I sit in a rather uncomfortable wooden chair, tapping my foot up and down and watching the clock as it ticks. There's only one window in this room, and it's got no ledge on the outside, so unless I want to jump three stories, escaping seems to be off the table.

I grab a chunk from the stack of paper on the manager's desk and begin crumpling them up, tossing them one by one at the trash bin in the corner. Soon I turn it into a game, trying bank shots and off the ceiling shots and what have you. It's been an hour already, and the cops still haven't shown up. I briefly process my stomach grumbling, but know there's nothing to be done about it.

I'm just setting up the bin on the desk so I can try another angle when the door opens, and the manager comes back in. He looks angry, and I watch as he sits down at the desk before gesturing for me to sit down too. I obey; I would mess with him, but I just want out of this stuffy office.

He stares at me for a minute. And then two. And then three. He's a tall man, with quite the belly and a name tag that reads 'Mark'. He also has a terrible habit of breathing through his mouth, and as he stares at me I count the crumbs in his moustache.

"If this is the silent game, I forfeit," I finally say, and he steeples his hands in front of his face.

"Here's the deal," he says, pulling the bin off his desk and adjusting his papers. "The police won't come here on account of they're 'too busy' with 'real crimes.'"

"Great." I stand. "Well, this was a fun waste of my time—"

"Sit," he demands, and I plop back down. "You didn't let me finish. The police won't come here, so my only option is taking you to them."

I can't contain my groan. "Really, Mark? You're gonna go through all of this trouble just because a twelve-year-old stole a few trinkets? What's in this for you?"

"I'm tired of delinquents like you coming in here and stealing from me—" he slams, actually slams, his fist on his desk "—and thinking there will be no consequences! I've had enough!"

It seems I've angered him, because he stands up and grabs me roughly by the scruff of my neck, tugging me out of the office and into the store.

"Now you're gonna pay for what you stole—"

"Technically I didn't actually steal any of it—"

He cups me in the ear — hard, might I add — and I flinch away, trying to wriggle out of his grasp as he practically drags me across the store.

"Hey!"

I look up and mentally curse. There stands Jesse, Danny, and DJ, the former most marching right up to where Mark has me in a vice. He stops just a metre in front of us, his face screwed up in fury. Who he's mad at I'm not so sure yet.

"You let her go, all right?" he says slowly, clearly trying not to further anger Mark, who's spluttering like a madman.

"And who are you?" Mark demands, his face beet red.

"I'm her father, all right? Now why don't we just sort something out here—"

"You raised a filthy thief, you know that?" Mark shakes me side to side slightly. "You raised a criminal!"

It's an unfair statement, if you think about it. Jesse didn't raise me; me being a criminal has nothing to do with him. Of course, Mark doesn't know that. I half expect Jesse to let him know. I half expect him to say something along the lines of 'It's not my fault she's a criminal. It's not my fault she's so screwed up.'

Instead, his face melts into a defensive glare.

"She's a good kid, all right?" he says firmly, as if he really believes it. "She's a good kid, she just likes getting herself into trouble. Do you have a kid?"

Mark looks taken aback by this, and he sputters for a moment. "Y-yes, I have a son."

"And — and your son, does he get up to no good sometimes?"

"Sometimes, I suppose he does. He nearly got expelled last month, actually."

"But they gave him another chance?" Jesse asks pushingly, and Mark nods. "All I'm asking is you give her another chance, all right? She's a good kid."

Mark looks at me, and I make the calculated decision to keep my mouth shut. I see the quiet contemplation in his little beady eyes before he abruptly lets go of me.

"Fine. But don't you show yourself around here again, you hear me?" he points a chunky finger at me, and I throw my hands up in despair.

"But what will I do without the Gap?"

Jesse gives me an exasperated glare as Mark huffs and trudges off back to his office. I turn back to the others

"Now," Danny says, his voice quietly furious, "will one of you explain to me what happened here?"

