Where I came from, August was sweater weather. It seemed odd to me, a place like this deep in the South-West. When my brother said he was shipping me off to a fancy school, I pictured England.

Not a fucking swamp.

I exhaled as my phone once again gave me the middle finger.

This school was a goddamn dead zone.

I eyed the ominous signs again. How bad could a few trees be? I’d seen worse in my life than leaves—

Something moved to my left.

I spun, shining my phone on it.

Tall grass and more mosquitos.

“You got this,” I gave myself a pep talk. “There’s nothing out here but you and all the mosquitos in Texas—”

A vicious, rabid growl started up. It ate up the shadows and turned my stomach upside down. I could feel it—whatever it was—sticky, hot, like the sweat on my neck.

“Fuck it.”

I ran toward the trees—

Something gripped the nape of my collar, tearing me backward.

Adrenaline took over. Instinct. Every single bad story my brother had told to try and scare me bubbled up. I ripped off my bag and chucked it at the growling monster with a “Hyaaaaah!”

A loud “What the fuck!” followed seconds later.

A loud and very not monstrous what the fuck.

Shoulders heaving with each breath, I narrowed my eyes through the twilight. There was a lump in the grass…a uniform. A boy.

Oh.

Fuck.

I ran to him, helping him up, a slur of apologies spilling from my mouth.

“I…fuck I’m sorry. I thought you were…I heard something.” I peered into the trees. “A growl.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Raccoons.”

“Raccoons?”

“The place is lousy with them. Another reason not to go into the fucking forest.”

“That was not a fucking raccoon.”

Silence passed, him still on the ground, me awkwardly bent over him. I realized my stuff had fallen out all over the grass, including the one and only piece of my mother I had. I quickly rushed to it before he could see, shoving it inside.

All my other belongings, my clothes and necessities, had been already shipped here. Supposedly waiting at the dorm. Assuming I ever got there.

Slowly, we stood up.

He looked like a gothic poet, with silky black hair that fell across carved cheekbones and revealed only one haunted, striking green eye. His lips were plush and petal colored.

He was tall, so tall, but he carried himself like he wanted to blend into the shadows.

“So can you not fucking read?” he snapped.

I blinked, realizing I’d been staring. “Excuse me?”

“The signs.” He was more than annoyed. It sounded like he hated me.