He'd only been at Westerberg for about a week the first time he actually talked to her. He'd been reading in the cafeteria, against his wishes, when she'd walked in. He knew her name by then, Veronica. Everyone here knew her name. He'd wanted to skip lunch and stay inside one of the classrooms instead, where it was quieter, but the P.E. teacher had been quick to stop him and tell him that was against the rules, so he was stuck there, but he'd gotten there in time to see her friends (or, rather, boss and fellow henchwomen) talk her into something. He'd been too far away to tell exactly what had happened, but from how she'd talked to the other girl, the "unpopular" one in the pink, (which Veronica's face's color had almost matched) he suspected he'd gotten the rough idea. She was walking past his table on the way back to her own, completely immersed in her own thoughts, when he surprised both of them by speaking up.
"You shouldn't have bowed down to the Swatch-dogs and the Diet-Cokeheads. They're gonna crush that girl."
She turned to stare at him, astounded. He wondered when someone outside of the top dogs at the school had last dared speak to her. He also wondered why the hell he'd done it. A few people in nearby tables, silently staring, seemed to be thinking the same thing.
"I'm sorry, what?"
He answered before his mind could catch up with him, as he usually did, for better or, usually, for worse. "You've clearly got a soul. You just have to work harder keeping it clean. We are all born marked for evil." With that, he closed his book, and stood up. He had no lunch to pick up, but he was ready to go, before thinking any more on what he'd just said. He wasn't sure he believed it, especially the last part, but he knew his father would have agreed with it. That is, he would probably have agreed if he'd ever read anything other than a construction manual or a TV guide.
She, however, wasn't done with him. She walked to his table, cornering him. "Okay, don't quote Baudelaire at me and walk away, excuse me." She frowned at him, head tilted slightly to one side, overly hair-sprayed hair managing not to move even as she did. "I didn't catch your name."
He couldn't help smiling at his own answer. "I didn't throw it," he said, over his shoulder, as he walked across the other side of his table and towards the cafeteria doors. Unfortunately, his cool parting moment didn't last long, since he was immediately surrounded before he could leave. Given that it was only two people, he briefly reconsidered his word choice. Looking up at the two hulking lugs next to him, he nodded to himself. Unfortunately, his word choice had been all too apt. Surrounded was right.
A few insults were thrown at him. Nothing memorable. Most were just straight forwardly being called him gay, which he did not mind (and couldn't fully deny,, but that was another story), but mostly, it was just horrifyingly, mind-bogglingly dull. How often had he had to go through this? By now though, he knew the quickest way out of it, and was the one to throw the first punch. He could hear his father laughing in his ear as he did. "Good job there, kiddo." He tried to excuse his actions with the fact that he wasn't really aiming with his fists as much as he was with the hardcover version of Catcher in the Rye he was holding, but it didn't quiet the wheezing, raspy voice in his ears, clear as if his father had been swinging his fists right there next to him. "Detention on your first week. You're growing up to be just like your old man." Someone screamed, but he couldn't tell who it had been, he just knew it hadn't been him. He hadn't gotten hit, at least, not yet. He'd managed to knock at least one of them down though, before teachers had separated them, and dragged him out of the cafeteria, while the jocks had scurried behind some tables, where they'd kept on hurling their (unoriginal) insults. That didn't catch his attention though. Not even the teacher currently yanking his arm nearly out of his socket did. What did surprise him was Veronica. She was staring at him openly, eyes wide and face flushed. There was something in those eyes, something he couldn't make out. He hoped then, strongly, that it wasn't fear. He met her eyes before the cafeteria doors closed behind him, and his were as wide as hers when they did. He hadn't felt hope, or anything like it, for years, but he had then, and he couldn't have explained why, not even to himself.