DJ already has tears in her eyes, and she points at me. "She made me do it!"

I can't catch my jaw before it smashes to the floor. "I didn't make you do shit! You went off on your own accord."

"She didn't want to take your money," DJ explains to her dad, sniffling. "And — and she showed me how to do it."

Danny turns to me, malice painted on his face. His voice is low when he speaks. "You showed my daughter how to shoplift?"

"She wanted to know!" I try to defend myself, but Danny just shakes his head.

"We've welcomed you to our home, and how do you repay us?" he asks with a smile of disbelief. "You show my daughter how to steal and you won't even own up to it!"

It's not fair. It's so cruelly unfair that I can't even voice how I feel. I just stand there, all my excuses stuck in my throat as I realize that while I didn't force DJ to do anything, it's still my fault. Jesse told me they were impressionable.

"You owe me and DJ an apology," Danny says when I don't respond.

I feel like swearing. I feel like storming out. Maybe a week ago I would. Maybe a week ago I'd take any little reason to run away. But I look at Jesse, who watches me intently, and I can't bring myself to disappoint him further. So I just sigh.

"I'm sorry, all right?" I fight not to roll my eyes. "To both of you."

I make brief eye contact with DJ, looking away before she can even process the focus. Danny puts a hand on her shoulder, turning her around.

"Don't think me and you don't have more to talk about," he mutters, walking out of the store. Then it's just me and Jesse, and I avoid his gaze, absorbing the silence.

"I swear I didn't tell her to do anything," I mutter hopelessly, feeling pathetic and defeated. I stare at my feet.

I await the shouting, and the scolding, and the usual recount of all the house rules, but Jesse just nods.

"I know."

My gaze snaps to his, just to see if he's kidding. He's not; he really believes me.

"But — I promise I won't do it again," I say, and I mean it. All of a sudden shoplifting has lost its appeal. I guess Les was right; if she couldn't teach me the lesson, something else would.

He steps forward and puts a hand on my shoulder.

"I know," he says. "I guess it wasn't the bonding experience I expected it to be; you and DJ might just need to keep your distance for now. How about we get you some clothes?"

I narrow my eyes. "You're not gonna yell at me?"

He gives me a sympathetic smile and a small shake of the head. "I think you've had enough of that for one week."

I let him lead me out of the store and into another clothing one. My mind is a swirl of embarrassment and relief that Jesse believes me and not DJ. I didn't think he would — he always talks about how much Danny's kids mean to him, and I don't think I'm close to their level.

But I am his daughter, and maybe he knows when I'm lying and when I'm telling the truth. Maybe he does it the same way.

Regardless, I feel exhausted as we shop for clothing, and I'm uncharacteristically quiet throughout it all. If I'm being honest, I feel a little nauseous from the whole day. I just want to go home and sleep.

As we look at jeans, Jesse suddenly turns to me.

"If DJ got caught, why were you the one being roughed up by that guy?" Jesse asks me, and I glance at him before looking away and shrugging.

"Dunno."

Jesse pauses, looking at me with a vague bewilderment. "You took her place."

"Look, it wasn't some Good Samaritan deed, okay?" I defend my reputation. "I only did it because I knew she was too weak to handle the pressure."

But he smiles at me, and I know he sees through my excuses. I turn away, examining a pair of bell bottoms and pretending I can't feel his eyes on the side of my face.

"You're a good kid, Alex," he says. "Even though you try not to be."

~

Luckily, my second day of classes doesn't involve Math, and I'm offered a brief window of bliss before Thursday, when I'm tossed into the hurricane once more.

"All right, everyone! Please hand in your assignments from last class!"

I swear under my breath as I search through the bag Jesse bought me for the homework I fully know I tossed into the recycling bin two days ago. Next to me, Percy walks up and hands his in. I swear again, but ultimately slump down in my seat and accept defeat. Percy comes back shortly after, and he (uncharacteristically) says nothing to me, only sitting down and staring intently at the board.

