Nova.

The streets are lonely, barren, and cold where Nova lives. The people that do leave their homes are all scraggly and scrawny looking, shifty and they don’t make much eye contact. There are always the distant wails of an emergency siren going off somewhere. But it's Nova's home, after all, and so she has to make do with what she has. Which, Nova supposes, isn't so terrible. She could be homeless, so she doesn't complain. Her surroundings, though, are depressing, with boarded up buildings and overcrowded apartments and children running ragged in the streets.

The apartment building where Nova lives is no exception, falling apart and in horrible conditions, with chipped tile and threadbare carpet and flaking paint. The carpet smells like wet dog and her stairs creak oddly at all hours of the night. It’s old and she doesn’t like it very much, but a roof is better than no roof, and Lisa always made it a point to tell her just that whenever Nova hinted to how unhappy she was here.

Her older sister is sitting on the floor of the living room on a blue couch that's probably older than Lisa herself, cigarette in one hand and a bowl of soup in the other. She’s watching a screen with some mild static, engrossed in her daytime television program. Her hair is a wild mess under a wool hat, curls thicker than Nova's, but longer too, caressing the middle of her back in her usual yellow jumper. She’s thin, however, so the sweater hangs off her and looks much bigger than it's meant to. Bones jut out whenever she moves or bends or does anything besides staying still. It looks painful. She can’t sit on things without cushions.

Lisa has a fast metabolism. She's always had one, and could eat quite well and without gaining much weight. But her budget doesn't allow her to buy rich foods, and so she's a little too skinny for Nova's liking. She knows that sometimes Lisa goes hungry to feed her, and as much as she hates it, she can't bring it up because Lisa has too much pride and insulting Lisa is just something that Nova can't bring herself to do. So she finds silent ways to thank her, and does her best not to give her a hard time.

“Hi,” Nova greets, trying to sound cheerful. “How was your day?”

Her sister is silent.

Nova sets her things down near the door, wandering through the bare apartment to the kitchen, which is small and dingy and cramped. The apartment is as old as Moses, and has definitely seen better days. It could have a lot of potential if they had the money to fix it up. Since they don't, they have to make do with what they have. It's just so tiny. Nova finds it difficult to turn without bumping into the stove or bulky fridge. Her hips always find the way to hit the counter, knee banging into the wooden cabinet whenever she moves the wrong way.

There’s a pot of soup on the stove, warm and yellow. Nova sniffs it and makes a face. She isn't sure what's in it, but she's starving so she doesn't question it. After school, she went straight to dance practice. She didn't eat much for lunch, just a banana and some yogurt, but that was because she had a lot of homework to get done before her afternoon classes and wanted to get a head start. On the way home from practice, she picked up a sandwich, but she's still hungry.

Lisa has maybe two or three jobs, depending on the week. She cleans houses, flips burgers, and baby sits on occasion for the moms in the neighborhood whenever she can. Nova knows that she works too hard for her own good and barely sleeps because of how hard she's trying to make ends meet. It hurts, but she can't tell Lisa that she knows.

Nova pours herself a bowl and grabs a glass of water, a spoon, and a napkin. She goes to sit next to Lisa, pulling her feet underneath herself and digging into the soup. It's... squash? Hm. It's not bad.

"How was school today?" Lisa asks, leaning over to flick her cigarette in the ashtray.

"It was alright," Nova hums, shrugging. She remembers Alya and her request about the movies later, so she tells Lisa. Lisa raises an eyebrow, still surprised that Nova has managed to make some friends. She's so shy, is the thing. "I think we're going to go watch the new Ryan Gosling one? I don't know."

"Are - are you having fun?" Lisa asks. Her biggest concern was that Nova wouldn't be able to fit in well, and that she'd have a hard time meshing with her classmates. But Nova's happy. Maybe she doesn't have a thousand friends and maybe she's a little unhappy some days, but Alya's her friend, and so is a nice girl in her art class, Nola. Things are looking up for her, slowly but surely.

"Yeah." Nova pulls some of her braids behind her ear, dabbing at her lips with the napkin. "It really isn't so bad, Lisa. The classes are a little hard but they're not horrible. My classmates are friendly." She shrugs and smiles, and is relieved when Lisa drops the subject of school in favor for what's going on in her program.



The first time Nova catches him staring at her is during her Calculus class.

Calculus is boring and easy. She’s always been good at math, and it’s the only thing she likes about this place anyway. Her math class isn't a challenge, but it is interesting and she does like to learn about it. The teacher's kind of a dick, but he's bald and smells like sour cream so Nova can see why he'd be in such a grumpy mood.

Nova goes up to the board because Mr. Noir is one of those teachers who make their students post the homework problems on the blackboard. He has, of course, chosen Nova to put up one of hers. She grabs her notebook and checks her work quickly on her way to the board, and smiles in satisfaction when it comes out correctly. Some people stare, some people whisper, and most don't even pay her much mind.

Today, though, something is different.

