There were sneers and giggles. Then there was the cat call. That guy, a hormonal blond with hair swept to the side was going on Sara’s hit list. He even watched her boobs bounce while she stumbled through the obstacle course of backpacks to get to the back of the room where she laid her head down on her desk and tried to drown out everything around her. They were a year behind, just like her grandmother said. From what Sara could tell the students didn’t seem to know anything about what the teacher was talking about, most were trying to decide how they were going to haze the fresh fish.

Sara was having none of it. When the bell rang, and a boy with black hair came up to her with a cocky smile, she walked right past him like he didn’t exist and ignored the flock of queen bees that tried to call out to her near the door. They would get the hint eventually, but Sara was going to have to dodge a couple blows first.

She was furious with her grandmother for throwing her into this place right after her mother died. She might have been right about Sara needing the distraction but not this--anything but this. This was worse than her withdrawals.

It became apparent that something was going on when she started trying to find her locker. She might’ve been the worst dressed girl in the entire school, but every boy in the place was staring at her like she was a supermodel. She should have chopped off half her hair and smeared lipstick all over her face, but something told her that that wouldn’t have worked either.

By the time she found her locker and had her head firmly hidden behind the door, she started to realize what it was. The school had less than 500 students. All of these kids grew up together. Most of them had probably already screwed one another. They wanted to add something new to the gene pool and as much as she tried she couldn’t hide her natural beauty.

Sara slammed the locker door, only to find the cocky blond from class leaning against the locker beside hers. She looked to both sides to see if anyone was coming. Then she grabbed him by the neck and slammed him into the locker. “I don’t want you or any of your piece of shit friends trying to talk to me. Now fuck off!”

“Hey, I--

She kneed him in the groin and turned around to find her next class.

They’d get the hint.

She was being forced to take electives, even though her extracurricular activities in Washington more than made up for the credits. Usually she would be allowed to choose what it was she wanted to take, but she was arriving at the end of the school year, so they had to find a slot and fit her in.

That meant she was going to be taking oil painting for the next two months. When she walked into class the teacher, a frazzled ginger woman ran up. “Are you Sara?”

“I prefer to be called Countess Bathory after the serial killer .” The stranger she sounded the fewer people would bother her.

The woman laughed. “There’s no way. Grab an easel. Just fake it. I’ll pass you. If you want them, there're some paints in the back.”

“Thank you.” Sara had never heard a teacher say anything like that in her entire life, but you don’t need to know how to paint to work at Wal-Mart, so none of the students were going to need this class.

That point was not lost on the blond girl sitting to her right. Her canvas was blank, and she was using it to block the teacher from seeing her use her smartphone. The teacher didn’t seem to care. She was doing the exact same thing.

Sara hated painting. She’d imagine a beautiful landscape and end up drawing an irregular nonsensical shape. She just didn’t have the talent for art, but she was doing her best to be a nonconformist.

Sara painted the canvas black then started with a baby blue dot in the center. Then she expanded it outwards until she had a shape like a tear drop. Then she changed to a darker color and gave it arms, fiery tendrils flying out all ends. The teardrops became the zenith of the flame.

“I like it.” Sara whipped around, ready to throw paint thinner in the girl’s face but she seemed harmless, a simple nerd with a thick red bush of hair and black rimmed glasses.

Sara turned back around and added a small tinge of yellow in the center, representing the soul of the fire.

“What is it?”

“Blue fire.”

“Do you paint much?”

“No.” Sara turned back around to her painting and tried to decide if it needed anything else. The flames didn’t pop so she decided to add some more white into them.

“I’ve been doing it a while myself. It’s kind of my thing.” She walked back to her easel. “I’ve been working on this one for most of the semester.”

It was a beach scene, perfectly modeled after the beach near her house with intricate designs on the waves, mirroring real life reflections.

“That’s superb.”

“Thank you,” she blushed. “I’m Andrea.” She held out her hand which meant that Sara would have to shake it.

Sara gave her a quick smile and turned back to her painting.

“You’re Sara right. I mean--of course, everyone knows who you are.”

“It’s been less than an hour. How could everyone possibly know about me?”

“We have cell phones.” Andrea and Sara both started laughing.

“You know, I told that creature Barbie not to introduce me and she gave me this ridiculous spiel about how introducing me to the entire school will help me learn the social skills I’ll need to succeed for the rest of my life.”

“As if hobnobbing with future Wal-Mart employees was a major life event.”

“You read my mind.” Sara didn't mind her. She was cynical and goofy to be relatable.

“Have you ever been to the cliffs?” Andrea asked. “There's some nice quiet places to sit out and watch the water.”

“I live near the cliffs. You can see the drop-off from my window so every time I look out, I can see the water past it.”

“Well I was going to go there after school,” Andrea said. “I was wondering if you'd like to tag along.

A quiet walk near the side of a cliff. Ironic that Sara had just tried to kill herself less than 24 hours ago. “Alright. Let's go.”