WHARTON HIGH'S CLOISTER is crawling with preppy teens and Dawson regrets stepping into it the moment his foot touches the well-kept lawn. The porch surrounding its perimeter resembles seventeenth-century architecture and Dawson can't help but think it's extremely gaudy since the school's main building was actually constructed during the twenty-first century.

Dawson and Cal walk up to the rest of the group who's sitting on the grass, munching on sandwiches and bathing in sunlight. Abraham is lying down and Maisie-Rae is amiably chatting with Milo, whose attention is instantly drawn away by the object of his deepest desire: Calliope Jennings.

"Hey guys," she greets them, pulling her sunglasses over her head. Suddenly, it's like the rest of the world doesn't exist anymore to Milo.

"Hey, Cal," Milo dimples and Dawson wonders if Calliope is aware of how fond of her he is.

Abe sits up, grabbing his backpack and pulling out a big plastic bowl of salad. He hands it to Cal, who sits right beside Milo. The boy vigorously blushes.

Dawson sits next to Maisie-Rae who takes a tuna sandwich out of her saggy satchel. He shoots her an incredulous look. He's starving and he was really not expecting any of them to be considerate enough to get him lunch.

"I didn't know what you liked in your sandwich," she adds with a shy smile. It's obvious she still thinks Dawson is mad at her. They were in a good place and she thinks she's just ruined it with her bluntness.

Maisie-Rae knows she should learn to bite her tongue more, but she never quite manages to stop herself in time. She never thinks twice before opening her mouth to speak and that's why most of the times she ends up saying the wrong thing, or nothing at all.

"Thanks," he says, cautiously unwrapping his lunch.

"I'm sorry for saying those things about you," she whispers and, from the look on her face, she really means it.

"No need to apologize," Dawson's lips twitch into half a smile, "It's all true anyway."

Maisie-Rae sighs, "That doesn't make it better though, does it?"

"Not really," he shrugs, taking a bite of his sandwich. "But I know I'm gonna need some free passes in the future. I say stupid shit too."

She laughs, "Oh, that explains why you're so forgiving."

And, for the first time in months, Dawson's enjoying someone else's company more than his own. In a way, she reminds him of Mary-Ann. She conveys the same tranquility, she has the same infectious laughter.

"Did you hear about Hippolyte Jones?" Abe cracks open a can of Coke. The sugary drink starts gurgling down his throat. He lets out a sigh in delight.

Calliope looks just as confused as Dawson, being, in fact, just as clueless as he is. Except Dawson has no idea who Sebastian Dale even is, while Calliope seems to catch up on that. "No, what about him?

Milo makes a guttural sound, tearing his eyes away from the ground.

"He's gay," Abraham blurts out.

The group lapses into a stunned silence. Maisie-Rae's lips quirk disbelievingly.

"Well, there's nothing wrong with being gay, right?" Milo chirps cheerfully and it's the most lively Dawson has seen the boy so far.

"Of course, I just never would have guessed that,"' Maisie-Rae confesses. Cal nods, backing her up. Dawson is eating his sandwich, feeling like the new kid all over again. It's gonna take him a while before he learns all the secrets of Wharton High.

Wait, why is he even thinking that? He's not staying, so why should he care about that in the first place? Maybe, it's just him trying to enjoy his time there and that's all there is to that. Or, at least, that's what he tells himself.

"How do you know it's true?" Calliope's eyes dart on Abraham.

"Milo told me," he shrugs.

Milo squirms uncomfortably. "Kathryn told me."

"Kathryn? Kathryn Shaw?" Maisie-Rae sounds grossed out by that name. She seems to recoil from the mere act of speaking it aloud.

Abe nods and Maisie-Rae shudders. Dawson officially feels lost in a conversation he can't follow through. To her credit, Maisie-Rae is also extremely perceptive and— to a certain extent— attentive. She instantly notices Dawson's bewildered gaze, that keeps on shifting between them all, in a desperate attempt to keep up.

