Chapter 1 GUY WITH ANGER ISSUES
If I had better self-control, I wouldn’t be banned from half the places I go after school…
…yeah. That’s not an exaggeration.
Most kids go home, do homework, complain about math. I keep a mental list of convenience stores, parking garages, and alleyways I’m strongly advised not to return to. Not because I stole anything—stealing is sloppy—but because things tend to… break when I’m around. Doors. Noses. Occasionally, hands and legs.
Guess I should introduce myself.
My name’s James Adam Xephile. Most people just call me JAX—partly because it’s easier, partly because it keeps things simple.
I’m a Westford High student by day. Seventeen. Apparently “a concern.”
I pass most of my classes, and I have a talent for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
First period starts the same way it always does: too loud, too early, and everyone pretending they’re not exhausted.
I’m halfway to my seat when the hallway shifts. Not noise—weight. Like people suddenly remember how to move out of the way.
Someone bumps my shoulder hard enough to knock my bag loose.
Books hit the floor.
I close my eyes and let out a huff. I don’t look behind right away. I already know who it is.
A shadow falls over me. Big. Confident. Close enough that I can smell cheap licorice cologne and something metallic—like sweat and stinking gym clothes.
“Watch it,” Derek Vaughn says, calm and amused. Like this is funny. Like it’s routine.
A couple people slow down. Nobody stops. Of course, not for me.
I crouch, gather my things, keep my hands tight at my sides.
He laughs softly, like I’ve disappointed him.
“Yeah,” he adds, walking past. “That’s what I thought.”
Derek Vaughn. Tenth grade’s favorite. My personal nightmare.
I shove my books into my bag and turn toward my locker, keeping my head down. I’m almost there when someone steps into my line of sight—careful this time. Like they don’t want to startle me.
“Hey.”
Derek’s girlfriend, Stella.
She glances down at my hands. There’s a thin cut across my forearm, already bleeding again. I didn’t even feel it.
“You’re hurt,” she says quietly.
“I’m fine,” I reply. Too fast.
She doesn’t call me out. Just reaches into her bag and pulls out a bandage, holding it out.
For some reason, my face feels warm.
I blame the hallway. Or the lights. Definitely not her.
I take it without meeting her eyes. “Thanks,” I mutter.
She smiles—small and real—and something tight in my chest shifts.
“Take care of yourself,” she says.
Then she’s gone, slipping back into the crowd like nothing happened.
I stand there longer than I should, staring at the bandage in my hand and absolutely not thinking about the fact that my ears are still warm.
It’s nice to know someone cares.
Not like that.
It’s just—she’s nice. For no reason. Which is weird. And probably fake. Or a trap. Who knows.
It’s not like I’m into her or anything—she’s dating him. Which already says a lot about her judgment. Honestly, if she likes someone like Derek, she clearly doesn’t have great taste.
So, whatever.
Like I care.
