I say that admiringly about Jack Hunter, even if I hate his guts. He’s pulling out all the stops, hitting hard and heavy and never relenting. I would be wounded, my pride shattered, and completely defeated if I was anyone but me. Thankfully, I’m Isis Blake, and word on the block is she’s a pretty rad girl who is never defeated. Nameless couldn’t do it. I sure as hell won’t let some random pretty boy do it. The only one who’s worthy of defeating me is me!

Feeling mildly more pumped, I blast my radio louder at a stoplight. My brain’s working overtime. I make a list in my head.

1. Jack has a girl. He brings her romance novels. She can’t get out a lot. Maybe she has overprotective parents or something? More investigation is necessary. The girl could be the key factor in winning the war – he seems to care about her, mildly more than he cares about himself, anyway. I need to find out who she is.

2. Jack is an escort. It’s like something out of a stupid drama on TV, but I heard the lady on the other line. If she was a hoax, she was a very good one. Something in my gut tells me she wasn’t – Jack’s good at this mind game stuff, but not that good. He couldn’t have set up an entire fake telephone line and hired a fake lady to convince me he’s an escort, and even if he did, what would he gain from it? Why would convincing me he’s an escort prove helpful to him? It wouldn’t. So that means it has to be true. If it’s true, then I can’t use it, since he has the recording to use against me. It kills me that I can’t say anything – revealing he has a part-time job as an escort would be the ultimate retaliation for him stealing my first kiss. But I don’t wanna get dragged down with him. So I’ll just have to find other ways to make him regret ever touching me, or insulting Kayla.

Since Jack is such a piece of shit good, and I’ve never quite faced this good an enemy before, I need answers, information, and tactics. And I need them fast. So I’m going to the one person who might know something about Jack.

Wren volunteers on Saturdays at the local food bank. I know this because every time Mrs. Gregory sees his face on the morning announcements she feels the need to list each one of his accomplishments, starting with how often he volunteers and where. I park and get out, mincing through the crowd of single moms with screaming kids and the half-homeless. A guy looks me up and down and whistles ‘Ay mami’ but he smells like booze and pee and that makes sense – only people with severely impaired judgment would think I’m pretty enough to whistle at. Wren’s at the front of the line, but behind the tables, stocking cans of corn and tuna. He talks with the other volunteers and coordinates them with a brisk, clear efficiency. He has blonde hair, perfectly slicked back. His glasses make him look older than he is. He isn’t handsome like Jack, but he’s terribly cute. I sidle up beside him.

“Your mom should’ve just named you Chicken.”

Wren looks up, hazel eyes confused. “Excuse me?”

“You know, it’s a more common name than Wren. Plus people wouldn’t be bugging you about how to spell it all the time. If you’re gonna name your kid after a bird, at least have the courtesy to make it a bird people can spell.”

“It has four letters,” He says.

“Those little paper fortune teller hand doohickeys have four things, too, but do you even know how complicated that shit can get?”

“I’m sorry,” Wren squints at me. “Do I know you? Oh, wait. I do know you. The new girl. Isis Blake.”

“The one and only!” I smile.

“July 1st, 1994. Blood type O positive. You previously lived in Good Falls, Florida, with your aunt. You’re allergic to strawberries.”

I’m shocked, but I keep my smile. “How do you know so – ”

“I’ve read your school record. I volunteer in the office.” He stacks another can on top of the small pyramid of tuna.

“Ah. Right. That makes less creepy sense!”

“Is there something I can do for you?” He grins, locking eyes with mine, and it’s then I’m subjected to his fabled stare. He doesn’t move his gaze in the slightest, boring a hole deep into my head. I look away, but when I look back he’s still staring with that same pleasant smile on his face. I clear my throat.

“As you know, I’m at casual war with Jack Hunter –”

“Yes, it’s hard to go anywhere without hearing about the newest tantrum you two collectively pull.”

“ – And a little bird – not a chicken – told me that you know everyone. Like, everyone.”

“I make it a point to speak with everyone on campus. I enjoy being on amiable terms with many people.”

“So that’s a yes?”

“Yes. I know everyone. And if I don’t know them, such as in your case, I hope to soon.”

His smile brightens, but it only creeps me out more.

“Right,” I say slowly. “So anyway, I’m betting you’re the only guy who knows Jack.”

Wren laughs. “’Know’ Jack? Sure. I know him. As much as anyone can. He’s like a wolf – he comes and goes and doesn’t really give you any explanation about anything. But sometimes, just sometimes, he’ll visit you in the dead of the night. If you’re looking for information about him, I’m afraid I can’t help you. I’m a little busy.”

Wren pulls out a can of tomato sauce and inspects it like it’s a precious gem. He hands it to a lady working with him.

“It’s dented. Send it to the back pile.”

“But, it feels fine!” The woman protests.

“No, right here,” Wren guides her fingers to the side of the can. “See? A nick. Tin doesn’t stand up well to denting. You could poison someone like that.”

The lady has to be post-college, but she flushes a darker red than any school girl. Wren turns back to me, and I make a low whistle.

“That’s a hell of a metaphor, prez. Personally, I’d liken Jack more to a limbless, ooze-leaking amoeba, but wolf works too.”

“My name is Wren,” He says sternly.

“Do you like burritos, prez? There’s a burrito place around the corner. Saw it on my way here. They look huge! I can’t eat one all by myself. But I’m hungry as hell and it’s nearly lunchtime, so…” I jerk my thumb behind me. “I’m gonna go get one. I guess I’ll see you around.”

The burrito truck is situated in the middle of a ring of picnic tables, colorful umbrellas shading the parking lot and tired construction workers from across the street lining up to get a bite of cheesy, beany glory. I order a chicken and green salsa one. I cut it neatly in half and place one half across the table, and dig into my own. And I wait. It’s the perfect lure. Wren might hide his exhaustion well, but I know he doesn’t eat enough. He’s the kind of student who’s so busy buzzing around doing extracurriculars he forgets to eat constantly.

A shadow falls over my table, and Wren slides into the seat across from me. He pulls the burrito half to him, pleasant smile faint.

“You don’t mind, do you?”

“Nope.” I dribble lettuce eloquently down my shirt. He wolfs the burrito down with impressive speed. When he’s done, and wiping his mouth with a napkin, I clap.