Several steps away Pacey was rummaging through his own locker, searching for the Mars bar he could’ve sworn he’d left in there. He let an amused half-smile form on his lips. He wondered who Miss Little House on the Prairie and her groupies were gossiping about this time.

“I was just standing there, minding my own business, when she, like, commands me to move,” Nellie continued huffily, her voice drifting back to Pacey “Like she just owns the place. So then, when I tell the snotty-nosed brat where to go, she starts screaming about what a brain-dead moron she thinks I am. Do you know what she called me?” Nellie’s devoted followers shook their relatively empty heads, their eyes wide, obviously appalled on her behalf. “She called me an up-myself bitch, can you believe that?”

Pacey smothered a laugh as he grabbed the books he needed for his next class from his locker, giving up the chocolate bar for lost. Still, as he began heading for French, he lingered slightly, waiting for Nellie to reveal the object of her current disgust.

“And Joey Potter, I tell you! It’s not like she has the right to call anyone a bitch. I mean, did you hear about her father? They say he’s just inside for trafficking drugs, but Suzie says apparently he’s, like, a child molester or something . . .”

Pacey frowned, tuning Nellie’s voice out he set off down the corridor. Joey picking fights? Calling people names? That didn’t sound right at all. Not that Joey’s tongue wasn’t as sharp as they came, but she’d always been more into subtle, witty remarks which were usually way over their intended’s head, than wildly flung four-letter words. Still, he conceded, Nellie was probably exaggerating and anyway, perhaps she’d just caught Joey in a bad mood -- after all, he could think of many a time when he would have gladly called Ms Olsen far worse names than an up-herself bitch.

Pacey pushed the thought aside. He had more important things than Joey’s sudden strange behaviour to worry about -- for example, the looming French test he’d ‘forgotten’ to study for.

Sunlight streamed in through the window of room 228 of Capeside High. Pacey’s eyes roamed the picturesque country-side idly, as he took in the white-washed stone houses with their immaculate lawns and picket fences and then, further away, the unsettled grey-green sea. Letting his gaze drift back to the inside cover of his French text book, he resumed adding to his elaborate doodle depicted there.

When he glanced up several moments later, he noticed Madame Dyball approaching his area of the classroom. She was one of those teachers who had a tendency to pace around the room during the lesson -- Pacey suspected it was a nervous habit brought on by years of insolent backchat from truculent adolescents. He slammed his book shut quickly; he doubted Mme Dyball would appreciate his doodle, which depicted her being flattened in a freak accident involving an extremely large steamroller. Smiling serenely up at her, Pacey met his teacher’s suspicious glare, as she brushed passed him.

Pacey sighed and slumped down into his seat. Thankfully Mme Dyball seemed not to have remembered about the quiz she’d scheduled for that lesson. However boring conjugating verbs was, at least it didn’t jeopardise his grade, which currently hovered perilously close to him having to repeat next summer.

“Josephine, would you please read the second paragraph for us?” Mme Dyball ordered, breaking through Pacey’s thoughts.

Joey looked up at the teacher with barely masked annoyance, “No.”

“Excuse me?” Mme Dyball’s eyebrows shot up in surprise and several murmurs and giggles could be heard from Pacey’s classmates.

“I don’t want to read the fucking paragraph.” Joey’s steely gaze met Mme Dyball’s defiantly, challenging her to argue.

“That kind of language will not be tolerated in my classroom,” Mme Dyball snapped.

Joey’s lips curled into a malicious, mocking smile. “What, you mean ‘fucking’? You don’t like that fucking word, you fucking cow?”

“Get out of my lesson, Miss Potter. I don’t know what’s got into you, but I don’t intend on putting up with that kind of behaviour.”

“Is that supposed to be a threat?” Joey laughed “’Cause I wouldn’t stay in this shitty place any longer if you paid me.”

She pushed her chair back with such force that it toppled backward. With an exaggerated swagger, she walked to the door, slamming it shut behind her with a deafening bang.

Pacey gaped after her and had to pinch himself to make sure he hadn’t dozed off and what he’d seen wasn’t a dream. Sitting back in his chair, still dumbfounded, he turned recent events involving Joey over in his mind. First, dumping the boyfriend she’d always seemed so hopelessly devoted to -- Dawson had been talking his ear off all week about that one. Then, picking fights with not only other students, but teachers as well. That didn’t sound like Ms Ivy League College at all. No, this was definitely something more than just a bad case of PMS.