The Merciless

Chapter One

I snag my thumb on the lunch trays's metal edge, and a crescent of blood appears beneath my cuticle. It oozes into the cracks surrounding my nail, then spills over to one side, forming a perfect red droplet, almost like a tear.

I swear under my breath. The cut stings, but at least I didn't smear blood across my T-shirt. Nothing says "be my friend" like serial-killer stains on the first day of school. A stack of napkins sits next to the bin of plastic silverware, but the guy in the food line in front of me is blocking it.

"Excuse me," I say, and the guy turns around. He's good-looking in that athletic, future-frat-boy way where he doesn't really have to try. His brown hair sticks up all over, and he wears a loose, wrinkled shirt, as if he's just rolled out of bed.

Years of being the new girl have helped me perfect my shy half smile. It's as close as I ever come to flirting. I motion to my bleeding finger. "Can you hand me a napkin?"

"Ouch," the guy says, grabbing a few napkins from the stack. His smile beats mine by a few watts, and I blush.

"Hey, do you need a Band-Aid?" asks a girl behind me, and I turn. She had platinum-blond cut short, like a boy's. Oversize black glasses without any lenses sits on her nose, and she wears a neon-pink tank top stretched so thin I can see her black bra through the material. A man's golden ring dangles from a chain around her neck.

"Yeah, thanks," I say. Next to her, my standard first-day uniform of a grey T-shirt and dark jeans looks comically plain. A few schools ago, I tried layering rubber bracelets around my wrists and colouring on my Converse sneakers with sharpies, but today my wrists are bare, my sneakers brand-new. It's time for a change.

"Hey, Brooklyn, what's up?" The boy nods at her. They don't seem like the kind of people who'd be friends, but his tone is nice enough. Brooklyn slides get tattered backpack off one shoulder and reaches into the front pocket.

"Hiya, Charlie," she says to him. "Your brother miss me yet?"

The name Charlie fits the cute, athletic guy, and it makes me like him more than if his name were Zack or Chad. A Charlie helps you find your algebra class when you can't figure out your new class schedule. Chad burps the alphabet.

Charlie runs a hand through his hair, leaving it even messier than before. "Miss isn't the word I'd use..."

"Ex-Boyfriend?" I interrupted to keep from being left out of the conversation. Asking a million questions is New Girl 101. People love taking about themselves. Brooklyn pulls her hand out of her bad and hands me a clear bandage decorated with a tiny picture of a moustache.

"Ex-Boss," she says. "But he'll be begging for me to come back any day now. Hey, cool tat."

She points to the crook of my hand, where I sketched a serpent wearing a headdress made of feathers. It's called Quetzalcoatl. When I was little and my mom and I still visited the tiny town where she grew up in Mexico, my Grandmother told stories about Quetzalcoatl. Grandmother's too sick to tell the stories anymore, but I sketch the serpent in my journal sometimes. And on my hand, apparently.

"It's not a real tattoo," I admit, rubbing at the drawing with the palm of my other hand. I'll have to wash it off before my mom sees it. She's never liked Grandmother's religious stories. My mom got her US citizenship five years ago, and she says Grandmother's spooky Mexican folktales remind her of all the reasons she'd wanted to move away. "Just Sharpie."

"Oh." Brooklyn sounds disappointed, but Charlie raises and eyebrow and nods in approval.

"You drew that? Nice," he says.

Before I can respond, a dark-haired girl stops in the middle of the cafeteria and clears her throat. The talking, laughing students around us fall silent, as if they've been placed under a spell.