Chapter 2
Piper
Ten years old
“Hey, Glasses! Watch it!”
SLAM.
My entire body jolts into something hard and big and suddenly I’m aware I’m surrounded.
Crap. Crap. Crap.
This really is the best day of my life.
I hate Mom.
Why did she make us move here? Everyone in this town is a mean bully.
Not a single person has been nice to us since we moved into the Guest House.
That’s what they call the little house that sits on Mrs. Kent’s grounds.
It’s the smallest house in Astley. I swear every person in this town has more money than Scrooge.
Now, a group of angry fifth graders are crowding in on me while I shrink back and look for an escape.
There’s no escape. Darn it.
Mom says I need to get my nose out of my books more often. I guess she’s right this time. If I hadn’t been reading, I would have noticed the crowd of boys approaching, and I would have escaped. Now, it’s too late. Might as well face them.
Snapping shut my dusty Nancy Drew book, I straighten my back and glare at the zit-covered boy who’s clearly just gone out of his way to bump into me.
“Sorry, Pimple Butt,” I say, and some of the boys guffaw. “Try taking up less space next time.”
Mom also says I need to rein in the smart talk. Whatever.
The guy I’ve just aptly nicknamed Pimple Butt puts up two hands and gives me a hard shove. Guess he doesn’t like to be called that. Or laughed at by his friends.
When he shoves me, I realize just how strong he is. And I remember, again, how surrounded I am.
Maybe Mom was right. Maybe I do need to learn when to shut up.
Oh well.
“What did you say?” he growls, shoving me again, and it’s getting kind of annoying, honestly.
I answer his question seriously. “I said, ‘Sorry, Pimple Butt.”
It happens pretty fast. One minute he’s facing me, turning red as the boys around him laugh. The next, he’s shoving me a third time, so hard now that I slam into the wall behind me. Then he lifts up a hand and smacks my face.
The first thing I’m aware of isn’t the pain of the slap. It’s that I can’t see anymore. My glasses have just fallen off my face, and then there’s a sickening sound as he crushes them under his sneaker.
Oops.
I may only be ten years old, but I already know certain things. Things like, eight times eight is sixty-four. Santa Claus doesn’t exist, and neither does the Tooth Fairy. And Mom and Dad can’t afford a new pair of glasses.
Without glasses, there is just no way I’m going to be able to finish Nancy Drew and the Hidden Staircase. Too bad, because it was just starting to get good.
“Ow,” I say, putting a hand to my cheek as the pain suddenly bursts through. My eyes burn and I’m horribly aware that I’m about to cry. Great. This day just really couldn’t be getting any better.
The second I get home, I’m telling Dad we have to go back. Mom can stay if she wants, but I’m not spending another minute in this stupid town.
Pimple Butt blinks down at me dumbly, as if wondering what to do now. Shove me yet again? Leave? Hurl a few insults my way?
Doubt it. He doesn’t look like he knows how to string a basic sentence together.
“Hey! Leave her alone!” calls out a voice, just as Mr. Pimple Butt seems to reach the conclusion that what he needs to do is give me another shove.
The crowd separates enough that I can make out the boy who just spoke.
I recognize him. He’s in fifth grade too, but not in my class.
I did see him in the cafeteria earlier and around the school.
A dark-haired, sulking kind of boy half-hidden in a black hoodie.
He doesn’t look like the type of kid who would speak, let alone speak to defend me, but that’s just what he’s doing.
“Leave her alone, fuckface,” he adds, and my eyes widen.
I don’t think I’ve ever heard a kid in elementary school swear. At least, not like that. Not as if it comes naturally. This kid can’t be older than eleven, but he just swore like it’s second nature to him.
Dad is always embarrassingly going on about how his pumpkin is so advanced for her age, just because I read a lot. But this kid sure could give me a run for my money. Maybe not in the book smart kind of way, but he’s definitely street smart.
I’m kind of nervous as he draws near and his eyes clash into mine. I don’t know what it is about him that’s so unsettling.
Maybe I’m just feeling the vibes change as the other kids immediately back off. Especially Pimple Butt, even though he’s a lot bigger than Hoodie Boy.
“Whatever,” he mutters, throwing his equally pimply hands into his pockets and walking away.
Hoodie Boy stares at me for a beat, then turns around.
“Wait!” I squeak out.
I curse myself as I do. What the heck? Why does my voice always come out weird at the worst possible time?
He looks back, glaring at me as if I’m the most annoying person on Earth. Didn’t he just… stand up for me? Why the sudden personality change?
