"My lovely little seeds, please answer me this question: how are one of your characters dealing with the conflict at hand since you began to read? Can one of you tell me what the problem is?" Mr. Daniels asks the class, wearing a top hat and moving with a black cane.

After the first week of school falling by smoothly, I realize through occasional glances from my desk, that Mr. Daniels loves making the room laugh with his costumes. He gets them from the drama class, or from his own home.

"Anyone care to speak?" Thump thump goes his cane, and I hear it reaching the row where I sit. Spencer's in front of me, head straight. His hair looks black and disheveled. He is tense, even when he sat down today.

It's my fault, I know it. I keep my head down, and keep drawing circles on my blank piece of paper. Mr. Daniels doesn't give us homework except for the assignment that is due at the end of the school year. Classwork is basically working on the project and participating in class discussions.

"If it isn't the delightful season of all, Autumn." Mr. Daniels says brightly. I freeze. I can smell his strong cologne wafting over my desk. My face becomes like molten lava. "Autumn, our lovely season, care to tell us what how your character is dealing with the conflict at hand?"

The pencil drops from my hand, clattering to the desk. I feel like I am underwater, watching as bubbles disperse from my lips and to the surface. I shiver in my seat, feeling eyes latch on to me. I bite my tongue. Blood is a familiar flavor in my mouth. "I . . . I . . ."

"What's wrong, Audumb, cat got your tongue?" Wade, a kid with green hair says with a chuckle.

"That's not what I heard in 5th period last week." Darren adds, and there are snickers across the classroom.

"Enough of your teasing, gentlemen." Mr. Daniels says, loud and harsh. "Autumn, are you doing okay?"

Without warning, he places a hand on my shoulder, gentle pressure. I cringe at his touch. He moves his hand quickly. "What happened to your shoulder?"

I instinctively put my arms around myself. "I bumped into my door leaving the house," I whisper.

Mr. Daniels accepts my lie, but I see Spencer shift in his seat. Our teacher looks at him. "Spencer, my boy, care to explain since your partner is not able to?"

"Of course, Mr. Daniels." Spencer agrees, turning in his chair. "Our character is dealing with the conflict-a thing I do not know yet-by keeping herself closed off and hardly communicating. She made at least one friend, but just won't tell us exactly what is bothering her."

Mr. Daniels raises his bushy eyebrows up to his graying hairline. He's obviously impressed. "Excellent observation, Spencer."

"Thank you." Spencer says, turning back and keeping to himself.

"Anyone else care to talk?" A few more hands raise, and he calls upon them. "Autumn, I'd like to have a word with you after class."

I can only nod with obedience.

The class goes by swiftly and uneventful. Everyone is given free time to work on their projects, and I do my best to tune out Spencer as he discusses ideas. My mind is still in a disarray from the past weekend. I'm still sore from "tripping on the stairs." So, when I had my head down for a certain amount of time, I start a little at the touch placed on my shirt.

I lift my head too quickly, sending a wave of dizziness my way. Through my blurry vision, I see Mr. Daniels half-smiling at me from a chair. "Had a nice nap?"

My face heats up, and I notice that the classroom is empty. I forgot that he does not have a 2nd period, so he could help other students. "Yes," I say, and observe him like I did when I met him the first time.

Mr. Daniels is a lean man, with long blonde hair. He has these eyes that aren't so blue as much as green, just a bizarre mix of these two colors. He crosses his ankles and tilts his head in wonder at me, causing his top hat to slide a little. "I've noticed in the past week that you have been unusually quiet, and trouble in participating in class."

I move in my seat, playing with a loose lock of my hair. Not even a single minute in to delve in my mind, I want to run and go outside for fresh air. I keep my mouth closed. Teachers aren't meant to be trusted in my mind. As they spew out the words 'I'm here for you,' they will not hesitate to call parents if something is amiss. And I know my father will force me and Mom to make excuses, because he doesn't want anyone to know.

"Is something wrong?" Mr. Daniels asks. "At home? Here in school?"

"No." I whisper. The lie stays on my tongue; bitter. "Just . . . tired." Why can't I just leave already? I do not want to be here. With a teacher who has compassion, no less.

"Autumn, are you sure?" he prods once more. He is going to say the four words. I wrap my arms around myself. Await the crushing tide. "You look nerv-" Mr. Daniels pauses, and I can feel his eyes on me. It feels invasive. "What happened to your face?"

