THERE ARE THREE things that Dawson Evans hates more than anything in the world: high school, his parents, and sports involving balls. The latter trauma can be traced back to elementary school when he was forced to play dodgeball, but never once managed to actually dodge one.

His parents insisted he started taking fencing lessons when he was 5 years old and it's still nowadays the only sport he has ever liked or excelled at. His parents insisted he started taking piano lessons when he was 4 years old, so now he can play Beethoven's Hammerklavier with his eyes closed. His parents also insisted he started taking French and Spanish classes when he was 6 because their friends' kids were all bilingual so he had to speak at least three languages instead.

There are three things that Dawson Evans loves more than anything in the world: maths, indie movies, and astronomy.

So when he turned 16, he got a tattoo to piss off his parents. It was a small, faithful reproduction of Saturn. You may be wondering why he picked that particular planet.

Well, being the astronomy geek he is, Dawson discovered a fun fact about that planet: The density of Saturn is lower than the one of water, meaning that if you were to immerse it in water, it would always stay afloat. Kinda like he did.

He found the analogy fascinating, so he walked into the closest tattoo place in town all smug and proud, holding a picture of Saturn he'd downloaded from the NASA website and got the tattoo on the inside of his forearm. His parents grounded him for two weeks.

He regrets it now.

However, that was the beginning of a series of teenage transgressions and minor misconducts that got him transferred to Wharton High, a prestigious boarding school on the other side of the country, home to many other rich kids with a poor understanding of the rules of society and common decency.

Aside from controlling parents and terrible socialization skills, Dawson Evans has it all. He's 6'5'' tall, fit and with a perfectly symmetrical body, sculpted by hours of training, blonde messy hair and a naturally sun-kissed skin even in the middle of the winter. And, not to be corny, but his irises are the same green of daisies' stems in mid-spring and his devilish smile could make a toothpaste testimonial blush with envy. He's easily the smartest guy in the room every single time. His distinctive trait is his sharp tongue, though he barely ever talks to people, so this can easily be considered insider information.

Now, as he's walking through the gates of Wharton High, wearing his dandy blue pinstriped shirt and carrying his leather duffel bag on his back, looking like a model straight out of a Polo Ralph Lauren ad, he can almost hear the sound of everyone catching their breath.

The herd of girls on the right side of the entrance is already calling dibs on him like he's a piece of meat. Their fake eyelashes fan their flushed cheeks as they squeal and giggle about how hot the new guy is and Dawson has to resist the temptation to roll his eyes at them. They're probably freshmen, Dawson thinks to himself as he walks past them with a straight face on that doesn't show any enthusiasm.

What should he be enthusiastic about anyway? He already hates everything about it. From the overly decorated hallways to the posh faces of the students shamelessly staring at him in curiosity. He hates having everyone's eyes on him. He hates any kind of attention he didn't ask for. So he makes a quick mental note to add that to the list of things he's not fond of.

The skeleton of the main building is roughly shaped like a cross, where the shorter twin opposite branches are respectively the female and male dorms, the top one is the cafeteria and the longest one contains all classrooms. The tapestry on the walls looks new and everything is neat and in perfect order. The golden numbers on the doors indicate that he has almost reached his dorm. The dorm he will be sharing with someone else because his parents refused to finance the private room.

Dawson is holding the wrinkled piece of paper the annoying woman at the front office gave him when he checked in- Melissa, was it?- and he's trying really hard to decipher her spidery handwriting. Room 131. Or is that a 7? He's not sure. He decides it looks more like a 1 so he stops right in front of the door displaying a brass 131 and, to his surprise, it's slightly ajar. So he enters without knocking.

"That's gotta change," he says in a stolid voice, his fingers still clutched around the door handle. "I really value my privacy."

A boy is sitting on the floor and the other is slouching on a red bean bag and they both look up at him with eyes as wide as deers flashed by fog lights. The skinniest of them is the first one to stand up and walk up to Dawson, an awkward smile is painted on his lips. He's got messy ginger hair and cheeks covered in a constellation of freckles. He pulls his hand forward. "I'm Milo," he gushes.

"Dawson," he shakes his hand and his eyes dart to the other boy, who's returning his stare with a guilty expression painted on his face. Dawson focuses back on Milo. "I'm your new roommate. Or so I think," he uncrumples the piece of paper and shows Milo the room number hoping for confirmation.

Milo's eyebrows furrow. "Did Alyssa write this?"

Alyssa, right. I seriously need to start listening when people introduce themselves. Two notes to self in today and Dawson already feels like he's making progress.

He nods.

"Hey Abe, does this look like a 1 to you?" Milo shouts, stretching his arm towards the other boy.

Abe stands up and fixes his Clubmasters on his nose as he saunters towards them. He glances once at the piece of paper, then tears his bloodshot eyes from it and lays them on Dawson. The room smells riculously like weed. "It's most definitely a 1. Welcome to Wharton High," he beams. "I'm Abraham."

"Still Dawson," he informs, taking back the piece of paper from Abraham's hand and crumpling it back up into his back pocket. "And thank you."

Abraham scratches his neck sheepishly.

Dawson squints his eyes. "Are you even allowed to smoke pot in here?"

