Note: OCD at my school is an acronym for On Campus Detention. I seriously don't know why it's like that.

"Baby," Mom says, shaking my shoulder. I open my eyes to see her frantic, wide eyes staring at me. "Time to get up."

"It's 5 in the morning."

"I know. Your father is still sleep- you know he always sleeps in heavy on Mondays. Now get dressed." She pulls the covers off of me, and hands me the clothes I picked out and left on my dresser. She's dressed in a flower button-down covered by a black jacket, a black business skirt when she used to work as a teacher but quit when Dad suspected her of cheating, and her hair is flat-ironed and pulled in a sleek bun, a lock curled and hanging on the left side of her face. She looks like the woman she should be that I've seen on TV, someone proud and strong.

Too bad this is a temporary mask.

I get up and take a dash for the shower, thinking about how Mom would be if she had met a different man when she knocks on the bathroom door, saying, "Hurry," with fear in her tone.

I hop out of the shower and get dressed, combing my hair and putting a flower clip in my hair as I quickly struggle to put on my shoes. I smell something coming from the toaster, and realize it's Eggo Waffles, and once I get downstairs, backpack on my back, Mom is placing the waffles in a napkin and biting down on a bright red apple.

"What time is it?" I whisper, drowning my waffles in syrup.

"5:30. You want to go upstairs and check for something else you missed?" she suggests.

"No," I argue. "I have everything." I sit down, listening to the clock go tick tock in a constant rhythm, going in time with my heart. "Should I . . . check to see if he's sleep?"

Mom chews on her lower lip as she pours herself a cup of coffee. I realize she's cleaned herself up to make herself look presentable, wearing mascara and lipstick to bring out the color of her lips. The foundation helps her injuries from the other day remain hidden. "Be quick."

I tiptoe my way up the stairs, making sure to be extra quiet, and try to avoid the glass shards that crunch under my feet as I go down the hall. I carefully push the door open, and find Dad, sprawled out on the bed, head facing the closet as his chest rises and falls normally. His pants are discarded on the floor, and he is gripping the pillow so tight it could burst in a explosion of feathers. He looks less . . . aggravated in sleep. More like someone different. Someone he could've been.

Exhaling, I recede back out in the hallway, and shut the door, leaving my monster to sleep in his cave.

Mom drops me off at the front of the school, covering her face with her hand to make herself unnoticed and kisses my cheek. "You sure you don't want me to come with you? Talk to your principal? Anything?"

I shake my head. "No, I'm well in school." I look at her with concern. "Are you sure you want me to go? I can skip and watch-"

She kisses my forehead, in a motherly gesture and gives me a prayer of a smile. "No, no. You go to school, baby. I'll be fine."

I still find it strange. For all two months of my summer, I watch Mom and make sure she's okay. I had to drive her to the hospital once because she had a concussion and a cut that was five inches long around her head. I don't know how I'll survive while I'm gone for five hours-and then eight hours of being in school while being unaware of what Dad will do to Mom. But I nod and say, "Okay. I'll try to be . . . less worried."

"That's my girl." she says, patting my hair, still in awe at how short it is now. "Have fun my . . . sophomore, right?"

I give a shy smile, climbing out of the car and shutting the door. The window rolls down, and I see her looking confused. "Junior, Mom. I'm a junior."

"Oh," she says. "Have fun today." She waves me goodbye, and drives out of the parking lot, off to do whatever she wants.

I wonder what she'll do for the first 5 hours of freedom. Go get groceries? More makeup for us to cover our wounds? Clothes? I hope it's something fun, or maybe, she'll get that job back.

I think about this as I walk into the 100 quad, and, oblivious to my surroundings, I bump into something hard. Before I could chastise myself for being a non-observer, I hear someone say, "Autumn Filth, what a fucking surprise," and my blood turns very cold.

It's Carlson Buchanan. A boy I had "dated" during my sophomore year and his junior year, but apparently it was all a lie when I found out he only wanted to have sex and show me off. And I had let him. Because I wanted to know if it was true-that someone could love me in a way that I may try and heal. Unfortunately, I was wrong. He was sweet and kind at first, asking me if I needed help with my homework around the first semester, and I said yes, and by then, as months went on, he took me out on dates, introducing me to his friends, and I thought I was happy, alive for once in my life. And when we went to Winter Ball, once it was over, he took me to his place, undid my dress, and I slept with him. I thought for sure he was going to love me, stay with me and make sure I don't break, until he showed himself for what he was.

