Jay Gatsby had been shot, and Scottie was about to shoot himself if he had to write one more word.

In the 20s, Gatsby had everything going for him. He was rich, straight, white, male, and had decent looks. He had multiple girls-and boys, if Scottie was right about Nick-in love with him. And he still chose the girl that didn't try to contact him for five years. For such an intelligent individual, he was pretty fucking stupid.

"Are you alright?" asked Espy.

"Of course. I'm almost done, actually."

The word count of 300 flashed in his eyes. He wrung his hands together. It was just 700 more words. Once he got into it, that would come easy enough. He just had to figure out how to write 700 more words about how a green light meant hope and how Gatsby wasn't a total dumbass. Easy.

"Can I hear what you have?"

"Well, I mean, it's kind of a work in progress, you know? I haven't exactly edited it yet so-"

Espy stifled a laugh. "I don't have to. But remember, this is due tomorrow."

Scottie turned around in the chair. "I am aware." Espy raised her eyebrows, then went back to reading. What it was this week, Scottie had no clue. But she was already halfway done. He could've sworn yesterday she had barely made a dent. He stood up from the desk and joined her on her bed. "Maybe if the assignment was more interesting then it would be done faster."

"You just gotta milk it."

"You gotta what?"

"Milk it. Use big words, long analogies, pretend to know what you're doing. That's what these guys did." She pointed to her book, and Scottie got a peak at the title. Hamlet. Turned out she wasn't an insanely speedy reader after all.

"I'll finish it tomorrow."

Despite knowing that this was an absolute lie, Espy stayed silent. Scottie adjusted to sitting on his stomach, holding his cheeks in his hands. His sleeves from his sweater scratched against the slight hair on his chin. "So, have you changed your mind yet?"

Espy rolled her eyes and smiled, setting down her book and marking her page. "Scottie-"

"Think about it, Espy." He grabbed her hand. "I know you're not really into comedy or horror movies, but it's not the movie that people are going for." He moved closer to her. "They rented an entire theater! And we don't have to pay for snacks or anything."

"Oh, so you're going for the snacks?"

"Of course, that's the whole point." Espy's lips curled into a wide smile.

"I will think about it. Okay?"

"That's all I expected," replied Scottie. He leaned in and kissed Espy on her upturned lips. She pulled away.

"Just so you know, Scream the sequel is not the magical date idea that you think it is."

Scottie sighed exasperatedly. "You need to experience things other than George Orwell sometimes, Espy."

"Esperanza!" A voice yelled from behind Espy's closed door. Scottie shot up from the bed, and Espy grabbed her book and flipped to where she marked it. "Los padres de tu amigo están aquí!"

Espy glanced at Scottie with a confused expression. "Pensé que se quedaba a cenar," she responded.

"Los padres de Prescott lo necesitan ahora!"

Espy sighed. Scottie furrowed his brows. "What did she say?" he whispered.

"Your parents are here."

"Oh, I'm sorry," apologized Scottie. He grabbed his shoes from beside the bed and began to lace them on. "I thought I was staying for dinner."

"I thought so too." Espy shrugged. "Maybe my parents don't want 'friends' staying over for dinner tonight."

Scottie laughed. He always loved coming over to Espy's house, not just because her room was the coolest he had ever seen or that her parents loved him, or even just because he loved spending time with her. But because it was the one place where he felt like him being there made a difference.

Espy stood up to face Scottie. "If I do this, will you watch Titanic with me next weekend?"

Scottie sighed. She always chose the sad stuff. What was fun about watching a romanticized version of a real-life tragedy? "I'll think about it."

"That's all I expected."

***

Julian J. Newmont didn't carry a backpack. That's what his seven lockers were for.

When taking the highest level of every class offered, the amount of textbooks that Julian required was too improbable to imagine carrying in a backpack. He found this out on orientation day when he couldn't carry three on his back without falling over. Even worse, the amount of walking required to get from place to place was more than he preferred to do any day, not even including the taxing weight of books and binders pushing against his back with every step. Of course, his parents struck a deal with the administration. A new bench in the courtyard in exchange for a few extra lockers right by each classroom. That was his dad's way of proving to his mom that public school was a good idea.

It wasn't.

Julian fiddled with the lock on his locker. He checked the piece of paper in his pocket. 29, 17, 25. He turned to 29 when a shove knocked him into his locker. He heard laughter, but didn't turn around. They didn't need that satisfaction.

Julian entered the classroom with a book and notebook folded under his right arm. The warning bell rang, but the classroom was almost empty still. He had always expected to be the late one, considering the time it took to retrieve his books, but he was still one of the punctual students. Typical.

He took his time walking to his desk, dead center of the classroom. The desk next to him was vacant. Again, typical. He sat down, and flipped to the pink tab in his notebook marking his homework.

"I heard the average was seventy-four," whispered a voice near his ear. Julian let out a sigh loud enough so he was positive that she heard it.

"You're not going to scare me," he replied.

"I'm not trying to scare you." The girl sat at the desk next to him. "I'm warning you." Estella Lancaster gave Julian a knowing smirk. Julian didn't give her the privilege of eye contact. He stuck strictly to peripheral vision.