"All right!" Ms Lawson claps her hands together. "Jason, Terry — I expect your missing assignments on my desk by tomorrow at three. The rest of you, good job on completing them. Now today . . ."

I frown, looking around the class at Terry and Jason, who hastily work on their worksheets, both sporting bright red faces at being called out. My eyes then land on Percy, who avoids my gaze and instead watches as Ms Lawson writes the notes on the board.

Another thing my mom had an issue was was gambling. She used to host poker nights in our apartment with junkies and drug dealers she knew, but sometimes they wouldn't have enough players, and so she'd call me in. Even though she was wasted or high every time we played, she was always excellent at reading people. She knew how to call a bluff, and she taught me how to tell if other people are lying.

Now Percy may not be lying, but he is hiding something. I can see it in the expertly placid expression on his face. I can hear it in the occasional click of his pen.

"What'd you do, Walker?" I ask him, and he looks over to me with an innocent expression painted on his face.

"What do you mean?" he asks, his brow furrowing ever so slightly. I roll my eyes.

"What, you take my paper out of the bin?" I ask, leaning closer to him. "You think to yourself that you'd do my work and we'd be all buddy buddy?"

His expression falters. "I didn't do it for your attention. I just thought you could use a hand."

I stare at him for a moment. It is a nice gesture, I suppose, but I hate it when people do stuff for me out of the goodness of their hearts. It makes me feel like I owe them.

"She'll know it's not me," I say, "I don't listen in this class — doesn't take a detective to see that."

"Don't worry," he responds, "I made an appropriate amount of mistakes."

I stare at him for a minute longer, an idea growing in my head. I lean even closer.

"I'll pay you," I mutter.  "You do my assignment every week — I'll pay you."

He shakes his head. "Can't do that."

"Why?" I ask, leaning away once more. He shrugs.

"My morals won't allow it."

I snort, but he continues before I can make fun of him.

"You can pay me to tutor you, though." He looks over to me, and I nearly laugh out loud, an amused grin befalling my face.

"Yeah, as if." I cross my arms. "Unwillingly spending an hour with you is already unbearable, I'd never volunteer."

He shrugs, unbothered by my insult. "All right. Well, those are your options."

I tune him out. I tune the teacher out. Once she teaches the lesson, she hands out another assignment, and I fight the urge to throw it away, instead giving it my best effort. Beside me, Percy finishes his in ten minutes; by the end of class, I'm scribbling in my final (definitely incorrect) answer. I sigh in frustration, looking down at the crossed out numbers and holes in my paper from pushing my pen down too hard out of fury.

Percy peeks over at it, but I grab it and stuff it in my bag before he can read it.

"I don't need your help," I snap at him, standing and grabbing my bag just as the bell rings.

"Alex!" calls someone as I enter the hallway, and I whirl around to see Stacey fall into step next to me. She grins, her eyes sparkling with blue eye shadow. Her hair has been cut to her shoulders, and she tucks it behind her ear. As we walk through the hall, nearly everyone shoots compliments her way.

"Hey," I say, not really in the mood to talk. She fumbles (and ultimately drops) the hint. I look back to see it shatter on the floor as she nudges me with her shoulder.

"I want you to come sit with us at lunch," she states, almost in a way that leaves me no room to protest.

"Who's 'us'?" I ask, turning a corner.

"Me and my friends," she says, leading me up a set of stairs and towards what sounds like a large crowd. "You'll like them, they're cool."

I don't really know what to say. It's easy for me to speak my mind around everyone I meet, but the assertion that Stacey displays makes it hard to say no.

She leads me into what must be the cafeteria. It's a high-ceiling, bustling room of kids in all grades. They gather in groups and sit at tables, eating and talking and laughing. Stacey makes a beeline towards what seems like the centre of attention — a table of around six girls, all of them in bright colours and eye makeup to match Stacey's.

"Alex, this is Jen, Tiff, Ronnie, Sash, Nance, and Lindsey." Stacey points to them all, and their names are immediately lost to me, drifting through both of my ears and out an open window. "Girls, this is Alex."

