I don't share the next class with Bailey. Nor, to my own relief, is Daren there, either. Math goes slower than English did, which is usual, like a snail trying to race a clock and I feel myself tune in and out to Mr. Nansen's words. This number with this number produces more sets of numbers and a formula that will help you figure out the answer to how you get that number.

At least, that's the gist anyway.

Next comes History, with an inevitable death by lecture. I turn in my essay and take the seat closest to the door while Mrs. Masen begins her discussion on the Industrial Revolution.

Fantastic.

It's almost like you're neutralized when listening to lectures like this. I don't really process much of the information, knowing full well that it can be summed up in twenty minutes rather than an hour long discussion, but Mrs. Mansen is prone to pay attention to detail. I do my best to answer when she calls on me, but judging by her grimace, I don't give her a satisfying answer.

When the bell rings, I nearly spill my books again in trying to be the first one out.

Bailey finds me at lunch, seated outside where I usually am, in a private bench under a tree. She takes a seat next to mine. "How can you stand to be out here? It's freezing!"

I shrug and look up. The sky is overcast with big threatening clouds, reaching down and caressing the top of the mountains in the distance. The same shades seem to blend together until the world becomes a canvas of dirty white. "I think it's pretty."

"Yeah," she smirks, bundling herself up. "Pretty cold."

"So what do you think of Daren? Hot, right?" She adds.

I knew that was coming. Had known it from the first mention of a newcomer I'd hear a week ago. "Not particularly pleasant."

"I know. You guys were going at it. That was hilarious."

"I don't see why it was so funny," I say, taking a bite of cold sandwich.

"It's funny because while every girl was gawking at him, you were telling him off about a fictional character. C'mon, do you even realize how many glares you got?"

Heat rises to my cheeks at that, but then again, it could just be the cold. I just shrug it off, wanting to change the subject. "Want to go back inside?"

She nods exuberantly . "Yes."

When we go off for separate classes, my feet drag in the attempt to prolong having to get there. My hands shake slightly as I go and I shove them in my coat, taking my seat in chemistry.

Also closest seat to the exit.

Mr. O'Brians is already drawing up things on the board, giving instructions to the rest of the class. He's in the middle of discussing basic measurements when, to my utter dismay, Daren enters the classroom.

He receives the same reaction as earlier and I resist the urge to bury my face in my hands. Another introduction follows and I look to my right, like the empty seat there is betraying me.

It's as if everything has conspired against me today to make me as uncomfortable as possible. I bite the inside my lip as I watch him walk down and take that backstabbing chair. He glances at me as he sets down his book, but I'm too preoccupied trying to imperceptibly move my seat as far from him as possible. Then I go for looking nonchalant, resting my cheek on my hand, as if my hands aren't sweating and my heart isn't stuttering and every inch of my body isn't screaming Run!

"Basic measurements. If you all would take out your textbooks and lab notebooks, we can begin by..."

To my astonishment, Chemistry seems to take longer than both History and Math combined, but I follow instructions, ignoring my shaking hands as I exchange instruments and other glassware with Daren. From the corner of my eye, I watch him gaze at his textbook lazily, seemingly bored. He draws circles on the counter with his finger, plays with the ring of glasses and I have to stifle the urge to reach over and put them down.

Finally, as the end of class draws near, we put our things away, clean the instruments and start dispersing. Much like earlier, Daren leaves silently, one second here and in the next, out the door before I am.

________________________________________________________________________________

Gym is my favorite class. That may, perhaps, seem odd, as you generally hear horror stories about that one hour, but it's a place I can put all of my frustration into something. An action that takes minimal concentration but all determination and the thrill makes me feel alive.

It's volleyball today, inside, obviously, where a sad little net slices the gym room in half. I know Daren's in here, as well, but he seems uninterested to participate. We're on opposite teams and I ignore him and everyone else as I focus on that ball, putting every bit of strength I can into the hit. I still feel trapped, like I'm treading water, but I also feel like I'm fighting back.

"Mickenry, lighten up!" Mr. Larson barks. "You're hitting over a net, not a football field." 

I nod, trying to do as he says, but I catch Daren's eyes on me, eyebrow raised.

I look away and return my attention to hitting the ball with more ease.

The last thing to conclude the hour is the beamwalk. Optional, but I don't want to leave yet, so I hop on, ignoring the images of falling, flailing, and smacking my head against the ground that surface. I've been told I need to improve on balance, which I'm fine on when I'm not anxious, but when you have a group of people watching you, it doesn't exactly settle the nerves.

