But honestly, I have no idea why she puts Carson in charge. Plus, my sister only wants me in bed and out of the way so she can get it on with whatever guy is on his way over here right now. Like I care. Now can I get my nine hours? Coach is taking us through a circuit in the morning. I look at my wall. I decorated it using black chalkboard paint about a year ago and use it to doodle, draw, and write everywhere.
There are pictures and posters and lots of words, everything meaning something special to me. My whole room is like that, and I love it. Especially my friends.
Some things stay hidden. My phone buzzes on my bed, and I head over to pick it up. Outside, the text reads. Tapping my middle finger over the touchscreen, I shoot back, Be out in a minute. I have to get out of here. Tossing the phone down, I peel off my tank top and push my sleep shorts down my legs, letting everything drop to the floor.
I dash to my arm chair and snatch up my jean shorts. Pulling them on, I slip a white T-shirt over my head, followed by a gray hoodie. The phone buzzes again, but I ignore it. Stuffing some cash and my cell phone into my pocket, I grab my flip flops and lift up my window, tossing them out and sending them flying over the roof of the porch, down to the ground.
Scooping up my hair, I fasten it into a ponytail and climb out the window. I carefully push it down again, leaving my bedroom silent and dark as if I were asleep. Taking careful steps over the roof, I make my way over to the ladder on the side of the house, climb down to the ground, and pick up my sandals, dashing across the lawn to the road ahead where my ride waits.
I pull open the car door. I glance back, spotting Ten in the backseat and toss him a nod. Slamming the door closed, I bend over and slip into my sandals, shivering. The Cove? Ten laughs behind me, and I shake my head, not really amused.
I was joking with my comment. Lyla and Ten—a. Theodore Edward Neilson—are, for all intents and purposes, my friends. High school is like prison in that way. Ten drops one shoe over the seat and then hands me the other one as soon as he finds it. The Cove will be filthy and wet. About to graduate like us, Trey has it all. Friends, popularity, the world bowing at his precious feet But unlike me, he loves it.
It defines him. Oh, excuse me. I close my eyes for a second and breathe out. I peer at her out of the corner of my eye, feeling my heart start to race. What are you going to do, Lyla? Delight in my loss when he gets tired of waiting and screws someone else? Is he doing someone else right now? Maybe you? I fold my arms over my chest.
Not that I care if Trey comes running or not. Winning a guy makes her feel above us all. They have girlfriends, but they want her. It makes her feel powerful. Me, on the other hand? I just want to get through the day as easily as possible. No matter who I step on to do it. Something I learned not long after that picture of me sitting alone on that bench on Movie Night was taken. He sent them to me in a letter once to see what I thought, and they make a lot of sense.
His voice is filled with discomfort, and I blink, leaving my thoughts. Dark, empty, and silent. I turn my head over my shoulder, speaking to Ten. Taking a right onto Badger Road, Lyla digs in her console and pulls out a tube of lip gloss. I roll down the window, taking in the crisp, cool sea air.
The Atlantic Ocean sits just over the hills, but I can already smell the salt in the air. The wind washes over me, and I can almost feel the sand under my feet. I wish we were still going to the beach. Her headlights fall on a dark blue GMC Denali sitting haphazardly in no designated space.
I guess the paint marking where to park wore off long ago. Waist-high weeds sway in the breeze from where they sprout up through the cracks in the pavement, and only the moon casts enough light to reveal what lies beyond the broken-down ticket booths and entrances.
Looming still and dark, towers and buildings sit in the distance, and I spot several massive structures, one in the shape of a circle—most likely a Ferris wheel. As I turn my head in a one-eighty, I see other similar constructions scattered about, taking in the bones of old roller coasters that sit quiet and haunting. Lyla turns off the engine and grabs her phone and keys as we all exit the car. I try to peer through the gates and around the dilapidated ticket booths to see what lies beyond in the vast amusement park, but all I can make out are dark doorways, dozens of corners, and sidewalks that go on and on.