"Kathryn Shaw was my best friend in freshman year," she explains sheepishly. She doesn't look comfortable sharing that piece of information. Or, maybe, she simply doesn't feel comfortable reminding herself of that part of her past. Either way, she falls silent, leaving Dawson wanting to learn more about that story and why it has the power to upset Maisie-Rae to the point of revulsion.

"She changed a lot and we fell out," she stammers, but gets abruptly interrupted by Calliope, who seems to have a different opinion on the matter.

"Kathryn fucked her boyfriend," she says that in a blank voice that leads Dawson into thinking it's not the first time she pronounces those exact words out loud. She sounds as if she's already grown tired of them.

"Cal!" Maisie-Rae reprimands her.

"What?" her friends glances at her in a mix of apprehension and irremovability.

"He was horrible," Milo chimes in. He doesn't look the slightest bit flustered anymore. "He punched me in the guts once."

Dawson gives Maisie-Rae an eloquent look that instantly gets her defensive. "I broke up with him!" she utters staring right at Dawson. He wonders why she felt the urge to let him know about it, but doesn't dwell on it more than a couple of seconds.

That's when he sees a tall brunette walk in the cloister. It's hard not to notice her, since she's wearing a dress worth at least eight hundred dollars. Before he can look away and go back to the conversation, her eyes dart on him and she gives him a little sassy smile. She's strutting towards them, arms swinging on the sides of her willowy body making the jewelry shop she's wearing on her wrists jingle like Santa's carriage.

He turns to the rest of the group and notices Calliope's disquieted gaze. "There she comes," she says half a second before the brunette finally approaches them. Her eyes are still fixed on Dawson.

"Maisie-Rae," she greets her with a mellow voice dripping in honey and her eyes move to the black-haired girl sitting at her feet, who's squinting her eyes trying to look back. Dawson's not sure if it's the sunlight blinding her or if she just genuinely dislikes her and she's not afraid to let it show.

"Kathryn," Maisie-Rae replies dryly, going back to fiddling with her star-shaped keychain.

Dawson takes advantage of Kathryn's temporary distraction to take a good look at her. He even tries to paste her in a picture next to Maisie-Rae and struggles to do so. They're just so different he can't wrap his mind around the idea of the two of them even being best friends in the first place.

"Aren't you going to introduce me to your friend?" Kathryn demands tilting her head towards Dawson.

"You're perfectly capable of doing that yourself," Maisie-Rae retorts.

Kathryn ignores her sass and just keeps going. "Heard that Wharton High's new recruit is kind of a bad boy, so, like, I had to see for myself."

Is this girl for real? Dawson just looks at her impassively and she forces a plastic smile.

"Guess for once the rumors were true," she gives it her best shot at flattery. However, not only Dawson's not impressed with it, but superficiality is also one of his biggest pet peeves and she's just officially become one of the many things he, like, really despises.

He categorizes her under frivolous and unintelligent.

To make matters worse, Kathryn thinks– for some reason beyond Dawson's understanding– that it's a good idea to ignite the conversation with a controversial proposition, "Hit me up when you get tired of hanging out with... them." and hands him a rectangular piece of paper.

In horror, Dawson realizes it's a business card.

"Uh-uh."

"Or you can just pay me a visit," she adds in a cutesy voice. Dawson's left eyebrow shoots up. "My room number's 26."

He smirks wickedly and everybody around them holds their breath. "Guess for once the rumors were true."

Abraham snorts and Maisie-Rae looks down, trying to hide the timid smile her lips are arched into. Kathryn's glance frantically scoots from Dawson to Maisie-Rae until realization hits her.

He knows.

"I'll see you in class, bad boy," she concludes before storming off, visibly upset about the brutal rejection.

"See you, Kat!" Abe cheers and Calliope slaps his arm. "Ow! What?! She's hot," he shrugs.

