She was lost in the shuffle of action and motion that was the halls of Washington High School, ignoring the open locker in front of her, head turned to the side to take in the spectacle of "high school welcomes": anyone you saw with a class schedule in front of them was fair game, all you had to do was snatch the schedule out of their hands and tear it. A little bit. A lot of bit. Or crumple it up into a ball and toss it over your shoulder. And then kick the crumpled up class schedule ball when it's on the ground.
All in good fun, sure, she thought. A few times it got nasty, a fact that seemed a stark reminder to her what public high school was all about: savagery. At the moment, between third period and fourth period, she watched as a kid got his pristine schedule ganked from his hands as he concentrated on it. He was flustered, irritated. The reaction only seemed to fuel the savages on more. What began as a tiny little tear and holding it out for the poor kid to take back, became a quick take back, and handed to a fellow savage. Rip, all the way down the middle. Laughter roared out in the middle of the hall as the group of seniors made the kid look like a cuck in the middle of the crowded hall.
"Here you go, cuck," they said, as they offered the pieces to him, before tossing it up in the air to fall to the ground as the kid tried to take the pieces.
Most of the kids with schedules were Freshman. This cucked kid was not. Chubby, hispanic, with long middle parted black hair and thick glasses. Cargo shorts, and a teeshirt under a flanel button up left buttoned, either for style or necessity. No, Emy had seen this kid at the office this morning when she was checking in. He was a new kid on his first day, like her, a senior too to make it all worse. Now he was "Cuck", and Emy had even money that it would be the nickname that stuck with him for at least a few weeks.
Could've been worse. One ear bud was tugged from her right ear as she closed her locker, and walked to the middle of the hall. By the time she reached the middle of the hall, Cuck was standing up, and nearly jumped when he noticed her standing next to him. She could see it written on his face:
Oh, fuck, a girl. What do I say? She probably thinks I'm a loser. As if on cue, Emy smiled a small, coy, thing of a smile as she studied the remains of the schedule and nodded. "Yeah, just get a few pieces of tape from your next class and I think you'll be fine. Might want to ask the office workers to laminate that thing for you, though. You know, to avoid further Cucking."
His brown eyes were slow to react. She could almost hear his thoughts.
Did she just say... In the end, Emy guessed the mental math told him any cute girl was worth the attention, even if it was pity. So he fake chuckled and thanked her and moved along, slightly dragging his feet as he moved, posture slightly slouched forward. Oh, well. She tried. It was that exact moment Emy Vance realized she was in the middle of the hall, and eyes were on her. She was a new girl. Worse, she wasn't, exactly, unfortunate looking. The attention and the whispers were around, and those weren't just her Slayer senses kicking into high gear. Although they could, and in high school, that was a horrible thing.
Back in went the right ear bud, a quick few slides of her thumb and a tap or two, and the song came up in her ears, blasting. FIDLAR's "No Waves"; a punk song with fast music and faster lyrics. Casually as a Sunday morning she slipped out her class schedule from her glittery backpack slung over her right shoulder, and began reading. Reading, and dodging. The first came from a kid with a mop of sandy blonde hair who looked like mommy dressed him for his first day; he attempted to snatch it right out of her hands, and instead jammed his hand into her left elbow. Five more steps, and a black kid--THEY EXISTED IN WASHINGTON WOW--tried a stealthier approach. Much like with the last kid, Emy never actually looked at the guy, she just brushed his hand away with a quick deflection of her right arm and kept walking.
Sure, they could steal and rip some poor chubby kid's class schedule, or some freshman who was too tired to look up and walk at the same time. Stealing a Slayer's class schedule was a different matter entirely, however. The louder the punk music got, the more she bounced, until she was downright dancing down the hall, isolated and lost in a cascade of pulsating bass guitars and power chords and a heavy drumline. One of the savages thought he'd be slick, walking close to her in a crowd, eyes on her schedule. She hip bumped him into the nearest row of lockers; a subtle use of strength. The rest was just pure head banging and dancing; by the time she reached the vocational hallway, she straight spun out of one guy's reach, and back-stepped another senior troll so hard he almost lost his balance completely.