The wind that courses through the broken windows sounds like whispers. Too many nooks and crannies. Too many hiding places. I pull up the sleeves of my hoodie, all of a sudden not feeling so cold.
Why the hell are we here? Looking to my right, I notice a black Ford Raptor sitting under a cover of trees on the edge of the parking lot, and the windows are blacked out. Is someone inside? A shiver runs up my spine, and I rub my arms. I tear my eyes away from the Raptor, and we all look up in the direction of the noise. I follow him as we head deeper into the park, both of us wandering down the wide lanes that were once packed with crowds of people.
I look left and right, equal parts fascinated and creeped out. Doors hang off hinges, creaking in the breeze, and moonlight glimmers off the glass lying on the ground beneath broken windows. We walk past the carousel, and I see rain puddles sitting on the platform and dirt coating the chipped paint of the horses. I remember riding that when I was little. The yelling and squealing of our friends fade away as we keep walking farther into the park, our pace slowing as I take in how much still remains.
A few short years. I inhale a deep breath, taking in the smell of old wood, moisture, and salt. If he ever makes it big, he owes me royalties. The air wraps around my legs and blows against my sweatshirt, plastering it to my body like a skin as chills start to spread up my neck. All of a sudden I feel surrounded. I cross my arms over my chest as I hurry up next to Ten.
Ten gives up on the yanking and starts inspecting the lock, as if he can just pull it open, when I drop my gaze and notice the grungy and shredded red and white plastic table skirt underneath the shutter on the bottom half of the booth. He stops, forgetting the shutter, and scowls at the skirt. And he dips down on his hands and knees, mumbling as he crawls through the table skirt. Out of everyone I call a friend at school, Ten is the closest to the real deal. Not as close as Misha, but close.
The only thing that holds me back from getting too attached to him is his friendship with Lyla. If I left the security of my fragile little circle, would he come with me? I lean in close to the shutter, training my ears. The hair on my arms stand on end, and I straighten, calling again, this time louder.
Are you okay? The glow illuminates his face, emphasizing his devilish grin. He smiles from ear to ear, his light-brown hair and cocoa eyes shining. Dropping the flashlight, he rushes up to me, and I barely have enough time to catch a breath before he dips down, lifts me off my feet, and tosses me over his shoulder. He continues to chuckle as he sets me back on my feet, keeping his arm around my waist.
I knock his hands away. Shorts or no shorts. I know what happened to the last girl who did that. Trey Burrowes is a house of bricks balancing on a toothpick. Something brushes my calf, and I look down just in time to see Ten crawling out from under the gaming booth. I move out of the way and push Trey back, noticing that Ten holds something in his hand. Trey snickers. He turns away, growing quiet, his attention immediately drawn up to the Ferris wheel.
So easily distracted. So easily bored. School ends in six weeks. I can fake this a while longer. Trey Burrowes can be nice, but he can be a real asshole, too. A smile pulls at the corner of his mouth, and he turns back around. And then he opens his mouth, slowly stepping toward us. We both laugh as we race down paths thick with wet leaves and fallen branches, and whip around broken booths. The Zipper still stands, dark and rusted, and we weave through the old swings, the cold chains brushing against my arms.
They squeak, probably giving away our position as I charge after Ten. I suck in a breath and follow as he dives into a small building that looks like it was meant for employees. Stepping into the darkness, I pull the door closed behind me and wince at the musty air that hits my nose. Ten takes his phone out, lighting the room with his flashlight, and I do the same. The floor is littered with debris, and I hear a drip coming from somewhere. Ten heads for what looks like a stairwell, rounding the railing and taking a step down.
The stairs lead below, underground. Fear creeps in, sending chills down my spine. A lot of theme parks have them. Animals, homeless people…dead people. Come on! But I can feel the threat of Trey at my back, so I let out a breath and swing around the bannister, heading down after Ten. My stomach somersaults. The long, subterranean path is built solely of concrete, a square tunnel about ten feet wide from side to side and top to bottom.
