English passed by with no issues. The teacher was too distracted by getting a seating chart written down, and going over the syllabus, to actually teach anything. He did mention that the majority of the tests we would read were going to be short stories by lesser known authors.

Algebra was an entirely different story. The teacher didn't give a damn where we sat; she just jumped straight into explaining what an exponent was. I found myself scribbling in a three subject notebook, trying to keep up with her explanations. I didn't have many goals for high school, but one that I wanted was to be good at math. Every loser on the streets is still counting off his fingers, but every successful person I've ever read about got great grades in high school, including math, and then moved onto college, where they had harder math. I want to make the most of this opportunity, for as long as I have it, and math seems to be the deciding factor of whether or not you will succeed in life.

In biology, this guy with slicked back white hair and a bowtie ranted for half an hour about cells, and the powerhouse of the cell, mitochondria. All I had learned by the end of that class was that I needed to switch out into an easier science credit.

Lunch, everyone crowded the hallways, rushing to try and not miss whatever they were serving on the first day. I lagged behind, knowing full well that Cody had given me a bagged lunch this morning. I found an empty table in the corner of the lunchroom, and opened my pack to find some kind of chicken pasta, fruit salad, and some kind of pudding with bumps in it. A big thermos of fruit juice topped it off.

Like always, his cooking was amazing, and by the tie lunch was over, I was really ready for a nap.

Lucky for me, PE was next. While everyone was assigned their locker numbers, I went outside and slipped behind the bleachers, and used my red hoodie as a pillow. I really love this hoodie, I've had it for two years, and it had never failed me when I needed a pillow, or a blanket, or even a tablecloth. If I had a favorite thing, it would be this hoodie.

I was about halfway through my nap, when someone grabbed my ankles, and yanked me out from under the bleachers. As several voices laughed, I jumped up, my mind immediately thinking that I was gonna get jumped.

But instead, some guy in a football jersey is grinning like a bandit. There's five guys behind him, all in football jerseys. "Well, looks like a freshman found his way onto the field."

"Hey, that's the kid that the psychology professor was telling us about. He's a girl."

The mood, while it wasn't pleasant before, turned extremely sour. "Ah. Well maybe we should give it a taste of what being a man is like."

He slaps a hand onto my shoulder, shoving me into one of the taller guys, who shoved me forward into another guy, and before he can shove me into another guy, I grabbed his arm and punched the fucker in the nose.

He staged back, falling onto his ass, and everyone else lost their minds. One guy kneeled down next to him; two other guys grabbed me, and held me against the edge of the bleachers. Running through my odds really quickly, I knew I couldn't fight them all. These were big guys. Seniors, probably varsity, built like pros. I might be able to outrun them. They ran after balls, I ran from police dogs. But that was on the street where there's alleys, fire escapes, and traffic to catch attention. Here, it's an open stretch from the bleachers to the gym.

If I don't get away, these guys are going to beat me. Probably not going to be the worst beating I've ever had, but it'll still suck. I've already got bandaged over my arms, and one on my face from the lovely little walk me and Harvey shared. I do not need to go home with any more. Social workers ask awkward questions if they check up on you, and you look like the entire Gotham Blades team (Gotham City's Ice Hockey team) each took a shot at you.

So, I do this trick I learned from this girl that Tripp had me spar with a few times. Had a weird name. Brantley, I think.

I lean back a little, and then kicked both my legs up, doing a split in midair. And yes, it was very painful. But my feet caught each roided up football player in the face, and when they dropped me to grab their noses, I made a run for it. I had to bulldoze into the guy who had dragged me out, the same one who had called me 'it'. I had planned on running for it, but that word… it… that word echoed in my brain, until I couldn't think of anything else.

So I dropped on top of him, and slammed my fist into his face. Once. Twice. A third.

Someone yanked me off, and when I was pulled up, I kicked the guys face one last time. He jerked back, blood spewing everywhere as he let out a scream.

I got thrown on the ground. I've been in a circle of full grown men before, kicking the air out of my body. But they hadn't been wearing cleats. These guys were. I was only getting stomped for about twenty seconds (to keep your sanity in those situations, Tripp taught me to count the seconds) before I heard someone else, a couple people I think, shout out things like, "Get off him!" "Fucking stop!" "Assholes!" "Fucks wrong with ya, mate?"

