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Not only a couple of blocks away from those fateful meeting boulevards, there is a little shop. It’s Asian, which nationality exactly not many are sure of, but the foreign characters are clear to see. The windows are layered with dust that’s been collecting since long before any person can remember and behind there is a painted glass cat, staring at all those who walk by with shining black eyes. A distinct aroma that one can’t really put their finger on always lurks just outside the door.

This little store does hold some significance, though, because moseying their way by is a boy. Non-descript brown hair accessorizing a non-descript face, they call him Wyatt. He enjoys the name, he feels that it’s got a certain ring to it, a silent warning of not to be messed with. Jules’ doesn’t agree, but his opinion doesn’t matter because his is even more of a pussy title to carry.

Hands stuffed into the pockets of his jacket, Wyatt sighs. It’s warm out, everyone else wearing things according to the mild weather, but he sticks by his jacket. He likes his jacket. More than he likes most people, anyways. Or most anything, including animals.

But he hasn’t failed to notice his little companion.

Trailing behind him is a little black cat, scrawny with long limbs and these green eyes that seem to stare right through him. He doesn’t even know why, but every day, it’s there. When he walks to school that damned cat always follows him. Every corner he turns, every street he ambles down, it’s there, trotting behind him.

It never meows, or hisses or does anything, so he has no idea what the hell it wants. He never feeds it or gives it even the smallest acknowledgement that he knows it’s there.

He doesn’t even like cats, but it follows him anyways.

“Wyatt!” a voice splits through the air, attracting everyone’s gaze walking by. “Massicote! Bitch with the face!”

He’s caught off guard for a second but not for long, and doesn’t spare a look at the charming boy calling. Instead he ignores the shouts and keeps advancing towards the school, eyes roaming the streets and feet continuously slapping against he sidewalk. His little cat friend, he notices, has scampered off somewhere.

Apparently the shithead's good for something.

A hand claps onto his shoulder and the sound of rattled breath dances into his mind. He finally grants the boy a glance, expression seemingly uncaring, and that he is.

“How do you walk down this street every morning? This place is fucking sketchy.” The boy shivers and takes a suspicious look at every stranger passing by, as if at any moment one of them is going to flick out a blade and go straight for the jugular.

Wyatt shrugs. “Maybe you shouldn’t wear a watch that looks like it’s worth a million bucks,” he mumbles but it doesn’t seem like Jules hears, judging by the way his lips keep moving and words keep pouring out.

He can see the peek of Riverview High now, barely spied over the branches of the tall trees.

“I don’t even know how you’re still alive, man. All these people look like they want to eat my face or something.” Jules’ staring at a grandma across the street, wrinkles engraved on her weathered face and a walker in hand, as if she's a cannibalistic demon. “Shit, guy, I’m too sexy to die.”

The boy next to him rolls his eyes. “Why’re you here anyways?” he asks, voice void of any type of emotion as his fingertips roll over the pen in his pocket.

“Because I love you, is that not good enough?” The blond slings his arm over Wyatt’s shoulders, smiling an endearing smile. His weight pushes the pair left and they almost make contact with the brick wall.

Wyatt shrugs the boy off, scoffing. “You got bored this morning, didn’t you?” The question’s seemingly rhetorical.

Now Jules shrugs, innocently. “Pretty much, so I got Kevin to drop me off," he admits honestly. Hand gestures accentuate his words as he casts a cheeky grin in the boy’s direction.

“You get bored a lot.” He points out the obvious, and he’s not really sure why he does other than the fact that he can.

“Why do you think I hang out with you?”

Wyatt elbows him in the side roughly, earning a slight gasp, and mumbles a few unintelligible words under his breath. Jules just laughs.
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There’s only one class that he shares with the blond shithead, and that’s first period. Too early, if someone were to ask him, but it isn’t his decision to make. And he really doesn’t have any reason to switch out, other than it's easier to handle Jules after he's fully awake.

Too early for Mr. Obo too, it seems, as he sighs into the palms of his hands at his desk. The frown on his face deepens, aging him a few years as his eyes roll over Jules at the other side of the class. He’s talking, as usual, with his outside voice. Mr. Obo’s given up on trying to quiet him down, even though it's most probable the Queen of England now knows that Steven and Mariah had hooked up.

Wyatt’s eyes are settled outside on a giant pine tree, the looming shadow casting onto the goal posts of the soccer field. There’s a girl leaning against the white pole, casually, but he doesn’t know who she is. She’s chewing on an apple and her gaze is distant, a scarf wrapped around her neck. The breeze blows by and her golden hair falls into her face, he watches as she swats it away.

Almost as if she can feel his intent staring, her head turns and their eyes meet.

