spoke tersely, like it was the fifth time that day he'd had to make the same correction. "I've come from England."

Did his eyes flash? If they did, then they were the bluest of blues for me to be able to see that they were blue all the way from the back of the room. Bluer even than—I admitted in defeat— bluer even than Alix Evanston's.

The principal cleared his throat hurriedly. "Yes, yes, England," he corrected himself, "and he'll be filling out the year in this science class."

We sat stunned in our seats. Dr. Mac had yielded to the correction! No one ever corrected him, no matter how wrong he was—no one. And certainly no one ever let his or her eyes flash so violently before him and emerged alive from the encounter.

This kid had some power.

Clearly still flustered from the sudden loss of our attention, old Ms. Winston shuffled through some papers on her desk. "Well, Cedric…" she said.

Cedric. Wasn't that the name of some guy in Harry Potter? Didn't he show up somewhere around the fifth or sixth movie? The name was very proper British, very old Celtic. It suited him. Oh no you don't, Edrian Mortensen. You screwed up once with Mr. Garrison, calling him Gandalf. You can't stop comparing Alix Evanston to Arwen Undómiel. You immediately thought "Elrond" when you walked into Edwards's room for the first time. You've learned your lesson many times over, right? You will NOT let yourself imagine, even for one nanosecond, that this kid is really—

"You'll need a laboratory partner. Let's have you join Edrian there in the back. Mr. Mortensen?"

…Legolas.

I cleared my stuff off of the desk to make room for the beautifully tooled old-time leather satchel he carried over his shoulder. Cedric sat down slowly, and I noticed that his hair was pulled back strangely. He had it coaxed to cover the tops of his ears. Mr. Edwards had longer hair which he pulled back, too, and he did it the same way. Queer.

Is it at all unusual for a teenaged male to be so paranoid? Does my mental state concern you at all, dear reader? Worrisome or not, I was sick of this paranoia. I'd had enough of covering up who I really wanted to be. "Mae govannen," I grumbled in Cedric's direction.

He stopped and stared at me, smiling slightly. "Mae govannen, Edrian."

I did a double-take. He'd returned my Sindarin greeting. "Dude! You… you understood what I said?"

Cedric nodded, grave except for the spark in his eyes. They were indeed blue, almost aquamarine, jumping out of his finely chiseled countenance. Who else manages to pull off that blend of beautiful and manly and… My English-class mind began spewing a list of certain adjectives, and NOT because I was gay and suddenly attracted to this guy. Lovely, strong, proud, sexy, intense, virile… potent. Elvish. His face is so freaking Elvish it's ridiculous. Great. Another thing to lure Alix Evanston's affection away from me.

"Yes," he answered. "I understood." He offered me his hand.

I took it and shook it firmly. If this guy knew 'well met' in Sindarin, he might not be so bad. Finally, someone at Linden High School who wasn't my enemy. "Well met, my brother," I grinned.

He grinned back and leaned closer to whisper a question in my ear. "Does the teacher always pronounce 'laboratory' as 'la-bore-atory'?"

I nodded sorrowfully. "Unfortunately. She says it like some ancient, demented German scientist who's been plotting to take over the world from his secret underground lair for, like, the last thirty years." I rubbed my imaginary-rubber-gloved hands together with an evil sneer. "At last, I vill push de button and launch my secrrrret veapon—" I replaced my w's with v's and rolled my r's, true to the crazy-evil German Einstein stereotype we were messing around with at the moment— "At last I vill rule de vorrrrld!"

Cedric nearly cracked up. Only his hand slamming over his mouth—I also happened to notice that his fingers were rather long—kept him from bursting into all-out mid-classroom suicide.

Meanwhile, the poor tormented chalk screamed bloody hell and blue murder over the blackboard. Yet elderly Ms. Winston still heard a sliver of Cedric's… well, giggle. A masculine giggle, but a giggle all the same. She whipped her wiry white pouf of a head around to glare at us from behind psychotic purple cat-eye glasses, the kind with an intricately beaded neck strap, as if the attached attempt at being fashionable made the frames themselves a forgivable sin. "Gentlemen, do either of you have a question?"

"No, ma'am," I answered evenly as, beside me, Cedric fought to straighten out his contorting lips.

She harrumphed, unconvinced, and turned sharply back to the board.

We shifted our attention to today's torture method in the textbook. In preparation for tomorrow's "la-bore-atory" activity, we were expected to study the illustrated diagram of a stereotypical and very Canadian maple leaf. It was rather well-drawn, really. Every edge was perfectly angled, every lobe perfectly shaped, every delicate vein shadowed with four different shades of peridot green.

It's so fun to be one of the few guys in school who rocks at creative English.

Cedric traced the tip of one elegant finger over the illustration. "The leaf is so tender," he whispered, "so alive. I miss seeing trees."

Poor guy. "We have trees around here," I offered.

"Trees, yes, but they are generic. Bland. Young. Not one of them has ever known what it means to stand as a forest. The trees I knew, they were ancient. Every one was different from the last. They told tales, lived lives much the same as you and I. They had memories," he whispered mournfully. "They were my friends. I miss them."

He longed for trees the same way I yearned for friends, for Alix Evanston. Knowing how he felt, I patted his arm awkwardly. "Hey, man," I said softly. "It's okay."

And Cedric Greene smiled at me.

Finally the period was over. I slung my bag over my shoulder and lit out of that room like the Nine themselves were behind me. Without a word, Cedric grabbed his satchel and followed me. We men had no use for the needless explanations of who was headed where that girls seem to depend on to keep their social lives intact. We men had classes to get to on time.

There were a couple of beefy varsity jocks clumped by their lockers. As I passed, one of them repeated the same ritual customary to my passing, the Rocky bellow. "Yo, Adrian!"

"It's Edrian," I muttered as I left him and his snickering friends behind me.

I felt Cedric hovering by my shoulder. "Good friends of yours, I presume," he murmured, falling into step with me.

"The best ever." My response was slathered with just as much sarcasm as his comment.

Cedric laughed. I hadn't pinned him as the type for sarcasm, but he was apparently full of surprises. One surprise was the fact that we were already friends. After all, it is commonly known in all cultures of Linden High School that no one is friends with me, Edrian Mortensen. Another was that he didn't give a damn about what the girls thought of him now. Thirdly, as it turns out, British guys sling their arms around their friends' shoulders much the same way American guys do. And apparently Cedric Greene stuck by his friends, which was obvious as we made our way through the crowded halls side by side.