“Thanks,” I say quickly.
He shrugs and turns back around. I don’t know what’s gotten into me but I really don’t want him to leave. Maybe it’s because he’s the first kid today who’s spoken to me. Did I mention how much I hate Astley?
“He… he broke my glasses,” I say stupidly, just because it’s the only thing I can find to say.
He shrugs again, his eyes once more finding mine. “You don’t look like you need them.”
“But I do! I can’t read without them!”
The tear that was threatening to spill from the corner of my left eye embarrassingly does so, and I clench my fists, hating myself. I can’t believe I’m in fifth grade, it’s the first day of school, and I’m crying. It’s like my worst accidentally-wearing-pyjamas-to-school nightmare come true.
“Fine.”
“Fine?”
What does he mean, fine? I wasn’t asking anything!
Before I can react, Hoodie Guy is walking off, and a moment later, he’s dragging Pimple Butt back by the shirt.
He’s surprisingly strong, tackling my bully like it’s nothing.
Then he shoves him to the ground. The bully clearly knows him well enough to be scared, and my eyes widen further when Hoodie Guy easily dominates him, folding his arms, towering over him as he lies quaking on the ground.
“You broke her glasses. Pay up.”
“I don’t have any money!” yelps Pimple Butt.
Hoodie Guy gives him a kick in the side. “Not my problem, Jax. Pay up.”
My bully–Jax–grunts as Hoodie Guy gives him another few kicks.
“Fine, fine! I’ll ask my parents! Stop! Ow! I’ll ask my parents! I’ll bring the money tomorrow!”
“You’d better,” grunts Hoodie Guy. “Otherwise I’ll fuck you up.”
I gasp at the new swear word. Somehow, it’s a lot more unsettling than the violence.
“There you go,” says Hoodie Guy, backing away at last from Jax, who scrambles to get up.
My protector seems ready to leave again, and I really don’t want him to. I want him to stay.
“Wait!” I cry out once more. “What’s your name?”
“Quill,” he mumbles after a pause.
“Hi Quill,” I say brightly. “I’m Piper.”
I give him my best Nancy Drew smile, but he only shrugs. Again.
“I know,” he mutters, and then he walks off.
__
Quill. Quill, Quill, Quill. Quill and Piper. Piper and Quill. That has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?
I usually look up to Nancy Drew, but right now I’m feeling a lot more like Cinderella as I dance along the sidewalk home, my head filled with dreams of a dark-haired, grumpy boy in a hoodie.
“I LOVE Astley,” I say, bursting into the Guest House.
Mom looks up from the pile of insurance forms she’s working her way through. “Do you, sweetie? That’s great!”
She looks at me so absent-mindedly that she doesn’t even notice I’m not wearing my glasses. Reason number one why I prefer Dad.
I know I shouldn’t. I know it’s not her fault that she doesn’t have time for me. Though she does. She has nothing but time for me. What she doesn’t have is energy.
Dad doesn’t have time for me, but he makes time. No amount of long hours could keep him from me.
But Mom always has her head in her stupid insurance paperwork. And when she doesn’t, she’s staring off in the distance, sighing sadly. Or saying how happy she is that we’re back in her childhood town.
I honestly have no idea why Dad gave in and allowed us to move here.
Even the cheapest, smallest house in Astley is way out of our budget.
All he managed to get was a janitor job.
Why did we have to give up our nice comfortable place on the West Coast to come all the way here?
We stick out like a sore thumb in Astley.
But everything feels a lot better today as I grab a granola bar and a glass of orange juice and sit down at the table next to Mom.
“I made a friend today,” I say brightly, unwrapping my granola bar.
“Great,” she smiles. “Sorry, honey. Just give me a minute. I’m reading something very important.”
I munch thoughtfully on my bar. I don’t know why this boy–Quill–makes me feel so happy. He barely spoke to me, and when he did, it was because he couldn’t help it. He defended me, but I shouldn’t be thankful to him for that. I should be angry at all the others who didn’t say a word.
Maybe friend is a big word. But after a whole day where not a single person spoke to me or even looked at me, Quill sure feels like a friend right now.
I wish I was back with my friends out west. Everyone liked me at my old school. Here, they all look at me like I’m dirty. Like something is very wrong with me.
Except for Quill. He barely looked at me at all.
But I can’t get that boy out of my mind. Suddenly, going back to school tomorrow feels exciting.
“His name is Quill,” I volunteer, finishing my granola bar.
My mom scribbles something down on a form. “That’s nice, honey,” she says.