Yes, people are being weird and rude, but today something is not quite…right. There is one stare in particular that unsettles her more than the others, and Nova doesn't know why. She’s grown used to the others. This one is different. It’s new. She looks up and over at him pointedly as she sits, knitting her eyebrows. He looks away, embarrassed.

It's odd.

“So, this is how you do number 65,” Mr. Noir says, starting to explain the problem Nova had just finished doing. She tried to pay attention, but she could still feel his green eyes staring at her back. Once Mr. Noir had turned his back on the class, she snuck a glance at him again, and sure enough, he was staring again.

It was different.

Different how, exactly, she didn’t know, but it was. And Nova didn't know if she liked it, or not.



She watches him over the edge of the book she’s reading in lunch. Alya isn't here and Nola's got a different lunch period, so she rarely joins them. Today’s lunch is a little bland but not awful—a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, some crackers, and a bottle of fruit juice. She decides she’ll eat it on the train to dance, because spying on the kid with a staring problem is a lot more interesting than her boring lunch.

He sits with a ditzy brunette who wears too much make up and too small t-shirts and mini-skirts with dangerously high heels. She’s in Nova’s first period World History class and her second period Art class. She’s pretty dull. The person to his right is the same boy whose locker's next to Nova's. She doesn't really know him. Everyone else at the table looks like the stereotypical teen—tall, fair-skinned, lean, muscular, happy and healthy.

She would think he'd have a better choice in friends. They seem vapid, and she never hears them talk about anything outside of partying and clothes and drinking and sports. It's... odd. He doesn't seem like he has much in common with them, but he's still with them.

He glances at her on occasion.

Nova just stares back, almost as if daring him to do something.

It’s not a mean glance, she concludes, flipping a page so as to look like she’s actually reading Hamlet for her English class—even though she read it three years ago on her own for no reason save for entertainment. She doesn’t know if he’s trying to be nice or friendly or make her think that he’s trying to make her feel welcome or whatever.

But he's harmless, this boy. He doesn't mean any harm, even if he's being weird, and so Nova decides that it doesn't matter.



The first time they speak to each other is in the library. Well, Rhett just talks, and Nova just stares, but it’s talking all the same.

She likes to sit in the library sometimes, when she doesn't have much going in her classes. She likes to do her homework in one of the corner tables, far away from everyone else. Sometimes Alya sits with her, sometimes Nola, sometimes neither. Occasionally, she puts the books in order. Sometimes, she just watches the students around her, smiling a little at some things and frowning at others.

Today, the boy is in the library with his history class. The teacher is talking about a paper or something they have to write about one of the world wars and about its impacts on human society, et cetera. She’s sitting in a corner, at a table with all her schoolbooks stacked around her, happy with her assignments.

She peeks at him over the edge of her history book, curious. Nova can see him, but he can’t exactly see her, seeing as she’s partially hidden by bookshelves.

He seems okay. His hair is brown, and he’s kind of lanky and awkward and seems shy. Harmless. She doesn’t understand how he’s popular. Maybe it’s because the female student body finds him attractive. Nova feels indifferent towards him. For now, anyway. He's alright, she guesses.

She starts doing her math homework, knowing that since it’s a Friday, Lisa is going to be throwing a party and Nova won’t have any time to do anything but clean up after everybody and stop all of Lisa’s shady friends from stealing anything.

He’s quiet.

So quiet, in fact, that she doesn’t notice that he’s standing in front of her until he clears his throat softly. Nova looks up from her books, startled. She sets her books down, eyes wide. Once the initial shock passes, she frowns a little, eyebrows knit.

“Hi,” he says. His tone is friendly and light, a smile on his face.

She simply looks at him, frowning a little more deeply.

“I’m Rhett,” he tries again. “You’re new, aren’t you?”

She keeps looking at him, folding her hands over her books. What does he even want? Why is he even talking to her in the first place?

“I think you’re in my—”

“Rhett! Where are you?!” someone whispers. Rhett turns his head and sighs, then mumbles a quiet, “Bye,” and leaves.

The whole encounter leaves Nova confused.



He shows up in front of the dance studio.

It kind of, slightly, freaks Nova out, mostly because she thinks he’s stalking her or something and that he’s just planning on doing something to her like the rest of his friends. She’s been shoved, kicked, scratched, pinched, had her hair pulled on—you name it: it’s probably happened to Nova during the last couple of weeks.

She stands at the top of the cement stairs, fixing her scarf anxiously as she regards him, leaning against a newspaper stand. She tries figuring out what he’s doing there and how he even found out she danced—not even Lisa knew (as far as Lisa knew, Nova spent most afternoons at the public library studying)—to begin with.

Nova didn’t have many friends in that dreadful school.

There was Miss Faulkner, her English teacher… and the librarian, Mrs. Emerson, and Alya and Nola. That was pretty much it.

What was his problem?

