The second time I see my soulmate is in the hallway, surrounded by a bunch of students, each one of them trying to get over the other to watch what's happening. Are they all as excited as me to see that he is back from writing Boot Camp? Or—

My thoughts are cut short by the loud, "Whoa!" That erupts from the crowd.

My breath gets stuck in my chest as I get closer to see what exactly is going on. I shouldn't even be here, being associated with these kinds of crowds and scandals is bad for me, my reputation and the school in general. We don't do ghetto assemblies here, we are better than that, but my soulmate is there, and I have to see why. 

As I get closer, my eyes widen, watching — in the clichéd type of slow motion — when the balled fist of someone flies in the air and lands on my soulmate's left cheek.

What the fuck?

Since when does Leon Bailey engage in fights?

My soulmate rushes a hand to his beautiful face as he curses in sheer pain. 

Leon doesn't cuss, but maybe he is a different person now, total opposites with the one I knew in elementary school. 

I want to run to him, but like many times before, I'm late to the party and someone beats me to it,  the knight in shining douchiness has already shown herself. Besides him, Claire Gall straightens, then holds Leon's shoulder, asking if he is alright. 

Claire Gall might be one of the few people here who I actually don't like. Not that she is unlikable but her behavior is. She is the delinquent of the school, that one girl that every teacher complains about and is always in detention. 

It takes me not more than a second to piece two and two together when I see the other girl standing a few feet from Leon and Claire. One might think that she has my attention because she punched a boy I love across the cheek and there's a high chance his jaw broke, but no, her dressing is what throws me off the rails. 

Who the hell dresses like that? 

In awe, my eyes travel firstly to the Converse shoes that should normally appear white in the rims but they're brown, then the ripped jeans that she folds at the bottom to expose her black fishnet stockings a little before we are given the bare skin from her knee up to the mid-thigh — quite a show — oh, but that's not it. At the top, she wears this short-sleeved, gray cropped top and on top of it, adds another blue, short-sleeved denim jacket. 

My stomach is twisting so hard at the site before me. I don't know which I want to do first between throwing up due to the basic lack of fashion and self respect or approaching her and asking her to get out of this place. 

“You can't just go around punching people like that, you know?” I say. I don't even know how I found myself in front of her, but I'm definitely glaring. My iPad shoved into my chest. 

I look around, making sure everyone has dispersed because there is nothing to watch anymore. From the corner of my eye, I watch Claire, holding onto Leon's waist as she escorts him to the nurse — that should be me doing that for him. But somehow, confronting this person made much more sense.

“Wasn't meant for him, trust me,” she says, her voice is too serene, as if she did not just commit a crime. I watch as she inspects her knuckles before she looks at me—-those eyes. 

Those stormy black eyes. Why do they look so familiar?

“So, what, you're playing detective?” The girl asks, but before I can get out of my head, realization just clicks on her face. A second later, she is staring at her phone that has a thousand cracks on it. I wonder how she still uses it. “You're this girl.” 

My eyes squint at the broken screen. I'm only starting to make sense of the picture but she snatches the phone out of my face and shoves it into her pocket.

“You're supposed to be giving me a tour." She shrugs. "Not playing detective."

I'm still confused. How did I end up here again? 

When I woke up to the sound of nothing but beautiful chirping birds that decided to make a nest above the tree next to my room, I felt great.

If someone told me, I would be caught up in this mess, I would not have believed them.

My routine was close to the usual; workouts with Mom in the gym, some yoga here and there for perfect flexibility like her trainer likes to put it. Then, like every other morning, I grabbed Think And Grow Rich, a book recommended by Dad for the week and slipped into the bathtub. 

Excitement had sprung me earlier before my normal waking up time, so I still had a few hours to myself. The book was meant to educate me, but I couldn't seem to get past the second paragraph, so I stashed it somewhere safe for later and dried my body. 

The uniform felt new, straight from laundry, and I was glad I had had it steamed the day before. 

This morning, I stood in the mirror, tall, beautiful, full of hope and exhilaration for the first day of school. All that was great, even the breakfast was super nice —as if Pablo, the new chef, knew that today was my special day. As delicious as the pie was, I couldn't get past half of it. I needed to make sure everything turned out great, so I pulled out my iPad and started making a to-do list for the day. 

Call me a freak all you want, but I like to have my day planned out. I need to know where I'm supposed to be and at what time. Everything just has to be perfect. Simple. 

The better than the best part came when Dad handed me the keys to my new freaking Bentley — with my name engraved on it. God, even now, thinking back to it, that was heaven. The feeling of them trusting me enough to let me drive was just over the top.

Even when I pulled out into the bustling streets of Galveston, I knew my day would be spectacular. Well-planned and feeling extra cool with my new car. 

So what in hell's name is this shit?

“Dude, are we gonna do this or what?” The girl asks, quirking a thick eyebrow.

“I’m sorry, do we know each other?” I finally ask. I can't seem to get past this feeling of familiarity. 

For a split second, I notice the mischief dancing in her eyes, like she knows something I don't, but she shakes her head. “I don't think so?” 

“Mm.” I mumble to myself. 

Maybe I saw her on Instagram or whatever, and to be fair, there are a bunch of girls who look like her; hooded eyes, thick eyebrows, long nose and semi-full small lips. It gets worse when I add on the brown hair and overgrown bangs. It's literally every white girl I know. Except this one needs grooming.

I brush it off, this stranger won't ruin my day.

“I am aware of a tour I need to conduct, but I didn't think you'd be…" I trail off, short of words — or decent ones, altogether. 

I'm still wondering if she is in the wrong place, perhaps delirious to think she goes here, when Curtis Haul, the only guy with red hair in the entire school, pops up. 

Curtis gently hits the girl on the shoulder. “Hey, good to see you again.”

“Same,” the girl says as Curtis brushes past us like he wasn't here. 

“You—” I jerk a thumb over my shoulder, but then I finally get it. I remember this girl. She was at my birthday party a week ago and….

Well, let's just say our interaction wasn't pretty. 

I swallow. She smirks, and I wonder if she knows what I know. 

“I'm Reese Peyton,” I say, extending a hand. Truly, people can only give you a few chances to make good impressions.

The girl hesitates before she pushes her dry one into mine. I shake it even when my eyes are partly running over her exposed biceps. 

“Kris.”

“Shall we?” I gesture with my hand for us to start walking. 

"Whenever you're ready," Kris mumbles and pulls out her phone. 

How did my perfect day turn into this...

Disaster?

Catastrophe?

What the hell even is this?