A/N: My dumb ass really just realised that there are tense changes from chapters 9 through 13. I really switched from present to past and didn't notice until I was going over the chapters to note the ongoing plot lines. I am so sorry for that guys. I'll get working on editing it pronto!

There's also quite a few ongoing plots that need to sewn up or neatly sewn into the mainline plot. Like... there really is a lack of closure on some of the original plots from the first version of this fic. Looking at it all, I missed so many opportunities to open up and explore characters and their personalities and actions and such. So yeah, you guys are gonna see quite a bit of the nitty gritty parts of some characters in the next few chapters.

Anyway, aside from that I just wanted to share that I'll also be cross-posting this fic on AO3. Spread the love for this messed up AU and all that jazz. Also thanks a ton for all the support, my little author's heart skips with joy whenever I get notifications about this fic.

Till next time,
Drama

Home's Reality vs School's Fantasy

Anne-Maria's P.O.V

Clearing out after a weekend spent living the high life definitely isn't a pleasant experience. Pounding headaches and groggy limbs always are a nightmare to deal with - minus the added on extras of complete strangers lingering around your place. If I had a cent for every time I've been forced to pull out the air horn and kick half-dressed, half-awake people out from my house then I would be well and truly loaded.

So when Sunday rolls around, bringing the incoming arrival of my folks, I waste no time in getting the clean-up gear ready. Getting the air horn, blowing it extra loud in the living room, which is filled to the brim with lazy ass stragglers, I get straight down to business. By eleven I have the entire building cleared, the only remains of my killer gig being the leftover trash and jostled furniture that decorate the place.

Pulling on the rubber gloves, grabbing a broom and popping a painkiller and some water, I get myself ready to scrub and clean. Clearing up the big pieces of rubbish never is very hard. With enough trash bags and a good enough broom anyone could clear out things like empty soda cans and half-crushed pizza boxes. Thankfully, some people were considerate enough to try and keep their mess to a minimum, using the impromptu bins I'd set up.

Once I've finished clearing the physical gunk, I soon set to work on doing the real deep cleaning. Tying up my hair and protecting it with an old bandanna, I fill the mop bucket with hot water and wait for it to set. By one, I have the entire place shining, freshly vacuumed and smelling like every lemony, attractive cleaning product out there. Just like how my folks like to find it after trusting me with the home and biz for a weekend.

With my tracks covered, the only thing I have left to do is make some lunch. Luckily, that's pretty much sorted by the breakfast burrito that I'd snagged from some groggy blonde who clearly needs to keep a better eye on her belongings. I think her name is something like... I don't even know.

But, just as I'm about to dig in, my phone just has to ring. Loud, clear, echoing about the now empty rooms of my home, my phone just has to be the thing to interrupt my peaceful little recovery bubble.

"Hello?" Not bothering to hide my annoyance, I answer the phone with a slight snap to my voice. Obviously, the pain meds aren't doing much for my headache - if they were my ringtone wouldn't piss me off so much. "Who is it?"

"Hey Anne-Maria," Courtney. Course it's that preppy, always perfect, snotty CIT. Rolling my eyes, I couldn't help but huff out an annoyed sigh as I take a firm chunk out of my breakfast burrito. "Am I calling at a bad time?"

"Don't know why that would matter now," Scoffing at her attempt to be polite, to seem like she actually cares about disturbing me, I continue working through my food. This is Courtney, after all. If there is anyone who knows what they're doing, calculates every move they make with perfect precision, then it's this cautious, crafty cow. "I mean, I'm talk'n right now, aren't I? Might as well get out whatever it is you want, Princess."

"I guess you're right," After a moment of silence, Courtney decides to respond. Slightly strained, almost as if she is forcing herself to be civil, she adds in a casual tone, "I'm calling because I need help. I have a way to take down Heather and I just need the numbers to do it."

Pausing mid-chew, I almost choke on my mouthful of tortilla, rice and beans as my eyes widen. Now... that definitely is an interesting reason to call me at this time on a SUNDAY of all days. Anything involving Heather, taking her down, is a surefire way to get my stubborn ears listening to whatever bull that's spewing from your mouth. Almost everyone knows about that. Almost everyone knows how to exploit that.

Courtney Fairbank, though, is serious. Everything about this psycho, perfectionist chick is serious. So hearing her say those words, knowing that she is calling me - asking me for my own goddamn help - definitely feels like waking up in a dream. One sick, surreal and yet perfectly wonderful dream.

"You've got my attention," Speaking slowly, I wipe away the tears from my eyes as I swallow my nearly-lethal breakfast. Putting my phone on speaker, I lay it on the table as I decide to take her seriously - as well as properly work on my breakfast instead of tearing it off in choke-able chunks. "But to keep my intrigue, girl, you've gotta promise something better. You've gotta sell me on this plan of yours and exactly what it means for me."

"Of course," Agreeing with my terms, Courtney is quick to hum in return.

Then, all too soon, she's sharing everything she has with me. So much information passes through her phone in that moment: something about eyebrows, another thing about a cat and a really important thing about two USBs. More than anything else, the small throwaway comments about the two USBs capture my attention - especially because USBs are a well-known method of storing info in our grade. If there is anything that is like having solid gold in your hands, then it is those USBs.

"Alright, you've sold me," Smiling, I stand up and dump my plate in the sink. "I'm in," Turning on the tap, I grab the washing up liquid and squirt some on a sponge. "But if this is gonna work, if we are gonna dethrone Heather, then we're gonna need the extra help."

