From the start of your first year at Westchester Country Day, you had always thought that Brandon Roberts had been the epitome of perfection, from his looks to his personality.

That thought held true until that day.

And now, you had just found out all the more reason to think of him as more imperfect than even you.

But... But I can't.

You stared at the cuts on his wrists, still unable to move. Your grip was lessening.

That gave Brandon the chance to pull away and run.

You were left there, staring hopelessly at the back of his head.

"How did it go, Nikki?"

You paused, the spoon of yoghurt halfway between the pottle and your open mouth. "What?" You hadn't wanted to think about it. About the horrible secret you'd uncovered...

"...you and Brandon. How did it go?" When you could bring yourself to look at Zoey again, you could see that she did not look happy. It resembled the look she'd given you when you'd tried to pretend nothing had happened at the sleepover. But it was noticeably softer.

"...do I have to tell you now? I-if I tell you here..." You sniffled involuntarily, and Zoey sighed.

"Okay. But tell us after school. When you get home, maybe?"

"That's fine."

You finished up your lunch with little conversation.

The bell rang, signalling the end of lunchtime. You sighed, relieved by the fact that you didn't have French with Brandon.

As you walked silently to your class, you noticed that Mackenzie and some of her fellow CCPs were going in the same direction as you, though none of them acknowledged you.

Then you realised. Oh. Right.

You entered the classroom, sitting down at your desk and taking out your French books. You quickly did some homework that you would have done if you hadn't been so consumed over everything that had occurred lately.

Luckily, you finished up just as the teacher came in and the whole class stood up.

"Bon après-midi."

"Bon aprés-midi, Madame," replied the class.

"Asseyez-vous, s'il vous plait."

The class sat down. After the teacher had called out the roll, the hour-long class began.

For most of it you were trying your hardest to pay attention as your mind kept drifting to your troubles. Eventually you started to recite French sentences in your head.

Je m'appelle Nikki Maxwell.

Je suis brune.

J'ai les yeux marron.

Je suis mince.

Je suis assez sympa.

You felt that the last one was a complete lie. You weren't nice, not even quite. You only thought that because you needed something positive for your introduction.

Non... Je ne suis pas sympa.

Je suis... Horrible.

It did hurt to think that about yourself, no matter how true it was.

You held back the tears. You didn't want to cry anymore. Crying had done nothing for you.

The end of the school day had finally arrived. You were packing away your books when you were roughly tapped on the shoulder by what felt like a fingernail. You turned around and were less than surprised.

Mackenzie Hollister stood there, arms folded, an impatient look on her makeup-caked face. Her goons stood behind her, looking ready to pounce if you tried to escape.

"What?"

You were a bit taken aback by how flat your voice sounded, but you figured it was just because you didn't feel like you had time for Mackenzie's bullshit.

Mackenzie's eyes narrowed. "That was a pretty smart comment you made yesterday, Maxwell."

But the next thing she did said the exact opposite.

She slapped you in the face, hard enough to leave a slightly red mark.

"Hmm, but I don't think that was enough payback. I think you'll want to know a little something more."

You stood up, backpack already on your back. "And what would that be?" you asked with gritting teeth. That slap had hurt, and it was hard not to think of doing the same back to her.

She leaned into your ear close enough to make you uncomfortable, close enough that you could smell her lipgloss.

"I noticed that Brandon's been acting less than himself. And I have a feeling you have something to do with it."

She sighed.

"If only he'd invited me instead of your sorry little ass. But I tell you..."

And her final words before sashaying out of the classroom were;

"If I ever hear that you've made him cry... Tu es morte, Maxwell."

A/N: I finally updated! I'm so sorry that I was really late, but I have an unpredictable amount of inspiration...

Anyway, the French I use here mostly comes from the French that I take at high school. So if it doesn't sound right to you, I apologise.

See you in the next chapter (which I will try to get published faster)!