"Gross, Abraham," Cal comments, with a talk-to-the-hand gesture. Then mutters under her breath, "Hormonal teenager."

Dawson settles his gaze on Maisie-Rae. There's a silent question on his face. The black-haired girl lets out a sigh of wistfulness. "She fell at the top of the food chain, and I just... fell to the bottom."

But Dawson doesn't comment on that. Even though he disagrees, even though he thinks it's just plain stupid.

He doesn't lose his cool, because Dawson Evans doesn't get flustered.

Dawson Evans doesn't show he cares.

And the mask sinks into his skin a little deeper, a little past beyond the point of no return.

He's still holding Kathryn's business card between his index and middle fingers and he's staring at it like he's studying a dangerous chemical reaction. "Is this a thing here or...?"

"What is?" Cal unintentionally huddles up next to Milo.

By the look on Milo's face, Dawson can't help but think love must be anything but pleasant. He seems to be either in pain, getting palpitation or just plain unhappy to be sitting next to the girl of his dreams and not being able to hold her. Dawson feels for him, but he also prays he'll never have to be in his shoes.

So far, in Dawson's eyes, love is an addiction craved by those who don't have it, and hated by those who were unlucky enough to experience it. The symptoms are pretty much analogous to those of a high fever, except there's no pill you can swallow to bring it down.

"Giving someone your business card," he clarifies, showing the piece of paper Kathryn gave him a few minutes before. "Is that a thing here?"

Milo shakes his head. "That's Kathryn Shaw for you."

"You should make one for yourself," Abraham jests. "Just make sure you put bad boy in between your first and last name."

Dawson can't help but burst into a hearty, boisterous laugh. He feels his inhibitions dying down.

He feels like Wharton High is a little more home than it was when he first arrived. And he doesn't hate it.

*

MR. THORNBURY FROM Honors English II loves a good pop quiz. Obviously, the rest of the class knew that already, but not Dawson, so he just has to adapt quickly to the situation.

For starters, the professor did not introduce himself when he walked in the classroom wearing his olive green vest. Dawson thought he looked straight out of a Charles Dickens' novel, despite the fact he's probably not older than 35.

Instead, as he entered the classroom— and yes, Dawson was already there thanks to Calliope fucking Jennings and her apparent kink for being on time— he immediately turned to Milo sitting in the front row and shot him a question.

"What's the name of Ernest Hemingway's last published book?"

The Garden of Eden, Dawson immediately thinks. Only he doesn't say it out loud, he just writes it on his notebook. Conditioned reflex inherited from a time when he actually cared. But he doesn't want to be the teacher's pet, no. That would be counterproductive, to say the very least.

Milo doesn't know the answer. No one else seems to. Thornbury is just about to give away the solution to his own question when a quiet voice rises up from the opposite side of the class. "It's The Garden of Eden."

Dawson recognizes that voice. He instantly turns to see who it belongs to.

A pair of bashful blue eyes is already looking back, but only for a second before they shy away.

"Very well, Adam," Mr. Thornbury congratulates him. "And what is the letter that Hester Prynne has to wear in Nathaniel Hawthorne's famous novel?"

"It's a scarlet A— for adulteress."

Dawson doesn't realize immediately that the drawl echoing between the four walls of the classroom belongs to none other than himself.

And he doesn't know why he felt the need to answer that question out loud either.

When Dawson finally finds the courage to look up from his desk, he realizes Hamilton has been musing on him for longer than a couple of seconds. In response, Dawson's left eyebrow shoots up, framing a skeptical look on his face. That's probably the most communicative they've been ever since they met. Hamilton rolls his eyes and turns back around.

Oh, well...

Dawson does love a hearty competition.

Plus, he's always winning in the end anyway.

Thornbury is gazing astonishingly at Dawson, who ardently wishes he could take his answer back, whereas Milo is looking at him with his lips awkwardly pressed together. His face just screams what Dawson really wouldn't want to hear.

