"What's the French Revolution?" Lula is asking, as they go into their next class.

Audrey and Elliot are helping Maria staunch the swift flow of blood from her knuckles, padding at the hard-boned flesh with Madison's best silk handkerchief. The fight had been brief but enough to make a good point. Maria had thrown Diana to the ground easily, amidst the cheering crowd, and though Diana had put up a good fight, her strengths were clearly in favour of writing history essays and being the apple of the history teacher's eye.

It had been over in the blink of an eye and Diana had understood that to challenge Madison again would be akin to risking her own head for the guillotine.

"Lula, you made us watch Marie Antoinette last year," Audrey is saying. "You wanted to know everything about the French Revolution, to impress some guy."

Lula blinks, oblivious. "Huh?"

Maria is hissing in pain, but she lifts her head. "You slept with the history teacher."

"Oh, now I remember!" Lula crows happily. "He had a huge –,"

"Nobody wants to know!" Audrey says quickly.

Lula laughs. "I was going to say, a huge obsession with Marie Antoinette. I knew I had to get out of there, when he started trying to make me dress up as her."

Unfortunately, their maths teacher, Mr Flannery, has heard their chatter. "I didn't know you held such an interest in the French Revolution, Miss Worthington. The history is such a fascinating pursuit, isn't it? What moments best hold your interest?"

Madison watches with amusement, as a distraught, panicked-looking Lula is stuck with Mr Flannery, who is waxing, long and poetic, about the rise and fall of Louis XVI. Classmates filter in as Madison takes her seat and the teacher's voice, loud and booming, drifts.

"... So, Miss Worthington, what do you think the rebels might have told Louis, once they'd found him?"

"Vive la révolution, bitch."

Madison is so surprised that she inadvertently lets out a soft, amused chuckle, in spite of herself. She finds herself lifting her head and when she sees Nick, she stills and the smile drops. There's no denying that the comment was funny but she won't let the Hawthorne boy have the pleasure of seeing her amused.

Mr Flannery finally lets Lula go, after seeing that there's no use in trying to engage in conversation with a girl who thinks Louis Vuitton and Louis XVI are the same person. Lula skips to them happily, her wide smile blooming across her face, and her gaze follows Audrey's gaze, where the girl is staring absently outside of the window.

"You ever think about jumping?" Lula teases jokingly.

All the time.

The thought comes to Madison, unbidden, and she inhales sharply, straightening her back quickly. Her heart hammers away within her chest but nobody has noticed her, for Audrey is spluttering, her cheeks flushed a bright red.

"No!" she says, looking horrified. "Lula, that's a terrible thing to joke about."

Lula looks properly admonished. Maria is continuing to speak. "And so I told Yvonne my rule. If he puts his hands on you and you don't like it, break them."

Madison's lips quirk. "Did she?"

Maria smirks. "You know it, bitch."

"Did you see what that bitch, Jane Andrews, was wearing, today?" Audrey interrupts them quickly, looking slightly uncomfortable, as she eyes her phone. "A beanie. An actual, honest-to-God beanie. What kind of hippy Hell did they kick her out of?"

Madison suppresses an amused smile and Lula shivers, probably remembering her own close call with a beanie. "Beanies are the devil's plaything," Maria agrees, nodding importantly. "I once dumped a guy because of them."

"Was he wearing a beanie?" Lula asks, sympathetically.

Maria shakes his head. "No, he picked one up in the store. It was very embarrassing for me."

"Are you quite finished with your conversation, Miss Worthington, Miss Garcia?" Mr Flannery asks, his head lifted, as his voice thrums with annoyance. "Oh, I'm sure your conversation was so riveting that it takes more importance than maths equations. Would you like to share, with the rest of the class? We're all ears."

"No, sir. We're good," Maria says brightly, with her best, blinding smile. She mutters, under her breath, "If he wore a beanie, like Jane Andrews, I wouldn't even step into class today."

"I'd throw up," Lula agrees, her voice low as she keeps the perfect smile hitched onto her face.

Me Flannery gives an exasperated sigh. "I do not understand this new fad of criticising our fellow classmates for what they express themselves to be," he says, with some clear irritation. "Haven't you girls heard of feminism?"

Madison lifts her head. "Of course," she says smoothly, and the teacher's eyes widen with some surprise. Her voice is clear and lilting. "We bitch about girls and boys equally."

There is some silence in the classroom and Madison realises that nobody, but Mr Flannery, understands her joke. Even Elliot is blinking, blank-faced. She wants to roll her eyes at their ineptitude – really, she's wasted on this awful, uneducated lot.

And then –

Behind her, Nick Hawthorne snorts.