When the kicking stopped, I looked up, and all the guys who had been stomping me where on the ground. Other guys stood there, and they looked a bit rough around the edges. The football players were the ultimate jock stereotypes, clean shaven, pretty boys. These guys looked more like men. Like, all of them looked like men, even this one that was shorter than me.

One of them kneeled down next to me, clucking his tongue, a light Australian accent forming in his words. "Damn. Looks like they bloodied ya up fuckin good."

"Feels like it." I managed to croak out. He flipped me over so I was sitting up, and pulled the back of my shirt up, inspecting y back. "Oh fuck… yer gonna look like a mummy."

I groaned, and felt something slip into my eyes, stinging like hell. I wiped at my eyes, and my hand came back covered in blood. "Oh no."

He took my face into his hands, turning it right and left. Then he pushed my bangs out of the way. "Cut's right here. Probably needs stitches."

"I'm in so much trouble." I groaned.

The guy chuckled, "Nah mate, relax. No one's gonna believe a thin shrimp like you started a fight. Especially with the entire team here says that the pigskin shits here started it. Saw the whole thing from the hockey field."

I looked over towards where he was pointing, and saw a cement black top, only with hockey lines and barriers. Some of these guys had roller skates slung over their shoulders. "You guys play roller hockey?"

He chuckled, peeling his shirt off and pressing it against my forehead. "Nah, rink hockey. School doesn't have an ice rink. We have to practice out here during school hours, but after school we head down to the rink in town."

He pulled the shirt away, grimacing as it kept bleeding. "Yep, definitely stitches."

He nodded to the kid smaller than me, "Get the first aid kit, will ya? Let's at least get some gauze on it before we walk him through school."

Some of the foot ball players were starting to stir, and the hockey players held their sticks a bit tighter. One of them, a really tall guy with arms that could snap me in half nodded to me, "You're Mikey's little brother."

"I'm a foster kid, ain't got family." I explained.

"Yeah, yer parents are the Benetts. Arnold and Chris. Mikey was their foster kid, and he played a damn good sweeper."

The minute that last sentence was out of his mouth, the rest agreed in various ways.

"Fucking amazing sweeper."

"Saw him knock Venney to the ground with one punch."

"Blocked that last goal shot in our county finals game."

I grunted as the guy on the ground next to me poured alcohol onto my forehead, taping the soaked gauze down. "Aye, don't cry."

I jerked, glaring up at him, "I'm not fucking crying."

He snorted, helping me to my feet, "I'm surprised that you're still awake. Six down pigskin jockeys stomp yer ass into the ground, and yer still wide awake."

His eyes widened at the bandages on my forearms and elbows, "Fuck bruh. Ya get into more than one scrap today?"

I shook my head. "Dog got carried away on his walk."

"That god damn wolf is still alive!?" He hissed, "Fuck, Mikey always brought him to practice, made us chase him around the rink."

"Mikey sound like a fucking asshole." I groaned. The other guys laughed, while this guy (What is her, their captain?) steers me towards school.

"You lot get back to practice. We've got a lot of work before our first game. 9 weeks ain't even a good enough start with how you lot have slacked today." He quickened his pace, pulling me along with him. "Now hurry up, the pig fuckers are sore losers."

I just groaned, feeling the biggest migraine of my life coming on.

WITH DICK

I sighed, leaning down over my table. When did Jason and Kori… hook up? Please tell me it was just a one night thing. God damn it, if Jason had a fucking relationship with my ex girlfriend, I'll kick his ass from Gotham to Metropolis.

I pulled out my tablet, clicking around to try and find Andy on GPS. I might have slipped a tracker into the red hoodie he obviously had some fondness for. But that was when I thought he was my son. If he ran away from his foster home, I wanted to be able to find him quickly.

It said he was still at school. Hadn't run off yet.

I checked y phone, to see if Raven had any updates. Nope. I can't get into contact with Starfire.

What am I going to do about Andy?