Summary: Duncan has been forced to move again, but this town seems to have a couple of surprises up its sleeve.

They arrived last night.

It took them by surprise when Barnes showed up to their front porch at almost nine in the evening, two weeks ago, a moving truck parked on the street next to their car, and a group of men, of soldiers, around him with the mission of packing up and turning their lives upside down with not a care or a warning.

They didn't start until past eleven, his mom screeching like a banshee in the middle of their front yard, the men not daring to take a step forward for as long as she brandished the baseball bat she kept next to her bed like a sword. She yelled at Barnes about "fucking decency", about "fair fucking warnings" and so many more things that Duncan had lost track of the conversation well before it was over.

He was too busy leaving marks on the stairs railing from his tight grip on it. It was not his fault, this time he was sure of it, and that was what hurt the most. They had been living on a small town close to Seattle, a pretty open-minded place where they had spent the last three years of his life. It was the longest placement they had had, and it had been fantastic. People kept to themselves, he was allowed to participate on the mathematics decathlon with the high school team, he had friends. Not very close, not the type who would try to maintain contact in a long distance setting, but they were nice, nonetheless. And now it was all gone.

Unlike he would normally, he felt good when the soldiers packing their stuff tensed up when seeing the metal stair rail bent with the shape of his fingers, and he took the liberty to bump shoulders with Barnes with just enough force to make him stumble. The man made a move to raise his voice, but one look and he continued on supervising the move in silence. Mom tried to cheer him up: "we'll redecorate your room", "we can get you a bigger bed, or a better desk". That ship sailed a long time ago, though.

Duncan was not five anymore: promises of presents and cool toys will not make him accept with a smile leaving behind the best placement they have had since he was four.

Margaret knows that, and sometimes Duncan feels bad for being mad at her when he sees just how defeated she seems. Sometimes, though, a little, tiny, hurt voice in the back of his head tells him that, had she not been so selfish and not had him, he wouldn't have to live this way.

Now they are in their new house. This one is more or less as big as the other, though it doesn't have a second floor and it has a more modern style. His room is big enough, he supposes, although the window it has doesn't allow him to put his desk under it, like he likes to do. There is, also, no greenery to look at outside because they are in a fucking desert.

How fucking fitting.

He hasn't really talked to mom in the last few days. He is not doing it because he wants to hurt her, but sometimes he just deserves to be mad, and he knows if he were to talk he would end up saying things that he wouldn't necessarily regret later. He loves mom, really, he does. So, so much, almost as much as he knows she loves him —she says it to him everyday, without exceptions, no matter if they are not on speaking terms thanks to their temper—. But sometimes he thinks about the life, if you can call it that, that awaits him because of the choices she made.

And today, of all things, it's his first day of class. California is not necessarily his favorite state, to be honest, and to be forced to attend a high school in the middle of nowhere, in a town with no more than six thousand people, bordering a desert…

He massages his temples, as if trying to chase away an oncoming headache, and gets up from his desk. He's been up since five am, where sleep abandoned him and the familiar anxiety of being the new kid woke him up with a cold sweat. His sketchbook is shoved inside his backpack, one made of vegan leather his mom bought him for his fourteenth birthday and that he takes everywhere, and he puts on his favorite sneakers, the ones mom bought him so he could draw and paint on them. He loves the jungle designs he did on them, and after baptizing them as his lucky shoes, he likes to wear them whenever he does something that triggers his anxiety.

Mom thinks it's cute.

He can already hear noise in the kitchen when he enters the bathroom. He has given up on doing anything to his hair since he entered high school. Once the first wave of puberty hit him and his first growth spurt happened, the consistency of it has changed drastically. It no longer feels like normal hair. It's thinker, the curls more unnaturally defined, and the feeling of it resembles a porcupine's quills, just longer, softer and easier to bend. It luckily doesn't look bad, and the color helps a lot. When he was younger it was lighter, the kind of blond babies are born with. Now it looks like gold, and if he were to choose a feature of himself, he would bet all his money on his hair.

Mom says he has a beautiful face, but he can see in her eyes that, no matter how handsome and cute he is, he reminds her of someone. Those conversations never end well.

He goes to put on his t-shirt when, through the mirror's reflection, he sees the scar on his chest. It's not too big, at least now that he is bigger, but it's notorious and bumpy to the touch. It's located just over his heart, and although it's superficial, mom's eyes fill with tears every time she sees it. He covers it quickly, not because he is self conscious about it, but because he can hear mom's voice calling him to the kitchen to have breakfast. There is no need to make her feel bad so early in the morning.

He abandons the bathroom, takes his backpack, and rushes toward the smell of toast and juice.

"Good morning, baby."

Margaret stands next to the stove, wearing a work suit and the earrings he managed to buy for her birthday last year, and smiles at him like he lights up the room with his presence when she turns around. The scar on her face is as notorious as always. It's long, from the left corner of her mouth almost to her ear, and when Duncan was very little, he would tell her that way they could match.

Duncan walks up to her and lets her hug and kiss him, because even when he is angry, or upset, he would never say no to that. Margaret smiles at him and tries to fix his hair to no avail. She gives up when he sits down on the kitchen aisle to eat his toast.

