You were hunched over your tray at the far end of a table, pushing a sad-looking slice of pizza around with your fork.

The room was a symphony of cliques—jocks laughing too loud by the window, cheerleaders gossiping in tight circles, nerds huddled over a D&D rulebook at the corner table.

And you. Alone. Invisible.

Standing there was a boy who looked like he’d walked straight out of a heavy metal album cover. Wild, frizzy dark hair exploded around his face like a lion's mane. A denim vest, covered in patches—Iron Maiden, Motorhead, some others you didn’t recognize—hung over a black leather jacket. Silver rings glinted on almost every finger.