After long nights at his house, and being with him, abuse started not too long after the events in February. He would touch me when I didn't want to be touched, slap me with his ring-covered hand that I'd have cuts on my cheeks when I disagree with him. Spread rumors around that I'd done the junior-varsity football team, called a slut, whore, and I will always be his thing no matter what. Jealousy was always in his tone, and he kept me more isolated than ever from my parents and so called "friends." Forced me to have sex, do drugs that they made me sleepy. When he took me to his junior Prom, he had left me in the Palmdale desert, with my dress undone, panties discarded in the backseat of Carlson's car, hair a mess, heels in my hands as he drives off in the night. I walked all the way back home, my body shivering and cold. It's a miracle I wasn't that hurt-just my heart, and my feet that had gotten stabbed by glass. The day after that, I knew that was a sign it was over. Even when I saw his arm wrapped around a new prettier, curvy girl's waist on Monday.

It hurt-like I was shot, and I was bleeding for a long time. I thought, for one moment, that maybe, just maybe, I could be loved and feel like something, feel worth something. I realized it wasn't true. What he said was not true, even he said he loved me. He lied, cheated, and hurt me in ways that felt more emotional than physical. Like salt in a wound that was way too deep.

In a way he was like my father, just thirty years younger, lighter skin, and much more aggression and testosterone. A miniature Devil.

I back away from him, shaking my head. "Please, leave me alone." I say, voice high-pitched like a mouse.

"Why? You meeting up with the varsity football team now to show them your tits?" he snaps the words. "Or is it fucking fate to be with me again? You can't get enough of this." he says with pride, and my stomach lurches.

I spin on my heel and walk at a fast pace to the student store, ignoring the sound of Carlson's feet running towards me. I can't be reminded of my past, of what I see of myself when I'm with him. I feel like my mother with Dad.

When I stop near a tree, I see him standing in front of me, hands dug deep into his pockets, looking at me up and down in a way that felt invasive. Don't touch me, please don't touch me-

Carlson presses me against the tree, putting both of his hands on my behind, giving it a tough squeeze. I swallow down my breakfast that is threatening to make an appearance. "I suppose I could take you back, besides, you were great in bed." he says, sliding my shirt off my shoulder and planting a kiss on my shoulder, then my neck, creating heavy shivers down my spine. He grabs my face with his hand, and his other dips in my jeans. "Come on over to the boys' bathroom, because I'd love to feel your mouth on my-"

I'm frozen where I am, while everything around spins in slow motion. Carlson is off of me in an instant, thrown on the concrete, shaking with fear. A boy advances on him, fists clenched and throwing punches at Carlson's face, chest, everywhere, while screaming, "You are fucking sick! Don't you fucking touch her again!"

"Hey, man, calm down," Carlson screams, scared to death.

The boy grabs him by his shirt, his eyes a burning rage before he punches him again. A small group of people turn their heads. "Do you see how she feels? Do you fucking like seeing her scared for her life?! Seeing the fear in her eyes. You son of a bitch."

I take notice of the boy's long limbs, his color of his eyes, a beautiful brown, hidden by glasses, his skin, a light tan ivory. And the cigarette burn in the crease of his elbow. I realize who it is with warm cheeks: Spencer.

Why is he beating up Carlson? For me? Shouldn't he ignore me and walk on by?

"You're going to stay away from her, got it?" Spencer growls the words. "If you ever touch her like that again, I swear I will break your thing off and let it catch aflame in front of you while I cut out your pathetic tongue and shove it down your throat!" He shakes Carlson, and pins him with his knees at his shoulders. "I'll watch you leave here limping if you so much as think about touching this girl."

"Fine, I'll leave the bitch alone." Carlson tries to push off Spencer, but it's useless. Spencer applies his weight to Carlson's shoulders, leaving him gasping for breath, as if making him say something else. Carlson rasps, "I'll leave her alone. Happy?"

"Much." Spencer notes.

A boy with shortly cropped black hair runs up to us with a backpack in his hand, panting. He drops Spencer's backpack on the ground, braces his hands on his knees, and says, "Shit, man. You need to let me know when you go all Superman on my ass." He rises up, and looks at my face, cracking a smile. "You must be Lois Lane."

I blink rapidly. "Y-yes."

"Nice to meet you. I'm Wyatt." the boy says, glancing over at Carlson, and yanks Spencer off of him. "Hey. Dick, I think it'd be best if you left."