There are scattered puddles, probably from rain run-off, a pipe leak, or maybe cracks in the walls letting in ocean water. They glimmer with the track lighting overhead. A black void looms at the end of the tunnel, and I run my hands up and down my arms, suddenly cold. But lying to myself makes me feel better. I stay straight, though, feeling an excited smile creep up despite my fear. I hear footfalls behind us, and I glance over my shoulder to see a light bobbing down the stairwell.
The door is missing, so we swing inside and hide behind the wall, breathing hard as we try to be still. Every day. Right before a scalding hot salt bath. Insert hair flip and giggle. Not fucking likely. Pressing my head close to the wall, I train my ears, gauging how close he is to us. Did he turn back? Take a side tunnel? But then I narrow my eyes, noticing a faint whine instead. And then I see him digging in his jeans for something. A moment passes, and then his phone casts a small glow into the room, and I turn, widening my eyes at the sight of a bed, mussed white sheets, and a small table.
What the hell? Ten moves farther into the room, getting closer to the bed. Anything goes when everyone knows Where do you hide when their highs are your lows?
I wanna lick, while you still taste like you. My chest rises and falls in shallow breaths, and my thighs clench. I wanna lick… Damn. A cool sweat spreads down my back as a picture of lips whispering those words against my ear hits me. But no, the paper is cluttered with writing over more writing and scribbles and scratches. I follow to where his flashlight is shining, and I finally see the wall. Dropping the notebook to the bed, I peer up as Ten runs the light over the entire surface.
I inch backward, glancing around the room and taking it all in. Photos on the wall with faces scratched out, ambiguous poetry, mysterious, depressing words written on the wall… Not to mention someone is sleeping in here. In this abandoned, dark tunnel. The distant whine suddenly catches my attention again, and I follow it, leaning down closer to the bed.
I immediately drop the headphones, a breath catching in my throat. We need to go. Spinning back around, I dip down and rip the page out of the notebook.
I have no idea why I want it, but I do. And I fold up the page and stuff it in my back pocket. Holding up our phones, we step out of the room and turn left. Squirming, I pull out of his hold and twist around. Lyla, J. He was obviously caught off guard by their sudden appearance, too. Dark corners, shadows, dank glimmers from the fluorescent light hitting the puddles of water… I see nothing.
But I breathe hard, unable to shake the creepy feeling. Someone is there. I turn back around, ignoring my fear as I rush up the steps. And I resist the urge for one more glance back down the dark tunnel. I climb the stairs, still feeling eyes on me. The girls giggle and whisper around me, and I comb my fingers through my hair, sweeping it up into a messy ponytail.
Cameras, huh? In the school? Good to know. I pull the top of my cheerleading uniform down over my head, covering my bra, and smooth my shirt and skirt down. Flapping ever so gently from the AC blowing out of the vent is a large piece of white butcher paper taped haphazardly to the wall. I smile to myself, my heartbeat picking up pace, and turn back to finish getting ready. The school has been vandalized twenty-two times in the last month, and today makes twenty-three.
Their days are numbered. Sometimes the messages are serious. But the next day, I heard, several parents called the school, because their sons and daughters had given them the third degree to see if it was true. Who is he? What will he write next? How is he doing it without being seen?
Strolling up to my locker, I drop my bag to the ground, pulling in a long breath. The sudden weight on my chest makes it a struggle to inhale as I twist the dial on the lock, keying in the combination.
My head falls forward, but I snap it back up. Opening the door, shielding myself for all the eyes around me, I reach under my skirt, under the tight elastic of my spandex shorts, and grab my inhaler. Lyla stands to my left while Katelyn and Mel hover at my right. Picking up my backpack, I dig out my books from last night and load them into my locker.