*

Nick lopes easily, up to Will's house, in long, smooth strides.

It's a massive building, all redbrick and crawling ivy, with a driveway that surrounds a large, gushing fountain. It's a testament to how Nick's been in Redwood so long that he doesn't even bat an eye at the richness of it all. He didn't take his motorbike because it's an easy, short walk, but he still misses the damn thing.

He raises his fist to rap the knocker against the door when Nick hears the screaming.

"You're never there for them!"

"Someone has to do the actual work around here –,"

"Who fed them? Who clothed them? Who raised them?"

Nick winces.

Clearly, Will's parents are fighting like cats and dogs. He's been the third-wheeler, when some of his friends had parents who railed at each other, before and it's always an awkward situation for everyone involved. Thinking to save some face, Nick wonders if he should make a run for it when the door swings open heavily.

Soft, gold light cants against his face sharply and Nick blinks blindly, at the rather portly-looking woman, who is so clearly Will's mother. She has his sharp, wide eyes and even her scowl, which is sharp enough to match her words, is eerily similar to Will's expression.

She eyes him critically. "Sorry," she says quickly, "but we're not interested in whatever it is you're selling."

Nick splutters. "I'm not selling anything –,"

"We're devout Christians, already," the woman tells him. "But keep spreading the good word."

"Who's at the door?" he hears Will shouting from the distance, his voice swallowed up by calls in the house.

"Jehovah's Witnesses!" the woman shouts back.

"I'm not a Jehovah's Witness!" Nick says, and his cheeks are flushed. "My name's Nick –,"

He sees the flicker of something in the hallway of the house and Will's face pops up, blinking at him blearily. "Mum!" Will moans. "That's Nick! Let him in! I'll be a minute!"

Mrs Carroway blinks at him before her eyes widen slightly, mirroring Nick's own embarrassment. "Oh my –," she begins before breaking down into some very choice words. She stumbles over some form of an apology, in which Nick flushes horribly, and ends with an invitation into the house, as her son has so courteously suggested. "You're a friend of Will's, then?" she asks, her voice still thin and frail, as she offers him a glass of water.

The flush on her cheeks is deep enough to rival his own. Nick nods quickly and gulps down the cold water gratefully. "I'm new, Mrs Carroway," he says politely. "You – you have a really nice house."

"Why, thank you." Her eyes light in realisation. "Nicholas Hawthorne," Mrs Carroway says, looking as though she remembers something. "Will did mention you, but he didn't mention your impeccable manners. It's rare to see such a well-mannered boy of your age, Nicholas."

Ha.

Try telling that to his teachers.

"Uh, thanks," Nick says awkwardly.

He's uncomfortable because it's all too clear that he's heard the argument and Mrs Carroway knows that he's heard it and they both know it, so the thickening tension lies between them, untouched and unspoken. The air around them grows awkward and Nick prays to be anywhere but here, his fingers tightening around the cold glass.

When Mr Carroway comes in, Mrs Carroway's scowl becomes pronounced. She turns her head but Mr Carroway's eyes are on him, his lip curling. "I'll be back tonight. I won't eat that disgusting slop of yours, if I see it on the table," he tells his wife.

A flare of hot fury boils up within his chest and Nick's eyes flicker from Mrs Carroway's hot, embarrassed flush, to Mr Carroway. His gaze hardens with clear dislike.

Mr Carroway seems to realise he's glaring at him and turns his head. "What are you glaring at me for, boy?" he demands. "You must be the delinquent Hawthorne boy. The ungrateful thug." Nick tries not to visibly bristle; he hates that word. "A right shame and blight you are, on that poor mother of yours, kicking up such a fuss like that."

"Gareth!" Mrs Carroway exclaims, startled.

But Nick is seeing red, his fists clenching together. "And you must be the resident prick of a husband, never there for your children and forcing your wife to do all the work."

Mrs Carroway gasps sharply, pressing her fingers to her mouth, but her eyes are bright. Mr Carroway, for his part, looks like he might reach across the room and throttle Nick, if he can get away with it. But Nick cannot help his anger.

He has a resounding hatred for people, who judge and abuse and hurt, simply because they feel they have the power to. Because they're used to being treated with respect they never deserved and when a single thing goes wrong, it's an excuse to flip tables, to make a mess for Mrs Carroway to silently clean up, her voice and value taken away. His dad thought he had the power, too.

Nick's jaw tightens, his fury building up within his chest, and he turns his head to Mrs Carroway sharply. "He's not a baby and you deserve better, Mrs Carroway," Nick says, and when Mr Carroway opens his mouth, he continues, cutting smoothly across him. "I hope you get free of him. Divorce or murder, I'll be there with the pen or the shovel."

*