Carlson scrambles to his feet, wipes the blood that smears his nose and lower lip, and mutters a small, "Fuck you," to me, and after we hear the crack of Spencer's knuckles, he backs away and runs off.

Spencer goes over to me, hiding his bloody hands. "Are you okay, Autumn?"

I bite my tongue and lie with a nod.

Wyatt frowns and sweeps some of his hair back, exposing his brown eyes. "That guy gives you any trouble again, you come to one of us. We're your bodyguards. No sense in having a pretty girl like you be treated that way. Ever."

I shrug, as if it's normal. Because it is. I have been, and forever was, treated that way. With disrespect. With no regard for my feelings. With the ability to be nothing but a plaything for his personal amusement and a punching bag for someone else. I don't look at them. I can't look at them. I keep my eyes on my feet, and see little dark gray dots fall to the ground, keeping my rule. If you look at them in the eyes, they will see you for what you are. Never look, keep them away. Never look, keep them away.

Spencer notices the dots too, and he says, "Don't cry, Autumn." There he goes again. Sounding like he cares. "Hey, how about we show our schedules? Will that make you better?"

I want to tell him why he still makes conversation. What is the purpose of doing this, and why why why did he stood up for me when others bat an eye. They would pass what Carlson did as him being sweet and teasing to his girlfriend, but how could Spencer notice that it was something else? Was there some trace of fear on my face? Is that how he found out and went to beat Carlson to a near pulp?

More thoughts race through my mind. What if he walks me home? Keeps wanting to make conversation? If Dad hears about this, who knows what hell he will reign on these guys. These kind, nice guys who came to my rescue. I need to keep myself quiet from them. I can't let them know me. I can't let them know about my pain. I nod to Spencer.

We show our schedules to each other, seeing each class that is required, or we switch to Electives. I chose Psychology, he chose Art. And I realize, as this day cannot get any worse.

Spencer and I have the same class. English class with Mr. Daniels, room 220.

"Well, what do you know?" Wyatt laughs. "You both have 1st period. Oh sweeet. Autumn, is it? We both have 5th. And we all have A Lunch. Heck. Yes." he says, grinning. His turquoise eyes look at me, and his expression becomes serious, concerned. "You okay?"

I keep myself shut as the first bell begins to ring. Wyatt curses and says he has to run over to the village. He waves us off and runs as fast as he can. Me and Spencer are the two people standing in front of each other.

"I'll get that chance to hear you talk again." He throws his backpack on his shoulder, smiling a stupid smile at me. "You'll see."

But I don't see it all.

A Lunch is my time to relax, but today I'm tense as I look for the book Speak by Laurie Halse Anderson, a book project me and Spencer have to do (He chose the book over all the other ones-which were Hunger Games or Twilight novels-and those were chosen among any students) that's due next month.

Spencer ended up going to OCD around the middle of 1st period, because Carlson told Security about his bruised face, and now he's going to be there for the whole day. No one knows if he'll get a warning or he may get suspended for the fight. And, being selfish, I am relieved I wasn't called to the office. But I couldn't get what Spencer's words from 1st period out of my head.

"I'll be fine," he'd told me, hitching up his backpack and giving me a stupid smile. "This happened before. I'll get off the hook."

It's A-Lunch now, I don't think he will get off the hook.

When I finally get the book, I sit down, and take my notebook out to take notes, before I have a tap on the shoulder.

"Told you I'd get off the hook." Spencer says.

I start, making my pencil drop to the carpet and whip my head around to see Spencer, who had apparently gotten off the hook. I shyly wave.

"You got the book." he says, his eyes glittering with excitement. "Perfect. . . . And you're still not talking to me, right?"

I give a small shrug of an apology.

He frowns, and without warning, snatches the book from my hands.

"Hey!" I shout. "Give it back!"

"So, the muted princess does speak." Spencer smiles, and places the book back down.

"Give me the book back."

"Will you talk to me again?"

"Yes-stop fooling around and give me back the book."

"How about this? I'll get you the book myself."

I stop reaching and sit in my chair, and realize my cuts are there, visible from my sleeve. I quickly pull the sleeve down. "What do you mean?"

"I'll go to Barnes and Noble afterschool and get you Speak. Would you like that?"

I tense a little. I'm not-never-used to people buying me things. The things I get usually are clothes and birthday money from my grandparents from all the way in Wisconsin. Other than them, I'm never used to strangers, someone like Spencer getting me things. Like a book.

Dad would know.

I swallow and say with a little fake joy applied in my voice, "Of course."

