Mr. Dennison looks over his glasses at me. His gaze goes back and forth. Me, detention slips, me, detention slips.

"How did you manage to get seven detentions in a single day?" Mr. Dennison's brow furrows.

I shrug. It helps, apparently, when there are two of me. Two Delaneys for twice the trouble. There's no point in denying it now.

"To which detentions are you referring?" I ask innocently.

Mr. Dennison squints at the detention slips. "No hall pass, raising shirt in front of lower classmen in the hall, dress code violation, drawing large penis on whiteboard, yelling YOLO and cartwheeling through the library... this was issued in the middle of my class..."

Mr. Dennison works through this dilemma, this issue of me being in two places at once, but doesn't say anything more of it. He must've thought the same thing about the graffiti this morning. He certainly doesn't mention the fact that I am entirely too uncoordinated to manage a cartwheel in the library.

I kind of wish I actually drew the penis, though.

"It's been a tough week," I say.

Still perplexed, Mr. Dennison shuffles through all of my slips to eventually reach Milo's. If he was incredulous about my impressive feat of seven school disturbances in a single day, he is absolutely astonished Milo is present at all.

"You're my best student," he says.

Milo quietly folds his hands in front of him on the desktop. "Good grades and trouble-making are not mutually exclusive," Milo makes a valiant point, then adds, "sir."

Yeah, you tell him, Milo. You deviant.

Mr. Dennison's chronic disbelief is interrupted by Emma Conroy practically falling into the room, huffing for breath. Her face is flushed, her lips extra pink. Her fingers reach up to comb out the tangles of her mussed hair. If I didn't know any better, I would think she just stumbled out of a hot bedroom at a house party. But this is Emma and this is detention and why the hell is she looking at me like that?

Emma's eyes lock on me like she's seen a ghost. Her lips form a tight, thin line before she twists deliberately to Mr. Dennison as if she is determined to block me out of her gaze, her peripheral vision, and her universe.

"Sorry I'm late," she says breathily, tucking her hair behind her ears. Even a side glance at me blooms a full, red blush across her cheeks and a new wave of vague confusion.

I shrink in my chair. I can handle YOLOing and flashing freshman, but what did my mysterious twin do or say to Emma that she can barely look at me? Worse, why do I want her to? I don't need Emma looking at me. I don't.

Mr. Dennison waves off Emma's apology. There's no need to be upset with her. She's not a delinquent student, just an eager volunteer and you can't be mad at somebody willingly giving up their afternoon.

"The science lab still needs to be finished," Mr. Dennison says, then adds, looking pointedly at me, "don't kill yourselves in there."

My heart leaps. Back to the scene of the crime. I spring up too quickly, Milo following suit. We have built a plan on sneaky text messages and stealthy occult research. We walk too fast to the door, feeling the unspoken, unaddressed problem.

Even if we can figure out how to undo whatever the heck I did, can we do it while my double is here, waltzing around without a hall pass?

We walk right past Emma, who wheels around, awkwardly jogging to catch up. If Emma struggles to meet my eye, I can just return the favor. I don't need to watch her brush her bangs out of her innocent brown eyes over and over. 

"So, what did you find out?" I ask Milo in half a whisper.

"Depends. We don't know exactly what happened, just that blood was the key," Milo answers, "some of the sites said that you have to recite the spell backward."

My feet move so mechanically, a determined speed walk. For once, I have purpose. Pure purpose. I am a girl on a mission.

"Spell?" Emma echoes behind us.

I can't look at her. She couldn't look at me, so I return the favor. Milo doesn't get the memo, though, and glances back, unsure how much he is allowed to say to anyone else.

"But we don't know the spell," I say.

"Right..." Milo said, "but maybe it's written down somewhere? Lots of stuff seems to be in Latin so, like, it would be hard to memorize correctly."

"Latin?" Emma parrots.

The hallway seems to get smaller as we get closer to the science lab, like walking toward a little Willy Wonka door. My mind is playing tricks on me, trying to make drama where there isn't.

"So, we hope for dear life that it's written in the classroom," I say. 

We stop in front of the door. It takes Emma a moment to realize what we're waiting for and she pushes ahead to bear the key.

"Hold on a second," Emma said, poised to unlock the door, holding it hostage, "what is going on?"

Milo and I exchange a glances. There are pros and cons here. It is true that Emma was present for the snake jar fiasco. She saw the stitches. We even discussed the matters of Ms. Isaakov and Emma full-on admitted to believing in the circulating rumors of Ms. Isaakov's vampiric blood collecting. Would it be that much further a stretch for Emma to believe Ms. Isaakov was attempting a ritual? Furthermore, would it be a leap for Emma to believe that it succeeded?