"That's the thing..." Sighing, Courtney betrays the fatal flaw to her big plans: people don't trust her enough to support her cause. That's why she took a gamble and is trying to talk to me. That's why she is even telling me about all she knows, including the USBs and the other goldmines of information. Unlike Heather, Courtney doesn't have a plethora of cronies to do her bidding; Courtney needs someone like me, someone influential, to gather her workers.

Somehow, even though this should be a nightmare scenario, I can't help but find it to be great. Perfect. Because that means I am integral to the plan and Courtney needs me to make it sure it all goes well. For once, I have the upper hand in the dangerous playground we call Wawanakwa's social pyramid.

"Well, lucky for you, I have a few suggestions," Smirking now as I dry off my freshly-washed plate, I can't help but feel proud. Ecstatic. "You know that nerd in my history class? Harry? Hareld? Nah, Harold! Yeah, that ginger, freckly Harold kid. Anyways, he can be a pretty crafty weasel if you give him the right resources. Plus, all you gotta do to get him on your side is say that it's a plot against Duncan."

"Really?" Courtney asks, almost in sheer disbelief from what I just explained to her. "It's that easy?"

"That easy, babe," Nodding, I hum as I reward myself with a smoke. Great genius always must be celebrated and what better way than a nice hit of nicotine? "And if you're worried about him catching on, don't worry about that detail. I can keep him distracted."

Much of my argument must have been convincing to her. Never before has Courtney been so quick to agree and assure someone that she has absolutely zero doubt in what they've suggested. But today, over the phone, Courtney more or less tells me that she trusts my judgement. As the call wraps up, and I'm a decent portion into my cigarette, I find myself feeling confident in Courtney's judgement of my character. So when she says goodbye, I return the favour.

Once the call is dead, the silence returns to my home. With the party dead, a ghost of a past moment of excitement, joy and pure teenage selfishness, it's not hard for me to feel like the whole world has come to a standstill. Thoughts begin to return. Dangerous thoughts that usually can't snake in when I'm drunk or otherwise occupied begin to echo within my mind, mixing with the headache and making me feel exhausted.

Exhaustion is never a good sign. Exhaustion means that I need a little pick me up, a little boost to my system in order to make the thoughts shut up. So, in my quest to fight the annoying buzz of thoughts, I open the cupboard and pull out a bottle of wine. Just half a glass. Something light and warm and fuzzy to dull the millions of doubts and warring thoughts in my mind; my parents usually let me have that much we have dinner.

By the time my folks come back home, I'm half-passed out on the couch, an ashtray littered with cigarette stubs on the table and an empty bottle of wine in my hand. Part of me knows that they'll talk to me about it, probably tell me off about it later. But in that moment I don't care, simply mumbling something about being tired as my mum sighs and throws a comforter over me.

Sometimes being the Jersey shore Reject, the late transfer from out town, is much easier than being Anne-Maria. Sometimes, living the lie, the fantasy created by our own school, is much easier than living in reality. And that's why, sometimes, all of us use any method necessary to try and shake Heather's influence from our brains.

Duncan's P.O.V

Since we've been friends for over ten years, staying over at Gwen's is kind of the norm. When you grow up more or less down the street from your best buddy, attached at the hip from when you could more or less walk, their home kind of becomes your home in a way. Staying over at Gwen's is never that much of a big issue; my parents actually prefer it to the alternative options I have. But today, for once, it feels like staying over at Gwen's is weird.

Now, I'm no stranger to overstaying my welcome. Being the lovable rogue that I am, I've had my fair share of being kicked out from places - told to scram and head home because my friends' parents were tired of harboring the fugitive. But when I do end up with no place to go, wandering about the town without a single idea of what to do, I could always drag myself to Gwen's. With her, it doesn't matter if it's five in the morning. With her, it doesn't matter if she really wanted to spend the day ALONE with no-one bugging her.

Gwen's place is like a second home. Just like how my place, as chaotic as it can be, is like hers.

Today, though, there's something weird hanging in the air. Since that phone call last night, bringing the bad news of Courtney's plans for Heather, Gwen's been on edge and it feels like she doesn't want me around.

Whenever the past comes up like this, Gwen tends to get into her head. When that happens she likes to push people away, create as much space as possible between herself and everyone who knows her best. A lot of the time that includes me. Most of the time, with enough jokes and prods at her miserable attitude, I can get her to brighten up and crack a small grin.

One thing I never fuck up - as much of a fuck up that I am - is making sure that my best friend is alright. One thing I always make sure that I do, even if I'm going through my own shitty list of problems, is double check on Gwen, look out for her in ways that most people can't. Keeping an eye out on Gwen, making sure that she doesn't shrink in on herself, lose what makes her my best friend, is something I've always been skilled at. At least, I always used to think that.

This morning, even though she cracks a smile at me and makes a joke as we clear out the living room from last night, Gwen keeps her distance. A wall, something that has never been there before, has been put up between us. Part of me feels like it's because of Courtney, the things I did to contribute to that problem and the things Gwen can't do because of it.

But before I could even try to prod her on it - brush it off as some kind of joke - someone beats me to the punch. Gwen's mum, Grace, lingers in the living room doorway, a bright smile on her face as she brushes off her pink, frilly apron. Amusement sits in her eyes as she watches the pair of us, Gwen attempting to navigate her way with a folded comforter in her skinny arms while I'm trying to get it off her because she clearly can't manage.

"Good morning Grim Twins," Not at all hiding the sing-song tone to her voice, Gwen's mum grins as she places her hands on her hips. "Or should I say good afternoon?"

"Ugh mum, it's only... like noon," Gwen rolls her eyes, glancing at the TV to accurately give her prediction on the time. Brushing past me, completely ignoring my help, she sets down the pile in her hands and stomps toward the kitchen, "That's totally not late."

