First day of school, eighth grade. I roll in with fresh kicks and a forbidden line shaved in my hair, total badass. Kids are cheering, teachers glaring, even Jenny Martin says “’Sup,” with a smile. This is gonna be my year.

Then this new kid shows up, and the schoolyard stops. Dead silence.

Dude’s got an eyepatch. An actual eyepatch.

“Fireworks,” he says, all nonchalant, and he shrugs.

Whoa.

The yard explodes. Everyone’s pointing and jabbering, even the principal — everyone but Jenny. She practically sprints over to him.

“’Sup,” she says.

“’Sup,” he says back — and she freakin smiles.

Goddamn.