Life is hard—especially when you’re hopelessly gorgeous like me.

I’m sitting on a bench outside the new middle school, waiting for my mom to pick me up. My strawberry blonde hair embraced the natural look today, with perfect, shiny hair waves falling over my shoulders. I’m watching as a group of boys turn to look my way before whispering to each other, goofy smiles plastered on their stupid faces. Gross. I’m way too good for the likes of them.

In fact, I’m way too good for this sad excuse of a town with only a few small neighborhoods, a 7-Eleven, and a post office. And, of course, Dusty Peak Middle School. Ugh, the name itself makes me want to jump off a cliff. I miss my life back in Ivy Hills. I miss the Ivy League Academy. I miss my friends and my backyard infinity pool. I miss the hair salon visits and the foot massages at Nails Galore. I shouldn’t even be here, but my dad had to get a new job. So here I am—one of the 204 people who live in this ghost town.

“You’re Lucille, right?”

I snap my head around, thinking one of the boys from the group had worked up some measly courage to come and speak to me. The voice definitely belongs to a boy—but not one of the boys from the group. This boy has a shock of red hair and large, black glasses. He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his thin nose and squints at me.

I fold my arms. Let’s get this over with.

“Maybe I am. Why does it matter to you?”

The redhead raises his hands in surrender, smiling nervously. “Hey, no need to get on the defensive. I was just going to ask you something.”

I shoot him a glare but say nothing. I wait for him to spit it out. According to past experiences, this freak would probably ask me out, to which I would laugh in his face and turn him down—standard procedure.

The boy circles the bench and plops down beside me. I tense my shoulders and tighten my hands into fists. If he tries anything, I’ll be ready. The redhead purses his lips and glances down at my clenched fists. “You seem like you’d be pretty good at beating people up.”

I raise my eyebrow at him. “I could make you wish you were never born.”

The boy readjusts his glasses anxiously. “Well, g-good. That’s good. I could use a fighter like you. I came to ask you if you wanted to join my campaign.”

I blink at him slowly. “As in, a D&D campaign?”

He perks up, surprise flashing behind his glasses. “You’ve played before?”

“I think I played a few times when I was, like, ten years old.”

“What’s your character’s name?”

“I can’t remember. Evangeline, maybe?”

“What’s her species?”

“I honestly can’t remember.”

“What’s her level?”

I jump from the bench, my patience wearing thin. “Listen, loser. I can’t remember, alright? You’re wasting my time.”

I turn to leave, but the boy reaches out and grabs the sleeve of my light blue sweater. “Please, Lucille,” he pleads, his dark eyes gazing at me like a wounded puppy. “I’ve been trying to find members all day. You’re the closest to an expert I can find. Besides,” he offers a sad smile. “You can beat up as many monsters and dragons as you want.”

I stare at him. I can see the desperation in his pale, pathetic face. I can hear the sound of rumbling car tires, and I’m aware of my mom’s Honda CRV pulling to a stop a few yards away by the curb. I could just walk away now and get in the car, leaving this perfectly awkward situation behind forever.

But I surprise myself.

I take the boy’s hand and shake it cautiously. “What’s your name, loser?”

The loser smiles at me.