Part of me just doesn't want Emma to know. I don't know why. Maybe because she is who she is and I don't want her seeing any more of me than she's already been exposed to. This pretty, smart, ambitious junior class rep has already wrapped me in her cozy sweater while I bled nearly to death in the back of Mr. Dennison's car. That's way too raw. She can't see me in my frantic reflection-less state. She can't know how bad I fucked up. 

"Uh," Milo offers, helpfully. Great contribution.

"Just open the door," I say, "please?"

Emma wavers, swaying slightly on her feet. "I need to know."

She only sounds this certain during speeches, like her mind's set. Like she knows something is off.

"I'll show you in there," I press.

"Promise?" I almost expect her to raise her pinkie finger to me. I cross my heart instead, like that'll prove my absolute sincerity. Emma turns uncertainty and unlocks the door, letting it swing open on its creaking hinges. The sound stretches. Rrrrrrreeeeeeeeee. Like Michael Jackson is going to zombie dance his way out and Vincent Price will cackle.

We wait at the door for a thunder crack that never comes, all peering warily into the dark classroom.

Milo moves first, tip-toeing forward to grope for the light switch around the door frame. The florescent kick on, buzzing like flies circling carrion. But they work. The lights have been replaced. There are no pools of snake juice creeping along the linoleum. My blood isn't smeared ominously over the counter tops. It looks pretty much like how me and Emma found it yesterday. Old jars and beakers, bunsen burners on the counters. It just smells even more like bleach today.

"This is it?" Milo asks like he was expecting fun house mirrors and shrieky violins or maybe a real sparkly glitter fire in the middle of the floor like our spell-casting website.

All three of us step cautiously inside, no trap doors or quicksand underneath our feet.

Now that I know what I am looking for, the five point star formed by the bunsen burners is incredibly obvious. One, two, three, four, five. Perfect.

Emma gasps and I look up, looking into the glass doors of the cabinet. Her reflection is there, her eyes wide. She looks ethereal in the glass, not quite there. But there's me, and I'm truly not.

"Oh my God," Emma says.

Pretty much.

"Yeah, so my reflection got out because I lit all Ms. Isaakov's pentagram bunsen burners and bled in the middle of them," I say.

"How?" Emma asks, and I want to cling to the fact that she believes I know what's going on enough to answer that question. I have no freaking idea! I just did the bleeding. 

"The internet says you can open portals if you know the right incantations and have all the right ingredients," Milo adds. Thank the internet.

Emma stands behind me, her reflection blinking as she grapples with this news. "So there's two of you?" Her voice comes out squeaky for some reason. "That's why everyone keeps saying you were somewhere else last night?"

I kind of hate that the BJ rumor has probably reached her. 

I nod, but no mirror me bobbles back. I twist to face Emma, her expression unreadable. It's almost like she looks through me, thinking of something more important than her weird classmate's paranormal problems. 

"We should start looking," Milo prompts, jarring both me and Emma back to the problem at hand. Yes, mirror me is on the run and we don't know how to close the portal I opened up. I don't even know how it works. As near as I can tell, the glass looks like glass. What makes it more than a cabinet door?

"I can help!" Emma pipes in, "you think she wrote it down somewhere? The incantations?"

"We're hoping," Milo says.

Emma springs up, her sweater flowing after her like a heavy, knit wedding train, whipping around across the room as she throws open a cupboard. Stacks of science textbooks are piled on top of each other, each spine more bruised and tattered than the one below it. Emma shuffles through them, pulling out a handful to thrust into my arms.

I dump my armful onto the counter top, flipping them open all at once to hunt for some sign of mystic notes.

Mostly, there are explanations about how the mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell. Doodled dicks pepper the margins. The odd page has something highlighted in bright yellow. I flip onto the next textbook and on the very first page, there are notes. The handwriting is too neat, too swirly and cursive. Only a teacher could write like that. My heart skips a little. It feels too lucky for Milo to be right, but it's also so sneaky. Who would think to dig through the textbooks for the teacher's copy? They hauled her out for hoarding blood, not scratching out science to teach kids about creationism.

"Guys," I say, drawing Milo and Emma in around me. They peer over my shoulders as I flip through the pages, scanning her tidy writing for some sign of sigils or whatever. I flip to the very back where there are mostly copyright notes and acknowledgements. Instead of thanking friends and family, all the small type is covered by what almost look like recipes. There are directions and little notes about what's needed, like graveyard dirt and new moons.

Emma's finger juts in front of me, her nail tapping at the requirement 'glass' and 'candles'. Before I can stop her, she pulls the book toward herself, nosing her way into the page. Her face scrunches. "This is hard to read."

"Because of the handwriting?" I ask.

"And I don't think it's in English," Emma nods.

"Latin," Milo says knowingly.