I slap a hand to my cheek, feeling for the pain. Nothing. Then I move my hand forward, touching my cheekbone. It weakly throbs. I bite on my lip.

"Who did that to you?"

I swallow heavily. "I bumped into my door." I say stupidly. "I'm clumsy."

"I'm sorry to hear that." Mr. Daniels says. "Keep a better look of what you do."

I nod once, keeping to thoughts that are in my head. "May I go now?"

"Not until we figure out what we should do with your participation." Mr. Daniels gets up from the seat. Swings his cane around in a circle. "So, lovely season, what shall we do?"

I let my fingers drum against the wooden desk, thoughts going a mile a minute. In all honesty, I have no clue what to do. But I fear the worst: a parent teacher conference. My chest constricts with pain, and I watch as Mr. Daniels continues to walk around the room, wanting my answer.

A knock on the door becomes my savior.

"Now who could that be," Mr. Daniels says, walking over to the front door. When he opens it, Wyatt stands with his backpack slung over his shoulder. "Ah, Wyatt, glad to see you."

"Hey, Mr. Daniels. We have a substitute in my class, and we're not doing anything. So, I'd figure I would come in here and read in peace, if you don't mind." Wyatt's blue eyes lock onto my face, giving a salute.

"Ah, Lois Lane. We meet again."

Mr. Daniels seems to shrug at this. "Wyatt, please go to the back of the class while I continue talking to Autumn."

"Roger that, sir." Wyatt says, going over to the back of the class, his eyes going over to the mark on my cheek. His face turns into anger, and he takes out a book. Flips through the pages. Makes a coughing noise as he sits in a desk.

"So, lovely Autumn, what do you propose we do?" Mr. Daniels asks, his attention going back to me.

"I don't know." I whisper brokenly.

"You know that participation counts as part of your grade, Ms. Wilkes. You need to do something or your grade will deplete." He gives me a frown, before running a hand across his jaw. "How about you write down how much are you putting your heart into the project? Each and every week?"

I blink. He must not be serious. I haven't put my heart into anything before. But you always have. To protect your family. Yourself. From the dangers of the outside. "W-will that help?"

"May bring up about ten percent, which is fantastic. Do we have a deal?" Mr. Daniels asks, a wide smile now on his features. At first, he is concerned, then happy. I don't know if I could trust him now. He goes over to the desk to write a pass for me, not prodding me for my answer. My silence is answer enough.

He believes I am willing.

"Hey, my friend thinks you're pretty." a girl with a big afro of curls says to me, snorting like she heard a joke. A group of people behind her are laughing, pushing a kid with messy hair.

I am sitting by myself under one of the trees around the big gym, eating a packaged peanut butter and jelly sandwich with a carton of school milk. I look up at the girl, my hopes slightly risen yet declining. Someone likes me.

"Really?" I pipe up, something in the center of my chest swelling.

"Yeah, and he says he wants your number, too." The way the girl laughs makes me uncomfortable. She turns her head to her group of friends. "Hey, Tyler, come over here!"

"Hell no! I don't want to date no small chested freak!" Tyler shouts in anger. He bursts into laughter, and his friends clap him on the back.

That thing in my chest begins to deflate, my hopes destroyed once again. I put my gaze to the concrete, wondering what it would be like if my head crashed against it. In front of the girl with pretty hair. My blood on her blue shorts.

As the girl walks away, I get up to toss my half-eaten sandwich in the trash. I tug on my sleeves, the urge strong than ever. But a lump in my throat prevents me, makes me want to go in a corner and weep. I pick up my backpack, sling it over my shoulder. Start to walk to the nearest bathroom.

Unfortunately, I am stopped when someone says my name.

"Autumn!"

I look over my shoulder to see Wyatt and Spencer, both of them looking worn out and drenched in sweat. Spencer's glasses reflect in the glaring sun, and he pushes them against the bridge of his nose.

"Where are you headed?" Wyatt asks. "You seemed to be in a rush."

I shuffle my feet, nervous. "No where in particular. Why are you two following me?" I ask the question to Spencer. I remember his words from the weekend, and wonder if he is just looking for me because he needs someone to protect. He has secrets, I know this, like someone he once knew suffered like me. And he failed.