Before he can look away, Jules has dumped himself in the seat next to him, his mere presence demanding all attention. His face appears that he has something to say, and he does, as he leans in closer. His eyes are narrowed on the chalk board, as if he's trying to be discreet and not look directly at Wyatt. Apparently, he means serious business.

“Dude, guess what Matt told me?” he asks, voice barely breaking a whisper. But this is a Jules whisper, which aren’t really like whispers at all, so it’s not really that secretive as he’s trying to make it be.

“Hmm?” Wyatt hums, eyes half lidded as they tumble onto Jules.

He doesn’t really care, and it shows. Jules continues anyways.

“Y’know how my sweater randomly disappeared yesterday? Well, guess what I heard? It was her.” The way he stretches the last word and his lips tighten together, Wyatt supposes it’s that girl.

He can’t remember her name, something a little weird that made him think of some Greek gods or whatever, but he knows who Jules is talking about. That girl who’s always watching him and smiling his way and just always there, actually. Sort of like a stalker. Actually, a lot like a stalker. And Jules isn’t as flattered as he first was when he noticed her.

“So?” he asks.

“She’s a crazy bitch!” His hands are thrown up into the air and his eyebrows are furrowed, voice echoing throughout the class. The teacher sends him a stern look but it doesn’t penetrate Jules’ thick skull. He’s much too outraged that Wyatt doesn’t seem to fully understand the concept at hand.

Wyatt does, though, he just can’t force himself to be bothered.

He takes a glance around the class quickly and is somewhat relieved that the girl hasn’t shown up yet. Sometimes Jules is a little too blunt and a little too loud.

“Are you positive that she was the one that took your shirt?”

This wouldn’t be the first time Jules jumped to conclusions.

The blond rolls his eyes, as if the answer’s most clear and obvious. “She’s fucking insane, number one.”

As the words float past his lips, speak of the devil and she will appear. With a small smile on her lips and her leather bag slung across her shoulder, she appears at the door. Wyatt can’t deny that the moment she steps in her eyes immediately snap to the boy she’s obviously infatuated with. But that boy doesn’t notice, and she takes her spot by the window, mumbling some sort of greeting to that quiet Asian girl at the front on her way.

“Number two,” he continues, “Matt said he totally saw it in her locker, and his is like five down or something.”

A sigh pushes past Wyatt’s lips. “Which means that it has to be true, because Matt said so.” Sarcasm laces with his words as his hands toy with the pen on his desk.

“Exactly!” Jules leans back into his chair, apparently oblivious to Wyatt’s tone, palms finding the back of his neck. “I mean I don’t blame her or nothing, it’s me, but the chick’s most definitely psycho.”

At this point Wyatt’s hardly listening, and only nods his head to please the boy. His eyes coast to the window again only to find that the figure has vanished, not even a trace of her presence left. But he doesn’t care, really, and not another moment is spent on the mysterious girl. Instead he tunes back to Jules who’s now rambling about something or another that doesn’t really hold his interest.

Olimpia, he remembers. That’s her name.

Wyatt’s following classes pass without much effort, and soon his last period rolls around. He doesn’t care much for English, isn't half bad but it doesn't spark his attention, and so asks to leave to the bathroom. The teacher doesn’t care much either, he’s not even sure why she has the position in the first place, and so lets him go.

He doesn’t actually have to take a piss, and so takes his new found time to stroll down the halls. As he makes his way down the tiled corridor, he notices that girl at a locker. The one that’s obsessed with Jules: Olimpia. She’s there, rummaging around in her bag only a few feet away.

He’s about to say something until he realizes that she’s at Jules’ locker, and in her hands is the familiar navy blue sweater.

“What’re you doing?”

She screams a little, jumping in her spot and allowing the shirt to fall from her fingers. It echoes through the hall. He continues to stand there, eyebrow raised.

As soon as she realizes who it is, Olimpia seems to relax a bit, shoulders visibly releasing tension. Wyatt’s not quite sure why, but she smiles anyways and reaches down, picking the fabric from the floor and placing it on one of the hooks inside.

“Just giving this back,” she replies softly.

“Did you take it?” he asks, curiosity gripping his voice. Maybe Matt really knows his shit.

She shakes her head, though. “I found it, and so I thought I’d give it back.” Her answer is smooth, never faltering, not even suggesting a lie.

Her voice seems innocent, eyes mimicking this, but he’s not so sure to believe it. Considering the overwhelming amount of evidence stacked against her.

He leans against the neighbouring locker. “And how do you know his combo?”

She pauses for a moment, and he thinks he’s caught her, but she quickly recovers. “Friend gave it to me.”

Olimpia’s lips twist into a smile as she locks the metal cage shut, fixing her backpack.