Suddenly the singer to FIDLAR was screaming in her ears as "Cocaine" came over the earbudded airwaves. Emy headnodded her way into the shop class with a few minutes to spare. The class was only, from what she saw, a dozen kids. Though there were doubtlessly one or two, or more, stragglers that would enter the class right before the bell. Or even right after it. Music went dead and earbuds were yanked from her ears as she tilted her head one way for the left earbud, then right for the right earbud--the entire time her bright brown eyes had locked on the guy blinking at her: Casey, she thought she heard one of them call him from inside the library study room, as she listened past the door while the Librarian, and obvious Watcher, tried to talk to her.
Emy found herself smirking at him. Did he see the monster hunting monsters from the night before? Did he see the new girl in school with killer eyeshadow and eyeliner? Who knews, for certain, quickly her eyes moved on and her smirk went with it, to one of the other guys from last night. He seemed more apprehensive. There was no guessing if he saw the monster hunting monsters or the new girl. His eyes made it obvious. Eyes she was quickly distracted from as someone sat down next to her at the table she was at. It was one of the savages. A little too much hair product in wavy light brown hair. Cute-ish, but a little too try hard. Plus...Axe? She wanted to gag, but the guttural sound was suppressed when her face went black, absent of anything close to amusements, or bemusements.
He pretended to notice her for the first time. Like she wasn't the reason she sat down at the table to begin with. "Oh, hey."
"Savage."
He stared. "...savage?"
"Pretty savage with the poor kid's schedule."
"Poor kid?" Nervous laughter masked to sound like cocksure laughter that just came across as a clumsy sound to her super sharpened senses. "All's fair in the first day of school. Like you nudging J-Dog into lockers when he tried to grab your schedule. You can call me a savage all you like, with those moves, I think I'll call you Ninja."
Her eyes stayed at the front of the class she sat and settled her backpack on the table next to her. "Ninja? I'm guessing it's your creative genius that also came up with 'J-Dog'?"
"Ouch. New girl has fangs." It was the kind of reference that made her head snap in his direction. He looked all too pleased with himself, not realizing he said a black magic word to a black magic woman. "Maybe we shouldn't talk so much? Looks like the freak show is getting a little on edge about it." He snickered, causing her eyes to retreat back over her shoulder. To Casey. To the kid that was talking with Casey in hushed tones, that one that looked at her like she was the monster, not the savior.
"One to a table, please." The teacher, Mr. Franklin, scruffy salt and pepper middle aged and wearing department store shirt and tie with GAP slacks, announced as he entered. Before the savage could say a word or move a muscle, Emy was out of her seat with backpack in hand, retreating to a table in the back of the room, the table behind the kid behind Casey, eyeing the skill saw just off to the right of her table. Oh, the stakes she could make with that sweet saw...
"Let's all start with a worksheet. Get to know the tools for the room and your table, go around the room and fill out the name for each tool on the sheet. You may gather in groups, or just crowd source knowledge. Even use your 'pocket computers', smartphones, if you want--just keep the Snapchatting and Vineing to a minimum." When a handful of students laughed, Franklin stopped, and frowned. "What? The kids don't 'Vine' anymore?...well, whatever you do." By the time he was done brushing off the ageism, he was handing the worksheet out to the last student without one: Emy, in the back.
"I'll be right back, don't burn the room down, don't turn any of the power equipment on. Please, Lord." Mr. Franklin retreated out of the room, and Emy Vance was suddenly in her backpack, looking for her pen. A pen she realized...she left in her locker, when she was distracted by watching Cuck getting cucked by the savages in the hell. Great.
"Hey, uh..." At first she looked up to kid who looked at her with uneasy eyes, only to immediately look past him, to Casey. "Casey, right?...hook a sister up with an extra pen? I mean, I did save your life, and everything." And she smiled, sweet as a preacher's girl on Sunday morning.
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