"In my book it is," Gwen's mum responds in a really perky tone as she also returns to the kitchen. Whisking some eggs within a mixing bowl, she appears to be in her complete element as she nods toward the already spread table filled with different plates stacked with different options to choose from. "It's a good thing I decided to make brunch for today - oh and set out an extra place for Duncan."

"You know Duncan's usually here on a Sunday, mum," Gwen groans, clearly withholding another eye roll. Running a hand over her pale face, she reveals that she is trying to restrain herself from snapping at her overly energetic and pink-loving mother, Gwen's complete opposite. Fitting that she would also be her mother's opposite when waking up: dark, moody and letting out grumpy, grumbling noises as she shuffles around looking like death.

"Naw, I'm only here cause of the perks," Grinning, I can't help but fuel the fire as I suck up to Gwen's mum. Personally, I find that it has much better rewards than teaming up with Gwen. One of them is an open invitation to every Sunday brunch - even when Gwen insists that she wants nothing else than to be left alone. "No-one beats your scrambled eggs Ms Maves."

"I've told you over a million times to just call me by my name, Duncan," Sighing, Gwen's mum shakes her head as she sets down the mixing bowl and grabs a frying pan. Small and tiny, just like Gwen's, her smile betrays the fondness she feels as she adds, "Although I do appreciate the manners."

"Which he never uses," Gwen butts in, jabbing me in the ribs as she snags a chair at the table. Conveniently it's across from mine, probably so that she could subtly kick me under the table without getting told off by her mum.

"Well, you aren't very polite yourself," I decide to continue trading jabs, leaning back comfortably in my chair as I snag a piece of toast. "Miss I've-got-better-shit-to-do."

"Two can play at that game," Smirking now, Gwen accepts my challenge. Stabbing a piece of bacon with her fork, she chuckles as she points her butter knife at me, "Mr I-don't-give-a-shit."

"Get hitched already Mr and Miss Shit," Gwen's brother, Lucas, rolls his eyes as he picks up his loaded plate. Almost everything is going to fall off from how much he has stacked onto it, a piece of toast dangling from the rim. There's no doubt he's banking on that plate lasting all day - if not till the next. Shaking his head as he strategically moves to eat at the kitchen counter, Lucas grumbles, "You're both giving me a headache."

"I think swearing all round should be cut down," Gwen's mum sighs, pursing her lips as she looks at the three of us. Swearing always was a pet peeve of the pink-loving woman. Setting down the freshly prepared scrambled eggs, she smiles brightly as she chirps, "Otherwise I'll stop being Mrs Nice."

All eyes turn to the cheery woman, a single question hanging in the air between us all. Most disapproving is Gwen, her eye roll not at all hidden as she took a huge chunk out of her bacon. Hiding my own cringe, I busy myself with loading my plate with food, taking particular interest in the freshly scrambled eggs. Following a similar tactic, Lucas also focuses on his plate, avoiding eye contact with his mother.

"You tried mum," Is all he says.

And the silence is sustained. Unusually for Gwen's family, breakfast becomes a quiet thing and I'm forced to retreat into my thoughts. Bad thoughts, honestly, because that damned phone call has ruined everything. Courtney popping back up, asking Gwen for help, has only made me all the more paranoid; I can't help but feel like most of this is my fault, especially since Gwen doesn't have a backbone when it comes to Courtney because of me.

Years have passed since the 'crush' incident. Enough time for me to date and break up with Courtney has passed since she and Gwen were real friends. Yet even now, years in the future, Gwen still topples and bends to her bullshit whims. As if she owes Courtney anything. As if she's wrong for what Heather did to Courtney.

Most of me can't stand it. Seeing your friend - your best friend - change because of a stupid phone call would piss any sane person off. But why can't Gwen get that? Why can't she understand why I want to talk to her about it?

"So," Gwen breaks my thoughts, cryptically narrowing her dark eyes as she stares at me. Half of her plate is already empty while mine is pretty much full. That means I'm thinking a little too much for her liking. "What's on your mind?"

"What's on my mind?" Echoing her question, I raise a brow. Trying to play it off. Trying to make it seem like nothing because a lot is going on right now and the last thing Gwen needs on her plate is my own problems.

"Yeah, who did you think I meant, the man on the moon's?" Gwen responds, all snark and sass as she cracks a grin at her own joke. Quickly, though, she sobers up, concern etching onto her pale face as she frowns, "But seriously, what's bothering you, Duncan? You've been... weird for a few days."

A few days? Huh, I've never really seen it like that. If anything, Gwen's been acting weird ever since school started back up. First day back really has messed with the best of us - myself included it seems.

"Not much," Shrugging, I brush off her comments. Very accurate comments because Gwen just has to be accurate. "Just tired, I guess."

"From what?" Not giving up the chase, she probes once more.

'So much,' I'm dying to say in return, 'So much that I can't tell you'. So many thoughts and worries and feelings pass through me at any given time - even if it doesn't look like it on the outside. Everyone, even awesome badass punks such as myself, have their own things to worry about. Mine are a jumble of things, a complex puzzle of faces and memories and people that I simply don't want to share with anyone. Even with Gwen.

See, she's part of the problem. My best friend since... god, I don't know how long Gwen's been there to keep me straight and sane. All I know is that she keeps popping up in my mind, tangled with all the different problems and people and memories, making me even more careful about talking to her about them. Gwen's part of the reason why I want to try and sort myself out, find out what I really want from life. She's part of why I don't want to be a fuck up anymore.

But she can't know that. Not anyone alive can know that. If people know that I have a soft spot for my friends, for people I've known since the beginning of time, then it wouldn't end well. For anyone.