Wyatt gives up, realizing that he doesn’t care enough to press the subject. “Okay.” He shrugs, stuffing his hands into his pockets and walks off. "Just sayin', the shithead's not worth your time."

He’s not too sure, but he swears that he hears her sigh in relief.
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He’s back near that little Asian shop, the off-putting stench welcoming him on his way. Night’s already devoured the sky and the stars shine above him, demanding for his attention with their sparkling presence. Jules had convinced him to drop by his house after school, and if there's one thing he is, it's persuasive. In then end, Wyatt stayed much longer than he first intended to.

Mostly because of the food.

And while the blond was insistent to drive him, feeding him stories of an early death by machete, Wyatt didn’t care. He'd rather walk home, and reassured Jules he's more than capable of taking care of himself. He likes walking home.

It isn’t too far off now, his home, but he decides to take the long way. His knuckles are itching, an unfulfilled fire smouldering behind his ribs. He needs this, tonight.

A few right corners and a left, he arrives, the continuously blinking light of the convenience store sign greets him along with the harsh fluorescents from inside pouring onto the street. He winces away slightly as he passes by. His jog is light as he rounds the corner, up the alleyway that’s veiled in shadows. There’s a dull light at the end, he can see, along with a few boys standing around. He grins.

He’s noticed them before, these two. One’s quite lanky, with long limbs and knobby knees, and the other’s a chubby fat kid with a gold chain. They both have the preconceived notion that they’re cool or something, judging by the way they lean against the brick wall and mumble things to each other and smoke their cigarettes and glare. They have that glare like the world is unworthy.

The type of kids that would beat up boys from Riverview High with their signature school uniform golf shirts and black dress pants, they were.

His pace is steady as he nears closer, wiping his face of any betraying emotions. He knows that they’ve noticed him as one chuckles to himself, the skinny one, and the other flicks his cigarette to the ground, murdering the glowing stick with his shoe. They’re smug. Just as Wyatt thought.

“Look what we have here,” one of them muses, brushing off his faded wife beater.

“One of those preppies.” The fat one appears amused.

Wyatt can’t contain his grin as the adrenaline begins to simmer in his blood, racing throughout his being. In fact, he laughs a little to himself, which catches their attention.

“Did he just laugh?” The chubster asks, apparently outraged at such a simple action.

These types of boys never learned how to keep their tempers, but that was a little hypocritical coming from himself.

“I think he did.” The pole takes a few steps forward and Wyatt slows down, noting the scowl pressed onto his face.

“I guess I did.” Wyatt gives them a shit-eating grin.

The chunky little bitch makes the first move, winding his fist back and hitting Wyatt square in the jaw. He stumbles back a bit, shakes his head and presses his fingertips against the throbbing skin. He’s surprised; seems like the fatty could pack a punch.

“You know that, now that you’ve punched me, I have to punch you back?” he asks, the smile on his face never fading.

The skinny fuck looks uncertain but takes a few steps forward, eyes set in what appears to be determination. Wyatt's trying to contain his laughter. He can feel his eyes glaze over as everything blurs together. This is it. This is what he needs.

His fist comes down and is only met with air as Wyatt evades the shot, returning the favour delightedly and smashing his knuckles into the boy’s nose. It’s going to bleed; he’s sure, as he takes another one into his gut, maybe even break.

The boy gasps, but is cut off with another shot to the eyebrow, then another to the right side of his face. Wyatt’s not even sure what’s possessing him at this point, he’s not even sure what he’s doing, but he’s doing it. And he loves it.

Every sense has sharpened, he’s suddenly acutely aware of the dripping of water from a pipe in the corner, or the blood staining his skin and the harsh breathing of the boy in front of him, gasping, panting. All he can see is red.

And with that he crashes the boy’s head into the brick wall, chest heaving, a chuckle escaping his lips. He probably looks crazy, but he can’t help it as bubbles of laughter rise from his throat. Wyatt can’t stop it from escaping.

He can’t even feel his hands anymore as he stretches his fingers, eyes falling onto the chubby kid staring with eyes the size of dung beetles. He can read it on his face; he thinks Wyatt’s a maniac, a psycho. The skinny thing’s on the ground now, hands gripping onto the back of his head and cursing loudly in pain.

The fat one runs. Figures. They always pussy out once reality slaps them in the face, always, like clockworks.

Wyatt turns, allowing a shaky breath past his lips. He’s on a high, as he’s come to expect. This is what he lives for.

But his attention is caught when a black smudge catches his eye. Curious, he jogs back towards the convenience store, the blinding light guiding him. He’s met with that little black cat, what looks to be the same one from that morning, staring at him.

What an interesting little fucker, that cat.