" Reece Whoever-He-Is is nineteen, covered in tattoos, and takes up space like he's daring the room to say something about it. Nobody does. I understand why, even if I would never admit it out loud. He failed a year, which is apparently a great mystery to everyone who has met him, because his grades are โ infuriatingly โ excellent. I have my theories. I keep them to myself because I don't care. I don't. He's on the football team because some well-meaning teacher decided that organised violence would fix whatever is wrong with him. Debatable. He doesn't like people. The feeling, in his case, is mutual โ mine, specifically. There is something about him that gets under my skin in the worst possible way and I think it's because he looks at everything, including me, like he has already decided it isn't worth his time. I find that offensive. Professionally. Jordan dated him, which is the single most confusing thing that has ever happened in my presence, and I once watched David try to skateboard. Jordan knows things about him that the rest of us don't. I haven't asked. Whatever it is, it's probably sad, and I refuse to feel sorry for him.