"Fantastic." he says, and adds, "So, what have you read so far, partner?"

"For starters," I begin, angry beyond belief, "don't call me partner. And second, she's going to school."

"Who is?" Spencer asks, confused.

I explain, annoyed. "Melinda Sordino."

"The protagonist?" he asks again.

"Look at the back," I say, putting a hand to my face. Why, oh why, must I be with this guy for the group project?

"Very deep stuff we have here," Spencer announces, leaning back in his chair. "Guess I should have thought of some other novel, but I guess Speak works. Reminds me of a friend of mine. Went through deep stuff, maybe like the character in the book."

I nod, wondering how could this friend of his be possibly related to the character in the book. Did said friend and the protagonist go through the same trouble? What was it? Were they abused like me? Being hit by their father and ex? I chew on my nails, a habit I thought I buried along with every other insecurity, feeling my chest tighten with pain as I think of what Melinda Sordino had to go through.

"Autumn, you okay?"

By now, I'm not sure. The room spins, and I see two Spencers in front of me, both trying to talk to me. I grip the edges of the table, trying to grasp any sense of reality when a voice enters my eardrums. "Oh, look. If it isn't the little bitch that never could."

"I see you're still standing after I had beat the shit out of you." Spencer voice cuts in, and I realize Carlson is right behind me. My eyelids droop as Carlson grabs my shoulders, and I fall back in the chair, fading into black as I hear a harmony of voices, and feel pain kiss my body.

I open my eyes to see Spencer hunched in a chair, arms crossed on his legs as he stares at me. I look around to see I'm in the Nurse's office, and from the door, I saw Mom talking to the nurse. My head pulses with pain, and I reach for the trash can to throw up in it. I know it's strange, to let a complete acquaintance to see you get sick in front of them, and you wonder what else you'll do to mess it up even more.

But Spencer rubs my back, slow and in tiny circles, whispering for me to take my time. No boy has ever been this . . . this . . . caringto me before, wondering if I was going to be okay, that I was all right and it will pass soon enough. I throw up again, shaking for about ten minutes. I lift my head from the trash can, and accept the tissue Spencer holds out.

"T-thanks." I say, spitting in the tissue and wiping my mouth.

"Carlson left when you blacked out, and after I threatened to kick his ass." Spencer grins. "I brought you in here, and you're heavy for someone so thin looking."

I take his compliment like a slap to the face. I don't show it, though and put my attention to my feet. Wiggling them. "What time is it?"

"Shockingly, you've been out for the rest of the day." Spencer says. "Well, you woke up after five minutes, then you had a panic attack, then blacked out again."

"Why did you stay?" was the question that burst out of my lips. "You had classes to go to."

He shrugs, as if they didn't mean nothing to him. "I was worried about you."

He was worried about me. I thought, but why would he be worried about a shy punching bag and insult taker?

Mom comes in the room, her expression concerned and confused. "Are you okay, sweetheart?" She puts a hand on my head, checking for a fever.

I shake my head, and the sensation hurts. "Hit my head. Can we go home?"

"Of course." Mom's eyes go over to Spencer. "Who are you, young man?"

"Spencer Johnson." he says, pushing his glasses up to his face. "Nice to meet you, Mrs. Wilkes."

Mom raises a brow at him knowing our last name, and I cringe, scared at how she may react. "How do you know my last name?"

"I know your daughter, plus, the teacher said her last name along with her first when doing roll call."

"I see." Mom says, and doesn't push the subject further. "Autumn, can you walk?"

I nod, rolling out of bed slowly. The room spins and tilts, and Spencer catches me before I could fall. My hands grab on to his neck, and his hands are on my back. My face burns and I weakly shove him away from me. "Guess I can't."

"Mrs. Wilkes, is it all right if I carry her?" Spencer says, and my mind starts thinking one word constantly: No, no no no no no no.

Mom taps her foot. "I suppose. I'll show you to my car."

The ground disappears beneath my feet, and I close my eyes as I am being carried in Spencer's arms, arms on his neck, head near his chest. It's a strange feeling, and so uncomfortable. I've never been held like this, being taken cared of like this. I don't know if I should like it. My skin heats up, and I tighten my hold on Spencer.

"Hey, it's okay. Don't choke me, now. I need to breathe." he says, laughing a little. He stops walking and I feel my hold on his neck loosen, then it's gone. I feel the pressure of the seatbelt on my body, and warm fingers brushing my hair away. What I heard next made me want to sleep forever.

"See you tomorrow, Autumn."