"Don't worry about it, Pasty," Nudging my foot against hers under the table, I give my signature smirk. "Worrying about it means that you're worrying about me. And that means you totally like me."

"It's my job to worry about you, Duncan," Sighing now, although she wears a full grin, Gwen shakes her head. Snagging something from my plate - which I now realise are my treasured scrambled eggs - she beams, "I'm your best friend and I take that job very seriously, you know."

"Well now it sounds like my best friend is acting a little too much like my girlfriend," Not the right joke to make - definitely not with Gwen. As soon as the jab leaves my mouth, as soon as the smirk forms on my lips, I know that it's a mistake.

Silence takes over Gwen, removes the once comfortable smile on her face. Wincing, she retreats back to her side of the table and averts her gaze from mine. Five seconds is all it takes to get a talkative Gwen back to her anti-social, introverted state. One stupid fuck up is all it takes to remove all progress made, ruining what should have been a nice moment between friends and instead making it a tense and uncomfortable one.

Once again, I've let my own thoughts ruin a good thing. Once again, my stupid mouth has caused the wrong type of trouble.

"Yeah, you're right," Eventually, Gwen speaks once more. This time, though, her voice seems lackluster, almost a whisper as she smiles sheepishly, "I shouldn't... It's totally not my place. I just worry about you, you know?"

Yeah. I know. I know what it's like to worry about someone you care about so much that you're afraid of what will happen when you inevitably fuck up and drive them out of your life. Worrying about people isn't unique to nerds and dweebs and big softies. Even badass punks can have worries, can have people that they fear losing. Fear of losing people is something all humans have, no matter how fucked up they are.

Maybe that's why I try to keep Gwen around. She's that one constant I've had in my life ever since I can remember. She's that one friend I can depend on, rain or shine or cops chasing us down the streets for shoplifting at the wrong store for the millionth time. Gwen's my best friend. Gwen's fucking awesome. But I don't think she knows all that about herself, especially after everything that went down with Elvis.

"I- "

"God, you both are seriously making my stomach turn!" Lucas groans from the kitchen counter, rolling his eyes as he picks up his plate and heads toward the door. "Just go and have your shit wedding already."

After Lucas storms out, Gwen's mum only smiles as she pipes up, "Well I think it's nice that you two care so much about each other."

As soon as those words leave her mouth, both Gwen and I groan and more or less deflate in our chairs. And this, people, is why we can't have nice things.

Zoey's P.O.V

Surprisingly, being on the cheer squad is actually helping me to cope with the stress of school. Every day after classes end, whether there is practice or not, I find myself going to the gym and going over the stretches and routines that Heather has outlined for us to perfect. Thankfully, my time on the school's gymnastics team makes learning some moves a lot easier; in fact it gets me a pretty decent position in most of Heather's elaborate ideas.

Speaking of, being part of the cheer squad definitely is a new experience. Most of the girls on the squad are pretty popular, their names well-known around most of the school because of their status on the team as well as their affiliation with Heather. This year, though, Heather's let in quite a few people who seem pretty average. Bridgette Knowles, Amy Smith, Katie Gonzalez and Sadie Murphy definitely aren't people I know very well.

Even weirder still is the fact that Sadie seems to be avoiding Katie quite a bit. Normally, those two would be attached at the hip, laughing and giggling or gossiping about whatever cute guy had grabbed their attention. Now, Katie often had to grab Sadie's attention whenever we had practice.

Frowning at the thought of those two - close friends who seemed to be drifting apart - I finish up my routine. Just as I do, landing in a perfect split position on the mat, the gym doors bang open and a fuming Amy storms inside, dragging a pale and quivering Sammy behind her.

"I should have done this years ago!" Her voice more or less echoing around the room, Amy is relentless in her dragging. Brows bent at a sharp angle, lips pulled into a dark frown, her face is pulled into an expression that screams nothing but pure, unleashed rage. "Why are you so useless?"

"I don't know!" Sammy cried out, ripping her arm out of her sister's grasp. Red, an angry bright shade, a mark was already blooming on her skin as she shrinks into herself. "But I promise not to make the same mistake again. I promise! I didn't know that- "

Slap! Bouncing off the walls of the gym, sonorous like the sounds of a metal water bottle hitting the floor, Amy's hand connects with the side of Sammy's face. Recoiling, Sammy's head whips to the side, her entire cheek turning a vivid, agitated red where Amy had hit her. Fast. That entire moment had happened so fast that I couldn't even act to intervene. Instead, right in front of me, Amy has slapped her twin sister across the face. Mercilessly.

"Hey!" Scrambling up from the mat, rushing to get between the two, I couldn't hide the panic within me as I do my best to protect Sammy. "Leave her alone!"

Clearly, Amy hadn't noticed my presence in the room. Clearly, she thinks that I will fall for some kind of act - pretending to be her sister. Because, as soon as I get between them, like a switch has been flipped, Amy's face scrunches up with pain and she cups her left cheek, tears welling her eyes as she tries to conjure up the false illusion of her being targeted instead of Sammy. Like I haven't just seen what happened with my own two eyes.

"Sammy how could you?" Still holding her cheek within her hand, Amy's chin wobbles as she forces out a strained and choked voice. "I didn't even do anything!"

"I'm not stupid, you know," Outright, blunt, I say it exactly as it is. No, I'm not like Heather and the others, ignoring and turning a blind eye to whatever goes on. I'm not like that. I won't ever be like that. Not when something like this is happening, unfolding before my very own eyes. "I saw exactly what just happened. And I also know how to tell the difference between you both, Amy."