The other girls laugh, and I turn back to my locker, retrieving my Art notebook and English text for my first two classes. Anything to get her out of here. I toss the smooth, tan fabric at her.
I know you hate it. And thank you. Everyone flits about, rushing upstairs, slamming lockers, and diving into classrooms…and I feel the ache in my chest start to spread. My stomach burns from the strain of trying to breathe, and I make my way down the hallway, my shoulder brushing the lockers for support. A tiny whistle drifts up from my lungs as my breath shakes from the inside as if little strings are flapping in my throat. I blink hard, the world starting to spin behind my lids.
The last door closes, and I quickly reach under my skirt and pull out the inhaler I usually keep hidden there. Holding it to my mouth, I press down and draw in a hard breath as the spray releases, giving me my medicine.
The bitter chemical, which always reminds me of the Lysol I caught in my mouth when I was a kid when my mom sprayed it around the house, hits the back of my throat and drifts down my esophagus. Leaning against the wall, I press down once more, drawing in more spray, and I close my eyes, already feeling the weight lifting from my chest. Breathing in and out, I hear my pulse throb in my ears and feel my lungs expand wider and wider, the invisible hands that were squeezing them, slowly releasing.
This one came quick. Whenever the air gets thick, I excuse myself to the restroom and do what I need to do. I hate when it happens all of sudden like this. Too many people around, even in the bathrooms.
Slipping the inhaler up under the hem of my spandex shorts again, I take in a welcome deep breath and release it, readjusting the books in my arm. Spinning back around, I turn right and take the next hallway, climbing the stairs up to Art. Gingerly opening the classroom door, I step in and look around for Ms. She must be in the supply closet. I walk briskly across the room and head up the aisle, raising my eyes and pausing when I see Trey. He lounges at my table, in the seat next to mine.
Annoyance pricks at me. I let out a small sigh and force a half-smile. A guy walks in, his tall form strolling across the classroom and up the aisle toward us. He looks familiar.
Where do I know him from? He carries nothing—no backpack, books, or even a pencil—and takes a seat at the empty table across the aisle from mine. I glance around for Ms. Is he new? I steal a glance to my left, studying him. He relaxes in his chair, one hand resting on the table, and his eyes focused ahead of him.
I tear my eyes away, clearing my throat. Prom is May seventh, and no one else has asked me, because rumor has it Trey was asking me. He took his time, and I was starting to get worried.
I want to go to prom, even if it is with him. I let my eyes drift to the new guy again, looking at him out of the corner of my eye. Dirt smudges his dark blue jeans, as well as his fingers and elbow, but his slate-gray T-shirt is clean, and his shoes look in decent shape.
His eyes are nearly hidden beneath thick lashes, and his short, dark brown hair hangs just lightly over his forehead. I fold my lips between my teeth as I stare at it, imagining what it feels like to have a piercing there.
We were talking about prom. Oh, you thought he was asking you to prom? Stupid girl. My armor deflects, and I advance. Manny Cortez jerks but keeps facing forward, trying to ignore us. The other feelings are there, too. The guilt, the disgust at myself, the pity for Manny and how I used him just now… But I amused Trey, and now Manny and any shame I feel is far below where I sit. I look down at it. You going to prom with my girl?
Manny served a purpose. Eyeliner, black nail polish, skinny jeans, cracked and dirty Converse sneakers Check to all. I was the only one who got one from him. No one knows about that, and not even Misha knows why I keep it. I raise my eyes, seeing him quietly sitting there. I know that feeling. Till announces, coming out of the closet and setting a caddy of art supplies on her table. She pulls down her screen, turns off the lights, and I glance to my left again, seeing the new kid just sitting there, scowling ahead.
Does he have an admittance slip? A class schedule? Is he even going to introduce himself to the teacher? Am I the only one who noticed him walk in the room? Till begins going through some examples of straight line drawing while I notice Trey tear a piece of paper from my notebook. The Emo look is over, man. Or does your boyfriend like it?