It's  not the people that's my problem. Not the eyes, not the stares. It's me. So I try to focus on just the beam beneath me, my arms stretching open at the sides of me. And then I switch an image of falling to one of flying. Like I'm a bird, with huge wings capable of taking me high above the clouds, where no worries, no fears, no thoughts except on the sky brushing through my fingers can survive.

Shortly after that, the bell rings.

It nearly causes me to lose my balance but I remain erect on the beam, hopping down very un-gracefully and running to the girls' dressing room.

Bailey is waiting for me by the door when I get out and she's looking at me eagerly, like she's bursting with a secret. "So.." she begins. "Have you talked to him again?"

I give her a dubious look. "What? To who?" I ask, shrugging my coat on. I pull my hair back into a messy bun.  

"To Daren. You have to admit, the guy is fine."

"Are we still talking about this? He's just a person," I say. "It's not like I'm interested."

On the contrary, I'm not interested in anyone. Dating is the last thing on my list at the moment, with school and my own personal problems, and I think being committed to someone else alone would cause me internal combustion.

"But he's in a few of your classes and you guys hit it off this morning."

I wrinkle my nose at her as we walk-it takes full restraint of mine to walk-down the hall to the doors. "That's what you call 'hitting it off?'" I ask. "The guy is, like I said, attractive, but he seems a little..."

"Sexy?" she asks.

"No."

"Mysterious?"

"Um."

"Intriguing?"

"Ambivalent," I decide, throwing open one of the doors. The cold billows up beneath my coat and my face stings with it, the sweat against cool wind making it feel like ice.

She raises her eyebrows. "Ambivalent? Only you would choose that word."

"Well, it suits him."

"I think I'm going to invite him to my party," she decides suddenly, beaming. I gnaw on my lip, give her a wide-eyed look. "You don't even know him."

"What's to know?" she asks, retrieving her keys. "He's new, he probably doesn't have friends, and he's attractive."

"Is that your only basis?" I ask, pulling open her door and getting into the passenger seat.

She shrugs. "It'd be rude not to invite him. I mean really, how cruel do you think I am?"

I sigh melodramatically as she turns on the radio. "Right. How selfless and kind hearted of you to invite a new boy, practically an outcast, to your party, that will undoubtedly go down as a pivotal point in history."

She nods, looking over her shoulder as she backs up. "That's better."

_______________________________________________________________________________

Thomas attacks me when Bailey drops me off at home, his small body slamming into my knees. It jars me for a second, but then I tousle his hair and hug him back. "Hey, little man," I say.

"Mom says dinner's almost ready. Dad's working late again. Can you take me to the park?"

For being seven, he can say a surprising amount of words clearly in a very short amount of time. I really don't want to think about leaving the house, not after feeling the sudden relief at being here. I shake my head. "Maybe tomorrow. I've got stuff I gotta get done."

"You mean you'd rather do homework than go to the park?" he says, sounding like Bailey. I roll my eyes and pull off my coat. "I know, shocking. But I don't want to do it. I have to do it."

"Boring."

"Yup, let's go see what mom has."

"Tuna casserole," his eyes brighten.

"Yum."

I follow him into the kitchen. Mom stands over the stove, spatula in hand. She wears her usual long sleeve and jeans, her hair twisted up with clip. "And that's two children home safe and sound," she says, ladling the casserole into a small bowl. "School?"

"It was fine."

"How'd you feel?"

"Tense, but it was okay. We have a new student."

She looks surprised at this. "Really? Who is it?"

"His name is Daren Pierce."

"Ooh, nice name," she says and my shoulders slump. "You sound like Bailey," I say.

"That little detective, was she all over him?"

"Nearly."

"Is he nice?" My mom asks. She puts the bowl on the table.

I just shrug. "He's okay. I haven't really talked to him much. He's quiet."

"Nice looking?"

"Mom!"

"What? I can ask that question. Anyway, maybe he'll participate more and become less quiet once he settles in."

I nod at that and take my seat at the table.

After dinner, I complete a few of my math work and start a book on our next reading list, Great Expectations. My English Lit. Teacher must be having a Charles Dickens marathon. When I'm a few chapters in, I click off the night and settle deeper into my bed.

Things will get easier.

_______________________________________________________________________________

I lurch upright a few hours later, feeling the air in my throat constrict, as if I can't breathe. I take lung fulls of air in, remembering to slow my breathing, thinking of calming things, but It's like a rope is wrapped around my chest and I can't lift it enough to get sufficient air into my lungs. My hands grasp the sheets, knuckles turning white as I hang on.

A few minutes later, my breath returns. It never usually takes long and I can get this a few times a night, but that doesn't make it pleasant. I rest back against the pillows, slowly releasing my hold on the blankets.

I'm fine, I think. Nothing is wrong. Everything is okay.

These are the things I tell myself.

I tell myself all the time.