Milo almost has a heart attack. "We- we're not smoking." he falters, but his body tells another story.

He doesn't really mind. He's just teasing them for mere entertainment purposes. Even though he's actually kind of surprised since neither of them looks like a stoner and that's possibly the funniest part of it all.

"Dude, Abraham's head looks like a smokestack," he laughs. Then turns to Abe with a smirk. "What you hiding there?"

Milo and Abraham exchange doubtful glances. Abraham looks hesitant, but ultimately decides to expose their secret little joint.

"Ha, I knew it," says Dawson visibly grinning.

Milo is freaked out. "Please, don't tell anybody."

"Relax, I don't care. I'm gonna get myself expelled anyway," Dawson elucidates sitting on the free bed with a bounce. He stares at the ceiling perplexed. "Isn't the room supposed to have smoke detectors or something?"

Abraham coughs uncomfortably and Milo jumps in, "We uh- we tampered with them."

Dawson bursts into a boisterous laugh that echoes through the entire room. "You did not," he exclaims in disbelief.

"Why do you want to get expelled?" Milo enquires. "You just got here."

"Look, man," Dawson sighs heavily. "I really don't want to be here. My parents shipped me to the other side of the country against my will. This is not where I'm supposed to be."

"And where are you supposed to be?" Abraham asks while taking a drag.

"Home in New York City," Dawson replies with confidence.

"We're pretty close to Frisco and there's plenty of stuff to do around here, too, " Milo argued, "Plus, Wharton High is really not half bad."

Dawson grinned. "Let me be the judge of that."

"Do you have a girlfriend?" asks Abraham out of the blue. Dawson is taken aback by the swift change of topic.

"I did. Broke up with her since I was coming here."

Dawson didn't lie, but he didn't tell the truth either. Since when can leaving out important details be considered anything other than lying? Mary-Ann and him had history, as a matter of fact they went way back. Their parents were high school friends and poor Mary-Ann always had a crush on him. She fawned over Dawson like there was no other boy in the world. She was absolutely whipped, but he never returned her feelings. When sophomore year started, Dawson decided he wanted to try and see what it was like to be in a relationship, you know, to have a girlfriend.

They were together for over a year- to his surprise he managed to stick around that long without hating her guts- but then his parents agreed on sending him to Wharton High like he was a fucking leper. However, things between them were always weird. Starting from the fact that he didn't really find her attractive, despite everyone else's contrasting opinion on the matter. They never clicked and Dawson had been looking for a way out for longer than he could remember.

"Oh," Abraham seemed to regret asking that question.
It was kind of like when you haven't seen someone in a while and you mindlessly ask them how their 4-year relationship is going and they tell you they have just broken up.

But, I mean, what would Dawson even know about that? He's got no friends. He hates everyone.

"There's plenty of hot girls here, so I'm sure you'll find a worthy rebound," Milo chortles and Dawson recoils from the thought of dealing with PMS again.

"Yeah, just eyes off Calliope 'cause she's off-limits," Abraham jumps in. He grins, "Milo's got a little crush."

"Shut the fuck up, Abernathy," Milo hisses and Dawson just wants to grab the popcorn.

"Calliope, uh?" he enquires, squinting his eyes.

"I mean, it's supposed to be secret, but since you're his new roommate you were probably gonna figure that out soon anyway," Abe flicks the joint end into the ashtray, "Boy sucks at hiding it."

Milo scowls at him, his cheeks tinted bright red.

"Now that you know you can help me with the matchmaking and shit," Abraham suggests.

Can't fucking wait, Dawson thinks. But he says, "Sure," instead, casually nodding once.

"Calliope is like... perfection. Probably the hottest girl since-"

"Are you sure I'm the one who's into her?" Milo teases, but there's no trace of a smile on his face.

Abraham rolls his eyes at him. "Anyways, we're about to meet the others at the cafeteria. Wanna tag along?"

"The others?" Dawson furrows one of his eyebrows in perplexity.

"Yeah, the rest of the group," Milo intercedes, enthusiastic about the change of topic. Dawson would find his awkwardness kind of adorable... if he was a puppy.

"I hate human interaction," Dawson says in a stolid voice, scrolling distractedly down Instagram's homepage.

Abraham and Milo must have thought he was joking because they just laugh at his statement like it's
one of those stand-up comedy sarcastic one-liners that the whole room finds absolutely hilarious for no reason.

Dawson's lying on his new bed with his head propped up against his bent forearm when a notification pops up at the top of his screen. The text is from Mary-Ann and he's terrified to read it, but he does it anyway. It's not like she can fly to California just to kick his ass.

His eyebrows waggle. Right. Fuck me, he thinks, sighing and sliding the phone back into the front pocket of his ripped on the knees jeans. Abe and Milo are still staring at him, witnessing the whole scene from outside.

"So," Abraham tiptoes in. "are you coming or what?"

"Yeah, sure. Whatever," Dawson stands up from the bed, his mouth twitches into a sly smile, "I'd open the windows and spray some cologne if I were you, it smells like 1969 Woodstock in here."

After picking up his sunglasses from the desk and the jacket that's hanging from the back of the chair, he walks out from the door he early took the precaution to close and leaves them there to exchange sheepish, yet intrigued looks.