“Nova,” Amelia called out. She turned and smiled at the lanky girl, watching her tuck her blonde hair into a warm woolly. At least at her dance classes, she stood on an equal plane with her peers, which made her comfortable and happy here. “You’re trying out, right?” Nova shrugs, distracted by the boy across the street. Why is he here? Is Nova been stalked?

Nova doesn’t reply, shoving her hands in her pockets as she frowns at him.

“You should! I mean, like, you totally have it in the bag anyway or whatever, but you should try out,” Amelia coaxes, cheeks flushing with the cool winter air outside. "C'mon. It won't hurt."

“I don’t really want to.” Nova isn’t one for attention. She hasn’t really had much of it, so she doesn’t know what it’s like to have a lot of it, which is kind of why she doesn’t want it. It doesn’t make sense to her either. Nova shoves her hands into her heavy coat pockets, glancing again across the street at the boy with the staring problem who’s leaning against the newsstand as per usual. “You should try out, though. You'll get it. I don't think anyone else stands a chance.”

“Oh, I don’t—I don’t think I’m good enough to—” Nova cuts her off, shaking her head.

“You are. You’ll get it,” she repeats. They run across the busy street, getting honked at by angry drivers and bicyclists. Rhett has been trying to hide behind a magazine, but it’s so obvious he’s staring at her that it’s all in vain. “You’re a wonderful dancer, really. Try out. What’s the worst thing that could happen?”

“Why don’t you try out with me then?” She slumps up her shoulders again, fixing her scarf.

“I don’t know, don’t wanna, I guess.”

“Rhett!” Amelia exclaims. Nova glances at her, wondering how they know each other. “Rhett! Hey!” Amelia frowns at him, making him put the magazine down. It doesn’t dawn on Nova that Amelia and Rhett are brother and sister until Amelia yells at him for not bringing the car like their father told him to.

He doesn’t really look like his sister—she’s very flashy and extravagant whereas he’s rather simple and modest—save for their eyes and smile. Rhett approaches the dancers, hands in his back pockets. She feels his stare on her face as she looks in the other direction. She doesn’t understand why this look is different than the others, in what sense, but it is and she doesn’t know why.

“Sorry,” he says to Amelia, sounding distracted.

What does he want?

“Fine.” Amelia sounds upset. “Nova, this is my idiot brother, Rhett. He’s pretty lame.” Nova glances at him and his face flushes red, and she has a feeling it’s not just because of the cold.

“H-Hi,” he stammers.

Nova doesn’t say anything again, because she doesn’t know what he wants and he stares and it’s unsettling and odd and she doesn’t know what to say anyway. She looks at Amelia and smiles a small smile. “We’ve met.” Amelia narrows her eyes at Rhett. She’s too busy yelling at him to notice Nova sneaking away into a cab that pulled up to the curb.

“God, you’re so embarrassing, Rhett!”



She watches him while the class watches a film in English class about Shakespeare. The girl who sits behind her is absent, and there’s a substitute there that period anyway, so it’s not like anyone really cares about the seating arrangements for the period. She sits in this seat mostly because it’s the seat right across from Rhett.

She refuses to admit it out loud, much less to herself, but Nova thinks that Rhett is, in a odd, happy way, kind of cute and maybe attractive in the right lighting. It’s a schoolgirl crush and nothing more, she tells herself sternly. It can’t be anything more than that and she knows it. Nova and Rhett are very distinct people, and she has a gut feeling that they just wouldn't mix well.

She rests her head on her folded arms, glancing at him discreetly. He’s facing the television, but he isn’t paying attention to the film at all and probably doesn’t even know what it’s about because he’s looking at her again.

Her skin flushes and burns and she’s happy it’s dark in the room so he can’t see.



There’s a note on her seat when she arrives in Calculus.

At first, she ignores it and is pretty sure that it’s just something else that her bored classmates came up with to make her miserable and try to get her all upset or riled up. She wouldn’t put it past them. When she sees that it’s not from any of her spiteful classmates at all but from Rhett, of all people, she changes her mind. She’s not upset, but curious.

She wants to read it, but doesn’t know if she should.

What could it possibly say?

Mr. Noir has eyes like a hawk and Nova knows it, so she asks to go to the washroom and slips the note into her sweater sleeve. She walks out of the room and can swear his green eyes staring at her again. She doesn’t turn around to confirm. Instead, she heads to the girls’ bathroom, which is pretty clean but smells like stale cigarettes, mostly because part of the female student body feels as though smoking in a bathroom makes them really cool.

Nova sits in the last stall, locking the heavy door behind her and sitting down, crossing her legs and taking a deep breath. It's probably something stupid, she tells herself, but pulls the note from her sweater sleeve anyway. It's slightly crumpled, but still very legible.

She unfolds it anxiously, almost certain that he’s about to join her list of oppressors.

You, me, 89-76 Fifth Avenue, at five.

Nova narrows her eyes, reading over it again and again.

She decides she’ll go after all, but only to tell him to cut out this whole staring business.