Trey balls up another paper, and now my guilt—heavier than before—creeps in. It hits his hair before falling to the floor. Trey tosses another paper, harder this time. My heart races, but I lock my jaw, trying to appear less shaken than I am. Only now the muscles in his arm bulge, and his jaw flexes. No one ever does that. I never get called out.
I feel him next to me, and I want to look. Who the hell is he? And then it hits me. The warehouse. Holy shit. I blink, looking at him again. I still have our pictures in my phone. Does he remember me?
After I left him and his friend, I was so pre-occupied the rest of the night, unable to stop myself from looking around for him again, that I never finished my hunt. But I never found him. After I walked away from him, he seemed to disappear. Till finishes her brief instructions, and I spend the rest of the hour stealing glances and messing around on pointless little drawings.
Designing his first album cover as a surprise graduation gift. Something to motivate him. No one knows about Misha Lare. Not even Lyla. All good things come to an end. The new kid sits at a round table by himself, legs spread out underneath and crossed at the ankles, his arms folded over his chest.
Black wires drape his chest, leading to the earbuds sitting in his ears, and the same hard expression from this morning is focused on the tabletop in front of him. I hold back a smile. So he is real. Ten sees him, too. And then my gaze drops to his right arm, seeing the tattoos scaling down the length. A flutter hits my stomach. Glancing around the room, I notice others looking at him, as well.
What makes you say that? His stare suddenly rises, and he looks up. I follow his gaze. Trey is walking this way, saying something to Principal Burrowes as he passes by, and New Guy watches them.
I say the name in my head, letting it roll across my mind. I shrug, not looking up. I grab it and fling it over my shoulder, hearing him and J. Kline asked him a question in Physics, and he just sat there.
I drop my pencil to the table and raise my eyes, looking at her pointedly. And besides, he just started today. The vandalism has been going on for over a month. The one doing the vandalism, I mean. I think he stays in the school overnight. Maybe he even lives here. The attacks are happening nearly every day now, after all. How else would someone get around the alarms, unless they hide out and wait for the doors to be locked?
Or unless they have keys and the alarm code. Oh, wait. I forgot. See where he lives. The sinister tone to their voices unnerves me. Trey gets away with everything, especially since the principal is his stepmother. I close my book and notebook, piling them on top of each other. Name it. His stoic expression is confusing. They bustle about, passing by him, their voices carrying across his table, laughter to his left and a dropped tray to his right, but a bubble surrounds him.
Life carries on outside of it, but nothing breaches it. Turning back to Trey, I take a deep breath, shaking it off. I can hear the beat of drums and guitar pounding out of his earbuds, but he just sits there, the indents between his eyebrows growing deeper. Reaching over, I gently tug out his earbuds and cast a look over my shoulder at my friends, all of them watching us.
His warmth immediately courses through my hand, making my stomach flip a little. I take my hand off his chest and lean back again. You were at the scavenger hunt in February. At the warehouse in Thunder Bay.
The guy that night was of few words, but he, at least, ended up being friendly. Wanna give me your number? And then he stands up, and I tumble off his lap, landing on the floor. I shoot my hands out, catching myself. Laughter echoes around me, and I dart my head around, seeing a few people at nearby tables chuckling as they stare at me. Walls close in around me, and I burn with embarrassment.
And then I watch as Masen Laurent grabs his notebook and pen, drapes his earbuds around his neck, and walks around me, leaving the cafeteria without another word. What the hell is his problem? I stand up, brushing off my skirt, and head back to my table. I just want to get out of here. This day threw me off track, and I need to regroup. I need to get home anyway. I was able to get Pre-Calc done at lunch, but I still have some questions from the Novel Study and Government to do tonight.