Wide, her eyes betray her shock. Even though Amy attempts to retain her innocent front, a hand spread on her chest in offense and her lips spread into thin, tight line, her eyes give away her true feelings. They convey to me exactly what she is thinking, what she is feeling, when I look her right in the eye. Sharing eye contact is a way to assert control, after all. Sharing eye contact is a way to show someone else that you mean business.

Again, the gym doors slam open. This time it is Jasmine, her eyes wide and chest heaving with breathlessness as she more or less skids into the large room. Sweat is glistening on her forehead, her face fixed into a panicked expression as she frantically looks around the room - at least it is until she spots me, stood between the two twins and shielding a cowering Sammy from her frozen, buffering twin sister.

"Sammy!" Running up to us, relief flooding onto her face, she smiles. Tinged with an Australian accent, her voice is pleasant yet concerned as she grabs Sammy by the hand, "Are you ok?"

Nodding, not saying anything even as her eyes dart to her sister, Sammy attempts to brush away all concern. But the evidence is there to suggest the opposite of normalcy. Red, glaring, obvious, the marks on her arm and cheek tell everything anyone would ever have to know about the situation at hand. Especially as Amy is now wearing a subtle glare - almost like a warning sign of the consequences we could all face.

"Sammy," I say the words gently, taking her other hand and blocking her view of Amy. "Let's take you to the nurse's office."

My words left no room for argument. At all. Instead, Sammy simply nods, letting out something like a sigh of defeat as she allows myself and Jasmine to lead the way. Behind us, Amy is still silent. From shock of currently brewing anger, I don't entire know.

Then, suddenly, she screams out, "No-one's going to believe you if you say anything!"

"I don't care what they think," Glancing over my shoulder, meeting Amy's piercing blue eyes, I spit back, "I just can't believe that everyone thinks you're the nice twin. Why don't you go and join Heather's troupe? I'm sure you'd fit right in."

Leaving Amy behind in the gym, I help Jasmine to guide a silent, shaking Sammy to the nurse's office. When we get there, the nurse simply sighs and gets out the first aid kit - as if she's used to Sammy coming here all the time - telling us to get her seated on the chair in a corner. Some medication is given to Sammy - I think Jasmine said that it is something to do with her anxiety - and the nurse quietly does all she can to the mark.

Once the nurse has finished up, I find myself alone with Sammy. Jasmine had to leave at some point, asking me if I could make sure that Sammy makes it home safe. Something else also escapes her lips as she leaves, telling me about not trusting Amy - no matter what Sammy tells me. That leaves me where I am now, my gym bag over my shoulder and Sammy walking beside me as we make our way to the nearest bus stop.

"I'm sorry," Are the first words to leave her since Amy has smacked her. Muttered between her lingering tears and sniffles, Sammy's voice is almost fearful as she walks beside me, gripping her backpack's straps as if her life depended on it. "It's my fault that this happened."

"You have nothing to apologise for," Shaking my head, I shoot a comforting smile in her direction. One that I hope will soothe whatever doubts and negative feelings has floating around in her thoughts. "If anything, I should be saying sorry. I should've paid more attention. I should have... known that you weren't really as horrible as Amy says you are."

"It's not your fault," Sammy sighs, staring at the sidewalk as we continue to walk. "Amy's not wrong. I am the worse twin. She's smarter, braver, stronger, more popular. I could go on and on about everything she's good at. I'm just the spare twin - the Samey. Nothing special."

"Is that why she did that today?" I ask, highly disturbed by the words coming from her mouth. Never before have I heard of something like this, someone who thought that their entire life's purpose was to be the shadow of someone else, someone much greater than they could ever be. What has Amy told her? What exactly has happened to make Sammy think that she should be nothing more than a spare to her sister?

No answers come from Sammy. Instead, she remains silent as we approach the bus stop, sitting side by side on the bench as we wait for the bus to come. About five minutes pass before I decide to break the silence.

"Are you gonna go home tonight?"

Part of me doesn't feel right with thinking about her stuck at home with her sister. Tangible anger had been sitting in Amy's eyes. That much anger definitely is a dangerous thing to be around when you are the target of it; there is no doubt that Sammy would be on the receiving end of whatever consequences Amy deems appropriate in response to today's mishap. How bad would that be? Would Sammy's parents be able to intervene? Or are they just as clueless as the rest of us?

"I don't think I can tonight," Croaky and hoarse, her voice sounds like she's about to burst into tears. "Amy's there and I don't want you and Jasmine to worry about me."

Perplexed, I can only stare at Sammy in complete confusion. How could such a timid and sweet person come from such a horrible environment? How could so many of us, over the past four years, have not seen Sammy for who she really is?

"You can stay at mine tonight," Carefully, I offer up the only option that comes to my mind. "Only if you want to, of course. I wouldn't... you know, force you to."

"I wouldn't want to trouble you like that," Biting her lip, Sammy only glances up as the bus pulls up at the bus stop. Opening the doors, the driver looks rather bored as they wait for us to get on. "I'll just ask a friend."

"Well," I say, attempting to cheer her up and provide some sort of silver lining to this dreadful situation, "Consider me a friend now."

"Really?" Innocent, hope-filled, Sammy looks almost excited as we both board the bus and pay the fare to the driver. "We're friends now?"

"Yep," I nod in response, matching her smile with one of my own. "And I might know some other people who'll want to be a friend too."

Because, just like Sammy, we were kids who went under the radar. The freaks of Wawanakwa - kids who people didn't want to associate with - is the main demographic of my friendship group, and Sammy definitely fits that description. Without a doubt, I know that she'll be welcome. All I need to do is explain it all without somehow blowing their minds.