You're not supposed to participate in class if you're trying to get expelled, he almost grunts out as he thinks that.

Mr. Thornbury is rubbing his chin in perplexity, "That's correct...?"

"Dawson," he reluctantly spits out.

The professor hesitates, mouthing his name as if it just triggered something inside of him.

Then he coughs and flashes his teeth to the class, who's staring at him in confusion and suspense.

Dawson can see through him. This is a different smile, a less zealous one. Less genuine.

In other words, it's just plain uncomfortable and Dawson's annoying inner ability to empathize with people is making him project Thornbury's embarrassment on himself.

And this is one of the many reasons why he cannot tolerate people. He's already a mess at tackling his own feelings and, from time to time, it's almost as if he's supposed to take responsibility for other people's, too.

He learned to ignore that over time. Just like he learned to give the impression of not caring much for others. But then again, Dawson cannot remember if this is who he really is, or if it's merely a self-defense mechanism he sucks at controlling.

"Welcome to Wharton High, Dawson," the professor adds, walking back to the desk and casually leaning against it.

"These are some of the questions you will learn to answer by the end of your senior year," he promises full of enthusiasm. "I'll make pop quizzes like this every day, so don't even think about falling behind on your schoolwork."

The whispering in the class gets louder and louder. Some people huff in annoyance, clearly unaware of the fact that taking honors classes implies a bigger commitment. Others, like Calliope, seem to feed on the words "pop quiz" and "every day". Dawson hates to admit it, but he might just be part of the latter group.

He also hates thinking about standing out like he did when he answered that question. Everyone else must have known the answer or, at least, that's what he tells himself. It was just an easy question. And everyone knew the answer.

Or maybe not. Maybe he's just lying to himself again so he doesn't feel like he's that much of a fuck-up.

To be perfectly honest, he's not good at fucking up when he's supposed to either. He even managed to fuck up the fuck-up.

"Let me ask you a provocative question," Thornbury picks up the chalk from the desk and jots American Dream down on the blackboard, "do you believe in the American Dream?"

Dawson, who was actively intent on staring at his notebook, finds himself glancing up at Hamilton, expecting him to answer the question.

But he doesn't. Instead, he's writing something down on paper. Again.

He has a perfectly clear line of sight on Adam. A strand of black hair repeatedly falls on his forehead and he slicks it back 24 times.

Dawson may or may not have counted them.

Thornbury beams, "I want you to write a 2000 words paper answering this question."

Dawson is debating whether to actually write it or not. He wonders if Thornbury considers a badly-written pape more offensive– thus better serving Dawson's purpose– than if he didn't hand homework over at all.

"I don't expect a critical analysis of the twentieth-century literature, no." he adds and Calliope strikes through The Great Gatsby annotation she's just made. "We'll cover that together."

"I want your thoughts on it. Your raw, unseasoned thoughts. And I want them on my desk by next Monday," he concludes tapping his fingers twice on the surface of the wooden table.

The bell dismisses the class before the professor has the chance to illustrate the syllabus. Thornbury doesn't even try to keep the class focused on him and, in less than a second, his back is already turned to the students who are slowly leaving.

He's running the eraser over the chalkboard as he waves the back of his free hand. "See you tomorrow!"

Dawson genuinely thinks Thornbury might have quite a brilliant mind. A mind that's able to nurture his interest with inductive reasoning rather than through the dreaded prescription of notions.

He's young and full of potential to convey his passion to his students. He doesn't bore them to death, his speech isn't tedious or pedantic. It's drenched in ardor and that is something Dawson can't help but find admirable.

As a matter of fact, he liked his first English lesson with Thornbury so much that, right after entering his dorm room, he decides to start typing his essay under Milo's inquisitive eyes.

Adam Hamilton won't be top of his class, as long as Dawson's attending it, too.