Is that your locker? I look down the hallway and spot a pile of belongings spilling out onto the floor. About right where my locker is located. I kneel down, my lungs emptying as I sift through my clothes, iPod, and a mountain of papers laying astray from the folders they were neatly organized in previously. I kneel down, surveying the items on the floor and see that all of my books are accounted for as well as the Louboutins and the shirts I hide from my mom.
Why break into my locker and not take anything? He holds my locker door closed, showing me the word written in black Sharpie on the front. I stare at it, confused. My lungs feel heavy, and I search my brain, trying to figure out what the hell is going on. And why just my locker? I gather up all of my belongings and pack them in my duffel, completely creeped out that someone was doing this while I was at practice. Slipping on my black fleece jacket, I head out to the parking lot with Ten and climb into my car as he hops into his.
I immediately lock my doors. Who would root around in my stuff? And what if it happens again? I quickly drive home and pull into my driveway, parking in the garage and seeing no other cars home yet. I stare down at my phone screen, sending a quick reply to her text that she sent earlier. Cheer…swim…, I type. Dinner will be waiting, she replies. Yeah, yeah. I stuff my phone in my duffel. A couple nights a week, I stay late at school for cheer practice and then to teach swim lessons for a couple of hours afterward.
Closing the garage door, I gather my bags and enter the kitchen through the door off the carport, grabbing a water bottle out of the fridge before dashing up the stairs.
I swing my bedroom door open and walk in, my bags falling from my hands. What the fuck?! Masen, the new guy, sits in my desk chair, leaning back with his hands locked behind his head. That seems more you. Hot pink princess bullshit with the zebra print bedding. His shit? Two things of mine, actually, and I want them back.
Now get out! My face falls, and a knot tightens in my stomach. My notebook. How did he find it? And the other one. I lunge for him. I grab hold of the book, but he shoves me back, and I stumble onto the bed, his body coming down on mine.
I grunt and cry out, trying to get the book. He reaches for something, and then my scissors from my desk is pointing at my face. I freeze, staring at the tip. I want the locket, and I want the piece of paper you took at the Cove.
And then I pause as it hits me. The Cove. Last night. The piece of paper. I want a lick while you still taste like you. And then today… You taste like shit. I stare at him, dumb-founded. I was right. There was someone there in the tunnel. He saw us. And then I widen my eyes. He was the one who broke into my locker! He darts to my side and snaps the scissors, and I wince as he brings the scissors back up, a few of my light brown hairs floating in the air.
I growl, grappling for my pillow and reaching inside, pulling out a folded, worn piece of paper. I shove it at his chest. He takes the paper. I told you! Ten was with me. He took it. I breathe hard, flexing my jaw. Now get off me! But eventually he pushes off the bed and tosses the scissors onto the desk, sliding the poem into his back pocket. I shoot up, grabbing at my ponytail and finding the small bit of hair that was snipped.
Only about half an inch from a few strands. I scowl at him. He stops in the doorway and turns around, taking a last look around my room. Students crowd the halls, and I hold my books in my arm and turn inward, trying to avoid any attention. He glances up from his locker and sighs, looking a little embarrassed. Reaching into the pocket of his knee-length shorts, he pulls out a long chain with a circular, silver locket hanging off it. I take it, instantly feeling a little relief at having what that asshole wants.
Now I can get my notebook back. Did he think it would go well with his J. Crew T-shirts? But Ten just shrugs. I thought maybe it might be worth something. Yeah, no. Digging the necklace back out of my pocket as I walk, I flip it over, studying the aged silver and intricate detail around the large moonstone set in the middle. Ten is right. It looks like an antique.
There are several scratches, and the metal feels thicker, more solid than your typical Target jewelry. What does the necklace mean to Masen Laurent, though? I open the locket, slowly climbing the stairwell, the people jogging and laughing around me a distant echo. But as soon as I pop it open, I dig in my eyebrows, seeing, not pictures as I expected, but a tiny, folded-up piece of paper.