Harold's P.O.V

Gosh! Monday's are always the worst day of the week. When Sunday clocks out once again, signaling the inevitable return to Wawanakwa High and Principal Mclean's chaotic system, everyone automatically shifts into a grumpy mood. Monday mornings always consist of people battling it out in the parking lot, trying to get the best spot possible within the cramped grounds; Monday afternoons are even worse because that's when the whole school gets... hostile.

Now, I'm no stranger to a schoolyard bully. Having a name like Harold Norbert Cheever Doris McGrady V definitely doesn't help my rankings in the school's social playing field. BUT, unlike most of the losers who bow down to jerks like well, I don't know, DUNCAN freaking CARTER, I refuse to let their bad vibes ruin my mood. Even if it means my head gets dunked in the boy's toilet between lunch and periods five and six. After a while you get used to the cold, seeping sensation of toilet water in your hair.

Plus I quite like having the excuse to leave lessons. Gives me plenty of time to catch up on my magazines.

Speaking of, right now I'm flicking through a pretty interesting volume about different karate techniques. For once they've actually got decent pictures and quality - a rare feat in this town this seems to be so disconnected from the rest of the outside world. I mean, what high school in the twenty-first century still runs on the old social pyramid model? Queen Bees peaked out about five years from now.

Oh well. That's just how it is. Just like how I always find myself in the library after school, flicking through the newest magazines shipped in to the library instead of catching up on my homework.

Disturbing the still silence of the room, someone opens the double doors leading to the west side of the school building. All heads turn to fix onto the latest disturbance and they find Courtney Fairbank, red satchel hanging from her left shoulder and serious look settled in her brown eyes. Most people turn away after they see her, not at all in the mood to be the target of her rage; I find myself being one of them, trying to focus on the glossy image of a katana.

Honestly, it's common knowledge that Courtney Fairbank more or less despises my existence. Not that I can blame her for it - I am the reason why Duncan nearly got expelled for a fake fireworks prank back in twelfth grade.

"Harold," Surprisingly, Courtney stops at my table. And actually doesn't frown at me, or yell at me, or tell me to get out of her sight. Instead she's calm, taking in a deep breath as she seems to ground herself, "I can't believe I'm saying this, but I... I need your help."

My help? Immediately, I put down my magazine and peer at her curiously. Usually, Courtney isn't the sort of person to go around asking for anyone's help - especially my help. Like I said before, Courtney Fairbank more or less hates my guts. Thanks to her, Duncan more or less makes my life a living hell; when she adds onto it, piling her own torture on top of his, I'm reminded of exactly why I avoid her whenever she comes around.

But now, right in my face, Courtney is asking for my help. With something. Something serious I think, at least from the looks of it.

"With what?" My voice comes out a bit too blunt, with a heavy breath. Darn it! My asthma is acting up again. Whenever I get nervous, feel like I'm about to face a confrontation, my lungs would always cease functioning correctly.

"Well," Biting into her lip, Courtney release her own sigh as her brows furrowed. Wrinkling, her forehead gives away the stress she is trying to hide. Then, as if it had never existed, she raises a brow as she offers in a low tone, "What if I told you that you can get payback on Duncan? Get him back for every little act he's ever done to you?"

Ok. Odd. Very odd. This doesn't seem like Courtney, the same chick who went crazy at me because I tried to get my own sweet, sweet justice against her scummy boyfriend. Courtney wouldn't be offering me a chance to get back at Duncan on a silver, shining platter. Courtney wouldn't - as mad as she could get - be willing to do something irreversible to him. At least, that is what I know from the many years I've known her for. That's how she's always seemed to be.

Now, though, she doesn't seem the same. Picking at the seams in her satchel's straps, nervously darting her eyes about the place, Courtney seems scattered. Distracted. Lost. Maybe something has happened between her and Duncan. Maybe, just maybe, she has actually changed her views about him.

"Why are you asking me something like that?" Deciding to play it cool, careful, I phrase my response with calculated precision. "I thought you and Duncan were a thing? 'A solid unit', if I remember correctly from two years ago."

"We were," Courtney responds, something twitching on her face as she speaks quickly. Very quickly. But not too quick to seem unnatural. "We were a thing. Until I ended it."

"Because?" I push.

"Because I realised how much of an immature scumbag Duncan can be," Courtney huffs, seeming annoyed at my pushing. Nevertheless, the usual fury that would spark from just my breathing doesn't make an appearance. Instead, as if she has rehearsed it a million times before, Courtney takes in another deep breath, closes her eyes and pastes a small smile onto her face, "And that's why I need your help, Harold."

Highly unlikely. Most probably this is a trap, some kind of way to get my guard down and make me feel like someone was actually helping me to get back at Duncan for once. But getting revenge sure is one smart way to make a man rethink your offer. It's not every day when Courtney Fairbank comes up to you, asking for your help and promising to fulfill a dream that you thought had died many years ago.

A wise man would simply say no to such a risky offer. Today, I decide to not be a wise man.

"Alright," Giving her the benefit of a doubt, I flash a small smile. Hopefully it is a confident one. "I'm in. But I have a condition."

"What is it?" Almost as if she is already regretting asking me, Courtney runs a hand over her already stressed-out-looking face.

"You have to leave me alone once I do this for you," I place my offer on the table, serious a stern and maybe a bit smug as I hold out a hand and add on the additional clause. "And never make fun of my sweet skills ever again."

Clearly my offer is something she is considering - even if it is with a bit of reluctance and a lot of funny faces. At one point, Courtney even shakes her head, almost talking to herself as she runs a hand over her face once more. Anyone would be a fool to turn down the services of a such a skilled person; while I may be easy to corner in a school corridor, I certainly could be invaluable in the grander scheme of an all-out war.