He's trying to redeem himself.

"We weren't following you." Spencer says with bite. "We just happened to run into you, that's all. Why are you so bitter?"

Because of you. I want to say to him, but I hold back my tongue. My head still rings from hearing Dad's verbal accusations of calling Mom a whore last night, and from the sound of plates crashing to the ground. "It's nothing, okay?" I snap, turning on my heel to walk away. I can hear them. Their feet falling into perfect rhythm to catch up with me.

My heart races, and I run out of the 100 quad, memories of when Dad used to chase me down the hall roaring inside my head. I evade everyone, looking over my shoulder to see Spencer and Wyatt still walking in the same rhythm.

What do they want from me? I do not want to talk or do anything. Please, please, don't let me speak out.

I lose my balance, and I crash onto the concrete hard. Gasps echo throughout the quad as I lay on my side. Black smears my vision. I see hands, blurry and frightening, reaching out to touch me. I give out a cry of pain, even though I have not been touched.

"Holy shit, is she okay?"

"Autumn, wake up!"

"Break up, people! Give her room!"

With no movement of my own body, I am lifted by my arms. I slump against a warm body. Something feels wet against my forehead. Water? Blood? Oh, let it be blood. I want an excuse to be out of school.

When I wake, I am in my bed at home. Mom is clutching my hand, her skin unnaturally cold. Her breathing is normal, thank goodness, and she is asleep around my bed. Bruises around her neck start to heal. I press a hand to my forehead, wondering what had happened. I look at my hand, seeing some smear of dried blood. Must have been the cut.

"Oh, good, you're awake."

That voice. It sounds so sweet and caring; I've heard it a thousand times before. Chills bounce across my spine, and I turn my head to see Dad. He looks less destructive. The way he leans against the wall, concern etched on his face, makes me stomach twist in displeasure.

He is now turned into Happy and No Problems Dad. I am fond of this version of Dad. He's been like this once or twice during my childhood. The last time was when I was about ten years old. Mother and I were quick to forgiving him, because, as much it pains her-and me-there was a sliver left in us that loved him. But then, he can only be this way for so long.

"Are you okay, pumpkin?" Dad walks in my room, pride like, and crouches near my bedside. "I had to pick you up from school because you fell." He sighs, and puts his hand on my face. I cringe and resist the urge to scream. But, his touch is gentle. Not like Spencer's. But it feels gentle all the same. "I do want to apologize for my behavior the past couple of weeks, baby girl. It's just, it's been tough with work, and your mom just got caught in the crossfire, as did you. I didn't mean to lash out at you two. You're my whole life." His eyes glisten with tears, bright against the dim light of the sun. "Please, forgive me, Autumn. Your mother has already forgiven me this morning, and I promise I will take good care of you."

My heart breaks. His words chip through the stone encased around my beating soul. He has said this before-but he has never spoken them with such sincerity. My eyes burn, and something wet rolls down my face. Dad brushes his thumb across my cheek, wiping away the tear. "Can you promise me something, Daddy?"

Dad nods. "Anything for you. Anything." His hand goes from my cheek, to my mother's hand. I look at the hands, and notice the wedding bands still on their fingers. Even after years of accusations and arguments and monthly trips to the hospital, somehow Mom still kept her ring. And Dad still kept his.

Is this really what love is? Going through someone's rage, the unbearable storm of emotions, the fighting and screaming. Through the arguing, the accusations, the tears and pain and love and guilt and pain . . .

Of going through the strain of a relationship, the ups and down, popping the question, going through family and friend issues, getting married, having a baby. It could break or make a relationship for good. My parents were going through all of that, but I look at them with anger and rage and sadness and love because no matter what happened with the other . . .

You're still here.

I want to have that someday.

"Autumn?" Dad asks. He says my name, accurately. I am not called bitch. Slut. Whore. Mistake. "What did you want me to promise?"

The words are trapped inside my throat. But I swallow the pain, and the words spill out like a river. More tears make it down my cheeks. "Promise me you won't mom or me again."

"Cross my heart and hope to die." Dad says, squeezing Mom's hand gently. She makes a small noise. With his free hand, Dad makes the gesture on his heart. I hope he keeps his promise. I really do.

Making an effort to smile, I do the same gesture with my own heart. I will get through my relationship with Carlton, and hope for the better.

Abuse and all.