Half of them give me uncertain looks, eyeing my not-so-colourful outfit and make-up-less, beaten up face. The other half smiles politely, two of them moving over to give me and Stacey room. Reluctantly, I sit, and Stacey squeezes in beside me, already lunging into a story about some girl in her Science class this morning.

"I swear she was crying," she's saying as I tune in. "She must have gotten a terrible grade on her test. I felt bad, of course — but she snapped at me when I tried to talk to her."

"She's so pathetic," one of the other girls — I think Tiff. No, Sasha — says. Their row of the table turns around to look across the cafeteria, at presumably the crying Science girl, before they focus back on Stacey.

"Is she always so emotional?" Stacey asks me, and I turn to her, bewildered.

"Who?"

She giggles. "DJ. That's who we've been talking about."

Oh. I look over Sasha's shoulder, and sure enough, DJ sits at a table with a blonde girl I vaguely recognize, looking discouraged. As I stare at her, she looks up at me, and immediately her eyes narrow. She says something to her friend, who looks at me as well, and I roll my eyes, feeling angry just staring at her face.

"She's pretty emotional," I say through grit teeth, remembering the incident at the Gap. It's not a nice thing to say, but I have a right to be angry. And DJ is sensitive.

"How so?" Stacey asks, and I frown at her.

"I dunno." I shrug. "She yells sometimes. One time she cried because her dad wouldn't let her go to the movies or something."

I don't care to go into further detail, but Stacey is eating it up.

"No way, she cried because of that?"

I stare at her. Suddenly I don't feel too good talking about DJ to these girls. While Stacey seems nice, I'm not so sure about all of her friends. I don't know these people, and it's not my business telling them what goes on with DJ at home.

And then I think about how quickly she sold me out. I think about how Danny made me apologize, even though I technically saved her ass.

"She didn't just cry," I say, "she bawled."

Everyone laughs, and I look back over to DJ, who narrows her eyes at me. I shoot her a smug smile and a wink, and she looks away.

The rest of lunch I'm asked questions about DJ, until I successfully change the subject by asking one of them about their outfit. Then they're all off on a rant, and I quickly get bored — I'm thankful when the bell rings and I can go off to English.

I'm walking past the office when a colourful poster catches my eye. I stop, looking down the hall before examining the words.

JOIN THE GIRLS' BASKETBALL TEAM! Tryouts this Friday 3:00 — 4:30.

It's smushed between the Jazz Band poster I was looking at last week and a new Debate Team newsletter. I stare at it for a moment. I played basketball at my elementary school one year. I really liked it, even though it was co-Ed and the boys were assholes. I'm not usually a big sports person, but I never minded basketball.

"Thinking of joining Jazz Band?" asks a voice, and I turn to see Percy standing next to me, following my gaze to the posters.

"Yeah," I answer, beginning to walk, "I figure that if I join, I can take it down from the inside."

"Ambitious." he nods.

"I'm known to be."

"So, you play basketball?" he then asks, and I shrug.

"Not religiously. But — I dabble." I turn a corner; I find that whenever Percy is walking next to me, I subconsciously walk quicker.

"You should join the team," he says, holding a door open for me. I walk through and make a sharp right, weaving through kids.

"Yeah, right."

I find the door to my class and stop to open it. I go to say something further to Percy, but by the time I turn around he's disappeared in the crowd of rushing kids. I try to spot his messy brown hair for a second before rolling my eyes and heading into my class.

I find my seat and unsling my backpack from my shoulders, roughly yanking out my binder and pencils. A small, crumpled piece of paper falls to the ground, and I frown, trying to recall which abandoned homework sheet it is. I pick it up and flatten it out on my desk only to see the same basketball sheet from the bulletin. I stare at it for a moment, and then shake my head.

"Walker, you bastard," I mumble, but I shove the paper in my pocket nonetheless.