"I'm sure the whines of everyone here when they see their scores is going to be unbearable, yes. Unless my prediction is right and the real reason the average is so low is because we are in a classroom full of underachieving, unmotivated slobs."

"I'm sure you made quite the impact on the average. Without you, maybe we would have made an eighty." Estella pulled out a black 2 inch binder from her backpack, keeping her gaze forward the entire time, her brown bangs remaining in the configuration that perfectly lined her face. If Julian was anyone else in the entire world, he may have thought he had feelings for Estella. But even despite their two grade age gap and complete dissimilarity, he could not imagine a realistic universe where he and Estella would make a suitable couple. Just the thought made Julian squirm in his seat. That, and he really did want to know how much he affected the average.

The late bell rang, greeting the rest of the class body into the room, including their teacher. She looked as if she had just chugged a can of Jolt in the storage room. She was carrying a stack of paper, which could only mean one thing.

After a five lecture about the importance of studying that Julian sat through with fake attention and both eyes directed at the papers sitting in the crook of her arm, about five papers were handed to each student in the front row. The sheets were passed back, and Julian did his best to remain composed when he felt the rough dead tree in his fingers. Polynomial division. He glanced at the three numbers in front of him. Sixty two, ninety five, and seventy four on the dot. He passed back two papers, and kept the red circled 95 on his desk.

"Congratulations," complimented Estella. Out of his peripheral vision, Julian saw a red circled 98 staring back at him.

***

Even though he had just run a mile, Desmond Ross had more energy than any other moment that day. The air that seeped into his lungs tasted of fresh relief, his legs ignored the aching that was surely to come.

Des picked up his water bottle and opened the cap. He stretched his mouth as wide open as he could manage and dumped the liquid into his throat. If the air tasted of fresh relief, that water tasted of a miracle.

Des studied those still on the track. Jorge Marin finished right before him and was already at the water fountain. Luca Barrett and Liam Linkswith crossed the line almost simultaneously. They moved off of the track and supported themselves with their arms on their knees. After a few seconds of catching their breath, they high fived and made their way to the water fountain. Luca caught Des' gaze and nodded. Des nodded back. A few others were near the back, mostly the new recruits that had never been on varsity indoor track before.

As Des turned to return to the bench, he saw Regina Linkswith sitting on the bleachers. Liam's younger sister wasn't exactly one for supporting her brother by watching him run for two hours, so the reason she was there was a mystery to Des. Regina was in ripped jeans and a tank top, flannel around her waist. He couldn't imagine how it could be warm enough to take off a flannel. Being inside helped, but it was still mid December.

Des took a seat in the row in front of her. He took a sip out of his water bottle. "Why does running take so long?" asked Regina. If she was being sarcastic, it was lost on him.

"It's not the running itself, it's the training," he explained.

"But you can run anytime. Why does it have to be two hours of practice?"

"Because it's all about... building up... stamina," a voice from behind Des answered. He turned around to find Ford Hernandez standing behind him, sweating so hard his tan skin started to be shown from underneath his shirt. His sentence was broken apart by heavy breathing. "If you don't run... for long periods of time... then you'll get out of shape. Plus... it's not just running. You gotta... do lots of different... things."

"Nice explanation, Fordham." Regina replied. What the fuck was a Fordham?

Ford smirked. "I try." He grabbed a tall blue Gatorade from a bag next to the bench and popped open the cap. He took a large sip, and cleared his throat loud enough for everyone to hear. "What are you doing here anyways, Reggie?"

"Liam's my ride." She squinted her eyes into the distance. "Where the fuck is he, anyways?"

"Can't you drive?"

"My dad took my car." Regina wiped a bit of sweat off of her forehead. Ford chugged half of the remaining Gatorade, and gave it to Regina, who, after checking to make sure it was okay, took it and chugged the other half.

"For good reason," Liam added. Him and Luca stood in front of the three, shirts soaked from both sweat and water from the water fountain. Ford waved to them excitedly. Sometimes his excitement scared Des. "Once I get changed, we can head home."

Regina sighed in relief. "Thank God. The testosterone in this building is humidifying."

Des let out a small chuckle, in contrast to Ford, who laughed so loud that Coach Joan caught his eye. Luca smiled, and he and Liam turned around towards the locker room.

In the locker room, the comment Regina made about testosterone was blatantly obvious to Des. Whenever he had thought he had gotten used to the smell, he walked in and it shocked him once again.

Des found his locker and undid the lock. Luca was next to him, shirt already off. He had his clean shirt in his hands, struggling to get it right-side out. "So, Des," he started. "You going to the movie night tomorrow?"

"I wish," Des lied. Going to a horror movie showing with a bunch of kids from school sounded like too much noise and not enough actual movie watching. "I have work."

"It's probably going to be lame anyways," Luca continued, a confidence in his voice that could only be fake. "I've got this thing with my sister. Can't get out of it."

Des took off his shirt, revealing a sweaty tank top underneath. Luca finished pulling up his pants. He had had even less success with his pants than with his shirt, which was saying something.

"Say you got hurt. That would explain your weak time today."

Luca laughed and slammed his locker door shut. "Rude."

After Luca was out of the door, Des sighed in relief. He was the last one left in the locker room. Checking to make sure nobody else was around, he took off his tank top and changed into his clothes.