"Morning."

Margaret sits in front of him and takes a sip of her coffee.

"Are you excited for your first day?" He looks at her mid chew and raises an eyebrow, and mom laughs. "Ok, ok, stupid question." She takes a bite of her own toast and looks at him again. "Look, I know you're not happy about this, and you have every right to be upset, but don't give up before starting, ok?" She cups his cheek and rubs her thumb on his nose, something he has always found very calming. "You never know, maybe you'll manage to make new friends."

"I suppose it's not outside the realm of possibilities." He doesn't really believe in jinxing stuff, but he also doesn't wanna risk it.

"Don't be so positive, you could hurt yourself." Mom laughs, drinks from her coffee, and unblocks her phone to read the news. He finally finishes his toast, drinks his juice and goes to the bathroom to finish preparing for class.

The high school is not too far away, fifteen minutes on foot at most, so he has decided to walk to and from class. A few minutes of peace and some me-time to enjoy.

When he gets out of the bathroom, Margaret has already finished eating and is getting ready to go to work. She gave up military life when he was born, and since then she has been working at different organizations that help single mothers and women running away from abusive situations. Mom says she doesn't want anybody to feel as alone as she did when she escaped.

"I'm leaving now." He waits by the door, backpack on his shoulder, and Margaret comes out of her room with her work purse —black and big to hold so many documents she looks like a librarian—.

"Good luck, honey." She kisses his forehead, and he has to bend down a bit for her to reach. "If you get any bigger I'm gonna have to get a step ladder." She pinches his nose and gets her keys. "I love you, Duncan." And again she gives him that look. The one that says I need to make sure you know just in case.

He doesn't smile, but he lowers his head until their foreheads meet.

"I know."

(…)

Forget about me-time. He should have known better than to say anything beforehand; jinxing was no joke.

He hadn't even taken three steps away from the house when a car, a jeep with no roof, by the looks of it, came rushing down the street next to him. He would normally not have paid any attention to it, if not for the fact the car backtracked and got onto the sidewalk.

Because of-fucking-course they couldn't wait until actually reaching the school.

"Dude, I'm sorry." The guy speaking didn't really look like he was. He was tall, with brown hair, and looked fit. He didn't like stereotypes, but the abusive jock was starting to get on his nerves. They could at least get a bit more creative. "I thought there was some bird crap on my rear view mirror, but now I can see it was just your face." The guy laughs, and the other boys, three equally big and stupid, laugh with him.

He snorts, because, honestly, there's nothing else worth doing with an insult as pathetic as that one, and takes a step forward before almost jumping out of his skin.

"TROY!" It sounds close to an eagle screeching —or even a pissed off cat—, and it comes from behind him, if the terrified looks of the boys in the car tell him anything. The sound of heels on pavement makes him turn around and what he sees makes him wanna slap himself to make sure he's actually awake.

If Barbie was a real person, it would be her. The girl is short, but that doesn't make her any less intimidating. She is wearing a pair of heels that make her at least five inches taller, a tube skirt that looks made of latex from how shiny it is, and a striped shirt that makes her look like she's on her way to the office. Everything is, also, really pink. The shoes, the skirt and the shirt. The office purse and the hair clip too, including the light make up she is wearing. On somebody else it could have been too much, but with that level of confidence she seems to carry around she looks like it's natural on her. The color makes her light blond hair look brighter, and her pale skin more glowy.

It also makes her pissed off eyes burn.

"What the fuck was that, Troy?" The girl walks to him, although she hasn't looked in his direction once, and faces the jock on the driver's seat. Troy looks about to shit himself.

"Jenna-" He tries to talk, voice low and eyes looking desperately for a way out, and the other boys shut up and pretend they can not see nor hear what is taking place next to them.

"Don't Jenna me." Duncan takes a step back when she moves in front of him, and the girl, Jenna, raises her voice again. "Didn't I fucking tell you to stop being a bitch?" She finally looks back at him, and Duncan ackwardly waves at her, because he really has no fucking clue about what is happening in front of him.

The girl gives him a smile that could only be described as evil and turns back to the car.

"You don't even know this kid and you're already fucking around with him. Who the fuck does that? Are you really that fucking desparate for attention?" The guy opens his mouth with a frown on his face, and Jenna interrupts him again. "Let me catch you one more time and your daddy will have a new reason to beat your ass aside from loosing on the fucking field."

My God-

Troy shuts up, white as a ghost, and is fast to get the car moving and away from them. Once they get lost in the distance, Jenna turns to him. He'd be lying if he said he didn't tense up when she looked at him.

"Don't look at me like that." She flicks her short hair and walks closer to him. "I'm not a monster; he's already signed up for counseling. Everybody in this town knows what happens at his house. We're working on it." She comes to stand close enough that she has to look up at him, and offers her hand. "Jenna Shwartzendruber, head of the Student Council and future president of the United States of America."

She is now smiling, the one a demon has when taking the souls of the innocent, and Duncan decides that he already likes her. He takes her hand and shakes it, almost as if sealing a deal.

"Duncan Rosenblatt, already late to class."