"Fine," Letting out a groan, Courtney rolls her eyes as she takes my hand. We share one solid handshake before she recoils and wipes her hand on her cardigan, a tight smile on her face that pinches at the corners of her lips as well as her eyes. Even her forehead is pressed flat from the expression, smooth of wrinkles and looking more like stretched wax than skin. "It's a deal."

"It's a deal," I repeat, nodding as I pick up my magazine. "Nice to be on the same team for once."

"Yeah, sure," Nodding absentmindedly, Courtney delivers her final words before leaving. Scattered. Busy. She is definitely planning something, the something is what I need to figure out. At least, so I can save my own skin if the worst comes to worst. After all, what else could I do except wonder what - just what - is really motivating Courtney to team up with me and supposedly 'take down' Duncan?

Amy's P.O.V

Right now I am absolutely fuming! Not only has Samey managed to somehow mess up, but she's also gone out of her way to embarrass me in front of Zoey Dale - someone known to be pretty influential within the school's social circle. God, if my hand wasn't already stinging from the slap I gave her in the gym, I'd have them gripped onto her shoulders, shaking her as I delivered all of my fury in a messy stream of violent, angry words.

There's a lot of words I would use to describe my useless twin sister. Over the years, having dealt with so many of her fuck ups, I could list them all off effortlessly if you give me enough time. With limited time, I can cover the basics, coward and pathetic weakling being right at the top of my 'most used' words.

Never before have I ever thought of my sister in the context of being a bitch. Oh, so many other words have made it into her vocabulary for her, but not that one. Today, though, I definitely did see it. My womb-crashing sibling has finally crossed a line I thought she'd never dare to.

Now Zoey is definitely going to give me a hard time at school, because she only saw one half of the true situation. What happened before we got into the gym doesn't concern her because she didn't see when Samey royally fucked up. Not that it matters anyway. Whenever people do see the truth, see what I have to put up with, they always take Samey's side. Even if I'm clearly the better, much more competent twin.

Scowling at the memory of the confrontation, I throw open the gym doors and begin to make my way toward the building's exit. There is no point in trying to justify myself - like anyone would listen. But, just as I'm about to turn a corner, I spot Heather walking toward me. On her shoulder was her gym bag, matching with the material of her maroon jacket, and she looked... oddly friendly as she came closer.

"Amy!" Yep, she is definitely in friendly mode. Grinning, she seems almost elated as she looks at me, "I just wanted to see if you were doing ok after what happened back there."

"Oh, really?" Raising a brow, I don't even hide my skepticism. Instead I try to keep it casual and cool as I start walking again, guiding us toward the nearest possible exit. "Since when did you care about others, Heather?"

"Um, I care about you since you became a part of my cheer squad," Heather justifies, looking quite offended as she places a hand over her heart. Red nails glint in the cheap lighting of the hallways, almost the exact shade of freshly drawn blood. "Speaking of, I could use the extra oomph in my own social circle. None of the other girls have quite the same bite as you do Amy."

"Yeah, because you're known to value people who can actually speak out," Batting back her offer, I almost roll my eyes as we stop in the main entrance. To the right was the trophy case, filled with all sorts of achievements and awards that Wawanakwa has gained through the past two generations of students. And then you had our group: nothing but a lousy trophy bought by our principal. "What is it that you actually want, Heather?"

For a moment, she is silent. Heather only looks at me, seeming to think as she hums a little, "Honestly, I just want something new and entertaining. A change of environment, you know?"

Yeah. I know exactly what she means. Every day, trapped in that tiny household with mum and dad and Samey is making me go insane. Being surrounded by the tasteless company of this school's B-class populars is just as torturous, just as terrible, as being stretched on a rack. They don't know what it's like to actually want to talk about something of substance; they're all too fixated on overtaking Heather's status.

"Alright," Deciding to see where this goes, I give Heather a little leeway. Just a little. "I'll sit with you at lunch tomorrow."

"Perfect!" Heather's smile is way too bright as she claps her perfectly manicured hands together. "That more or less settles everything."

Then, with no other words said, she pulls out her phone and turns in the other direction. Part of me wants to ask her about what she means by 'everything being settled'. Another part is telling that part to shut up because I was just offered a spot in Heather Chang's elite squad and Samey definitely doesn't meet the criteria to even be considered. That part, the louder one, is the one I listen to.

Adjusting the strap on my bag, allowing Heather to walk away, I head toward the building's exit. Tomorrow is going to be a wake up call for a lot of people. If I felt sorry for them then I would have given them a proper warning.

Sammy's P.O.V

None of us talk much on the way to Zoey's house. Quiet and kind of awkward, we just sit side by side as the bus bumps over the road, stopping every now and then to let passengers on and off. Usually, whenever I did get the bus, I would be with Amy. Just as silent, just as quiet, I would stare out of the window as she prattled on and on about something irrelevant - or sought refuge from my 'dull' company through her phone.

Maybe that's why I find looking at passing scenery calming. Seeing the familiar houses, the commercial fronts of highstreets fade into the almost uniform design of different neighbourhoods, helps me to keep steady. Whenever I feel like something is going wrong, that the whole world is falling on my shoulders, watching the world pass on by, continue as it always does, makes all my tiny problems seem like nothing.

Thankfully, Zoey doesn't push for conversation. Instead, when her stop comes up, she simply nods at me and gathers her stuff. Again, the walk to her house is quiet - but the nice kind of quiet, peaceful and comfortable. None of me panics as she slips her key into the lock and unlocks the bright red front door of her home. Even when I hear the sound of her mother's voice, distant and coming from somewhere in the building.

"Is that you, Zoey?"