"So, you're supposed to say this backwards and it fixes everything?" Emma asked, her face still nearly pressed into the pages.

Milo shifts on his feet. "I don't know. Is it really that easy? What if there's something else, like how we figure Ms. Isaakov started before she figured out she needed blood for the ritual?"

I want not to believe Milo, just because it's more convenient to be optimistic at this point. I don't want to figure out some extra step to undoing this bullshit. I want it to be simple. Easy-peasy. Pig-latin clubhouse passwords kind of easy.

Emma carefully tags the corner of the page, folding a triangle into itself before she hugs the book to her chest.

"But that's not the only problem..." she says.

That is the thing I've been trying not to think about. Does my mirror me vanish with the reverse incantation, or is she trapped here? As much as I want the solution to be simple, just to get it over with, the risk is way to high. In a single day, she's already paid Jesse a visit. How much of a harlot could she turn me into over the course of a week? How many detentions can she get me given the opportunity? I'll be stuck cleaning jars of eyeballs until I graduate. Or worse, Mr. Dennison could run out of useful tasks and I'll just have to sit at a desk watching grass grow outside.

I shake that off.

We're silent, all thinking the same thing, if not precisely, then at least sort of.

A long rrrrrrreeeeeeeeeeeeeeee shatters the fluorescent buzz white noise.

My gaze shoots for the door, catching just a flash of wicked white smile before a pale hand brushes over the light switch and we are plunged into darkness.

Emma shrieks. Somebody grabs my arm, but my instincts are quicker than panic. I lunge forward, guided by the counter top. I smash into the wall, kicking the door open so light spills back into the science lab. My shoes skid over the floor into the hallway. A wisp of black hair swishes around the corner and I dart out.

She knew where I would be. She put me there and she came to torment me in person instead of just building me a reputation. Delaney on a bender. One cafeteria milk incident and I've gone off the deep end. A few class disturbances once in a while has turned into spray paint declarations and cartwheels.

I run through the halls, following the sounds of footsteps until there is nothing but my wheezy, nonathletic panting. She's gone. She's vanished.

I double over, my hands resting on my thighs as I struggle to catch my breath. Emma and Milo finally catch up, jogging to meet me in the middle of the hallway.

"Where'd she go?" Milo asks.

I point vaguely. All I have is a rough idea.

"We'll never catch her if we don't corner her," I say.

She's spry. Apparently she can do cartwheels.

"You don't mean..." Milo trails, panic in his eyes. We've watched enough horror movies together. This is the line where we yell at the characters and throw caramel popcorn at the screen.

"I know," I say, "but we have to split up."

Milo groans. I cringe, but it's strategy. We need to cover the exits. Force her where we want her. We can't do that if we chase her down as a clump.

"Emma, stay here so she can't slip out toward the gym," I say, "Milo, go around the loop so she doesn't cut across to the music room."

Milo and Emma both nod, like they don't quite trust my authority, but nobody else is offering up any other suggestions. Before they can protest, I jog down the hall the last direction I saw her vanish, the last way her footsteps bounced off the lockers.

My lungs burn. Running sucks and detention sucks and being outsmarted by my own damn self sucks. My eyes are open wide to any movement, watching the corners of the halls I never pay attention to. The broom closets. The weird bulletin board boarders. The dumb Microsoft Word print-outs awarding students for being good in class. I never get those. There's not a single honorary, made-up certificate for me stapled up on cork boards. Emma has one on practically every board. 

Emma and Milo out of sight, the school is eerie and quiet. There must be people in the far corners having club meetings or practicing chess, but they are not in this hallway. There is just me. And another me. She is hiding. Just knowing she is somewhere sprinkles goosebumps up my arms.

Then there's the patter of shoes on the floor and I spin around. Double-Delaney sprints out of the boys bathroom where I just walked past. She sprints back toward Emma's post. I spin on my heels, charging her way until I hit the puddle of water pouring out of the bathroom. The floor is hard and fast and wet when I slam into it, sprawling into the lockers. Stars float in my eyes and I scramble up, reaching for locker handles to pull myself up from the floor.

A scream rings through the halls. Emma's distinct, shrill voice. My wet shoes slide on the floor, threatening to slip right out from under me again and again. Every step is a gamble. Every inch of me begs to be bruised.

"Emma?" Milo slides into view, running from his own post. I only nod, my breath missing. My lungs don't have time for words, only gasping.

A muffled shriek comes from around the corner. Back to the science lab. My stomach does a somersault inside me. Milo and I both book it back, rubber shoe soles slap, slap, slapping all the way there.

The science lab door swings on its sad hinges, letting out its sad creak as I bound through the threshold just in time to see mirror me dragging Emma Conroy through the cabinet door, the glass rippling like water.