Taking it out, I unwrap it and turn it over, reading the words. Close your eyes. I slow to a stop, staring at the note and saying the words to myself again. Or said them or something… The second bell rings, our one-minute warning, and I fold the paper back up, stuffing it into the locket and closing it. Everyone around me hustles up and down the stairs, and I jog to my class, slipping the necklace back into my jean shorts.
Who does the locket belong to? A family member? A girlfriend? Maybe he stole it. Perhaps he got out of the class. Agitation boils under my skin. But as soon as I step into the room, I spot him sitting in the row to the left of mine, one desk back. Relief and a touch of annoyance both hit me. Is he going to be in any more of my classes?
Just like yesterday in Art, the guy simply sits there, staring ahead with a slight scowl on his face as if this is all such an inconvenience to him. I take my seat, noticing his jeans and black T-shirt are actually clean today. Foster fires up his projector, the screen of his laptop appearing on the big white board in front of the class, and he begins making the rounds, handing back our latest essays.
The final bell rings, and the class lowers their voices, quietly chattering as the teacher walks up and down the aisles. Foster and I constantly go head to head, and while Art may be the class I enjoy the most, Foster is my favorite teacher. He encourages us to use our voice and is one of the only adults to talk to his students like adults.
But it was depressing and in a pointless way. What was I supposed to learn? But Foster lowers his voice, looking me deep in the eyes. I stare at him for a moment, seeing the plea in his eyes. He backs away, moving onto the next student but still speaking to me. Something you want to tell us, Mr. I end my taunting, satisfied that I won that argument.
In their eyes, anyway. The air is cool and fresh as it fills my lungs. I pause at the deep voice behind me. Foster stands in front of his desk and looks up, focusing over my head. What is he doing? But I turn my head to the side, fixing him with a bored expression. When I was twelve. Did you have an Edward T-shirt, too? How could he have known that? I picked up a Twilight paperback when I was younger, because Robert Pattinson was on the cover, and hey, I was twelve, so… But immediately after reading it, I asked my mom to go buy me all the books, and I spent the next two weeks reading them with every free moment I got.
I arch an eyebrow, looking at the teacher. As society dictated. And yet, your precious Edward Cullen was over a hundred years old, still in high school, living with his parents, and trying to get in the pants of a minor in the twenty-first century.
Sure, Edward was decades older than Bella. But the fact that he was good looking had nothing to do with her loving him anyway. Masen continues his attack.
There would be no Bella and Edward. Masen leans down, and I refuse to look as he types something into the search engine.
I glance up at the screen and instantly feel anger curl my fingers into a fist. A huge image of an old man, withered with wrinkles, missing teeth, and bald but with wiry, silver hairs sprouting from the top of his nose smiles back at us, and I glare at Masen, who grins back. Students double over laughing, and their amusement surrounds me like a wall closing in.
Everything is getting smaller, and I start to feel the space in my lungs shrink as I pull harder to take in air. I clench my teeth together. The weight on my chest gets heavier, and I pass girls undressing for P. The white noise of the water shields me from listening ears, and I grab my inhaler from my pocket, taking two quick pumps and leaning back against the shower wall, closing my eyes.
Four years. My lungs start to open up, and I slowly breathe in and out, forcing myself to calm down. What the hell is wrong with me? I can handle this. So he was challenging me. So what? Am I going to flip out every time that happens? But for a moment, everything went dark. Slowly the world in my vision got smaller and smaller like I was in a tunnel going backward. The light ahead of me—Masen, Mr. Foster, the other students— became tiny as the darkness ate up the room, and I felt completely alone.
Just like before. Wilkens, my fourth grade teacher, calls as we line up at the door inside the classroom. Some students dash for the tetherballs, others for the bars, and some stroll around the blacktop, figuring out what they want to do. Everyone passes me by, and I slow to a walk, fidgeting and watching them as they find their groups and begin playing. The sun is hot, and I slowly step into the chaos, looking around and not sure where to go or who to talk to.
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