"Yeah, I brought a friend with me!" Zoey calls right back, kicking off her sneakers at the front door. Following her, I also discard my own shoes, trying not to make too much noise. The last thing I want to do is draw attention to myself.

Nevertheless, as if sensing my very palpable fears, Zoey's mother emerges from the interior of the house. Extremely similar to her daughter, the woman seems to naturally have a really big grin on her face, her brown eyes crinkling with warmth and welcoming. Unlike Zoey, she has a smattering of freckles across her face, with her short oak brown hair styled into a cropped bob and blunt bangs. Paint is speckled across her clothes, something that looks like a pair of overalls.

"You had me at the word 'friend'," Almost elated at the sight of me, Zoey's mother more or less bounces on the spot she occupies. Somehow possible, her grin grows even larger, "I was worried that you weren't going to make more girl friends - not that I don't like your current friends, but you need more friends that- "

"I get it mum," Gently butting into her mother's excited tangent, Zoey gives her own understanding smile. Then, very carefully, she turns to me, gesturing toward her mother, "Sammy, this is my mum. Mum, this is Sammy," Turning back to her parent, she asks, "You don't mind if she stays for the night, do you?"

"Oh, I don't mind at all," Zoey's mother immediately waves off the question, fixing her attention back onto me. Falling back into her verbal tangent, she looks at me with a face full of almost infectious enthusiasm. "We're having pasta for dinner tonight. Do you like pasta Sammy?"

"Um... yes?" Blinking and feeling sweaty, I slowly nod at her words. "I really don't mind."

"Perfect!" Now turning on her heels, determined to do whatever has now captured her mind, Zoey's mother marches off down the hallway. "I'll have it ready soon!"

Now left alone in the hallway with Zoey, I could feel my heart racing beneath my ribs. Meeting new people definitely isn't easy. Talking to extra bubbly people - just like Zoey's mother - is just as frightening. They always like to push and push and push, meaning the best but ultimately overwhelming my already panicked senses. That's why I rarely bother to make new friends - not that anyone would befriend me willingly.

Speaking of, why has Zoey become my friend? Why does she consider me as a friend? Does she feel... obligated to care for me?

"Sorry about that," Releasing a small sigh, Zoey maintains a tiny smile as she looks at me. No doubt she's noticed how panicked I am, the clamminess to my hands and the shortness to my breath. Hiding my anxiety is never very easy, especially when I am thrust into a new situation. "My mum tends to get a little overexcited whenever I make new friends. I... didn't have many when I was younger."

Oh. That explains quite a lot. Maybe a bit too much.

Nodding at Zoey's words, but deciding not to say anything, I follow her upstairs. Along the way I notice that her house is really colourful, tons of snazzy wallpapers and pictures decorating the walls we pass. One picture is a portrait of her family, all of them different vivid colours and standing out against a dark background. In the corner is a messy squiggle of a signature, underlined with bright white paint.

From the walls alone, I can make out that Zoey's family is one that definitely encourages creativity. Her mother, most likely an artist, has probably painted half of the things that are hanging from the walls. Her father, it seems, probably does something else. Something a lot less loud and eccentric than Zoey's mother's eye-catching and way out there pieces. Nevertheless, they had probably compromised on the home decor. It certainly was unique.

Zoey's room, although a bit toned down from the hallways, is just as colourful as the rest of her house. Vibrant patterns swirled across the walls of her room, greens and yellows and blues all blending into tie-dye arcs and crests. In the middle of her room, facing the windows, is a bed covered with a neon green bedspread. A Singer sewing machine also sits in the corner of her room, atop a white table that is strewn with bright fabrics and materials.

After fishing out a hoodie for me to wear - because I am shivering - Zoey goes to check up on her hamster. All the while, she tries to keep the silence at bay, now talking about her interests and why her room is so colourful.

Unable to do much else, I simply nod and hum, taking note of the more interesting stuff but mostly trying to keep myself calm. Really, I shouldn't be here. I shouldn't have Zoey's hoodie on, sitting on the edge of her waterbed and starting to smell the tomatoey aroma of whatever pasta her mother was making downstairs. If Amy was here, she would have told me to get up and get myself together - so as not to embarrass her. At home, I usually stay in the living room, watching re-runs of shows while mum popped in every now and then to check on me.

People don't usually talk to me. I don't get to know other people very well - aside from the two exceptions of Jasmine and Dawn. Yet Zoey is telling me about herself, letting me get to know her better.

And here I am, wasting that opportunity, so useless that I can't even snap out of my internal monologuing.

"I'm so sorry, I must be boring you to death!" Staring at me with wide eyes, Zoey is by her sewing machine, her hamster cupped within her hands. Apologetic, she looks almost guilty as I blush. "All I've been doing is talking about myself... Is there anything you wanna do or talk about? We can watch a movie if you don't want to talk much."

"No, I - you're... it's all fine," Unable to sort out my words properly, I flop back on her waterbed, covering my burning face with my hands. In a small, tiny voice, I manage to squeak out, "I'm just not used to this kind of thing. Being friends with new people."

"Oh," Absorbing my words, Zoey seems to understand. Putting her hamster into that round plastic ball thingy most hamsters seem to have, she smiles as she goes back to her sewing machine, "Well, if you need the alone time I'll just work on something here. Let me know when you're ready to talk."

Nodding at her words, I close my eyes and try to steady all my racing jumbled thoughts. In the background, I hear the routine punch of Zoey's sewing machine, its machinery chugging away with each second. Regular, expected, it helps my attempts to get rid of all thoughts. In fact, it is so effective that I end up drifting to sleep, my thoughts empty and filled with the calming sensation of the floaty mattress beneath me and the regular chug of Zoey's sewing machine.