"Remember! Your essay outlines are due on Friday. That's two days from now, right?"

The high pitch of the fifth period bell finally sounds, and my classmates all jump up from their desks and headed out the door. A surge of panic runs through me. Friday? Two days from now? My essay outline?

I wish I could put my head down on my desk and sleep forever. But no, that would not be wise. A good student would go up to the teacher's desk, explain that they had unfortunately been absent for the past two days, and ask for help.

But not this student. I stand up from my desk and hesitantly grab my things, before walking out of the room, legs feeling much like jelly.

I should have asked for help. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

It isn't my fault that my English teacher is such a grouch. Never before have I seen a smile on her face that isn't outright petty. 

I should have asked for help. Why am I like this?

But it'll be okay. I've been working on being more confident, lately. One little slip-up won't take me down.

This is definitely going to fail me.

But I know just who I can depend on to give me the help I need. Thank God that she has the same teacher. Moving up to Honors English was perhaps not a bad decision after all. If I were still in regular English, like the year before, I wouldn't have an English buddy to help me out like I do now.

I'll just ask Arya!

And luckily, I'll see Arya very soon. My next period is a lunch period, and I've sat next to Arya ever since I was a freshman. 

After opening my locker and retrieving my lunch sack, I speed-walk down to the crowded cafeteria, hopelessly trying to balance my laptop, English binder, and composition book in my other hand.

But as I approach the cafeteria, where the collective shouts of all of Newberry High School's upperclassmen can be heard, I don't see the familar, smiling face of my friend at my usual table. A pit of dread develops in my stomach, tricking me into feeling full so that I'll have no interest in tearing open my lunch sack and eating the sandwich and potato chips inside.

I sit down at my table and catch sight of the other people who're there. A red-haired girl who I know to be Emma, a friend of Arya's. I'm not quite sure if we are even friends, but it's not like I haven't ever talked to her before. Acquaintances is a good word to describe us both. Next to her sits Riley, the newest addition to our table and the only boy, and of whom I have never spoken to. Just like the other two kids next to him. I don't even know the names of those two girls. Perhaps they were uttered once or twice, but they clearly went through one ear and out the other. Emma's friends, Riley's friends, Arya's friends? I didn't know. I never know. My lunch table isn't really what one might expect it to be.

Needless to say, none of these people can help me. The pit of dread in my stomach only seems to grow bigger, and I have no desire to eat. Instead, I pull out my blank sheet of notebook paper from my English binder, the hopeless beginning to my essay outline, and try to make sense of the assignment I've been given.

"How's it going, Olivia?" 

I donn't look up right away, so absorbed in my thoughts that hearing a new voice come in from reality feels much like just waking up from a dream. I see Emma looking right at me, expecting an answer. Her eyes are blue and friendly, just like always. I feel badly for my plain response.

"Great."

Dammit. I forgot to ask how she was. But by now it's been five seconds too long to just blurt out the question without it being it weird. Why do I have to be like this?

I quickly turn my gaze back to my blank sheet of paper, eyes boring deep into it as if performing a deep analysis. It must look quite strange to any surrounding people. Like Emma, for example, who I can still see looking at me from the corner of my eye. The rising sense of annoyance in me is impeded by developing guilt. Still, my eyes never meet hers, a sign I do not wish to speak. 

"You have your free period in the afternoon, right?" she asks yet another question after the long pause between us. 

Once again, I do not look up right away, just returning from my thoughts. "Uh, yeah."

"Ah." She nods. She must be done talking. Thank goodness; I can finally return to the act of attempting to pull a proficient essay outline out of my creative mind. 

However, I'm proven wrong when she adds something. A bit late, mind you. I suppose I can't exactly blame her, with me being the awkward toad that I am, but still. 

"That means you haven't received your schedule yet."

Why does she always talk that way? Something about it makes me stiffen a little. Maybe it's due to the fact that it sounds similar to a certain someone I know. My English teacher. 

My essay outline!

I need to get back to my essay outline as soon as possible, and Emma is only interrupting my train of thought.

However, I replay what she's said in my mind for a second. A prominent word sticks out to me like a sore thumb. 

"Schedule? What schedule?" I finally ask her a question of my own, the words leaving me before I can seem to stop them. All I can imagine is what other burdens my teachers plan to add to my load later in the day.

Emma almost seems amused by my surprise, as I can deduce by her sneaking a giggle into her hand. My cheeks flush over, but the annoyance that once rose in me returns. Can she not see how flustered I am? My active thoughts which never seem to quiet are not exactly a laughing matter. Anyone who can sympathize will know. 

"Your scheduling sheet for next year. You know, when we pick out our classes every February?"

It seems to hit me like a train, the sudden realization that ensues after her reply. And now I feel even stupider than when Emma had dared to laugh at me. "Oh. Yeah, I remember."

Emma gave me a small smile. "Who knows, maybe we might share a class next year."

I stiffen at that comment. That somehow doesn't sound very appealing to me, but I work to show some excitement, with a forced smile. "Uh, yeah. Maybe. That might be fun."

I cringe after saying that, but Emma seems to be happy, with her grin that follows. However, the idea of that sounds anything but fun to me. Instead, it sounds like a period of excessive questioning, endless rambles about her strange observations and findings she likes to write down, and her hobby of people-watching. Is that why she stares at me all the time? God, I hope she doesn't have an entire notebook dedicated to me and my every move.

Before the conversation can go any further, someone sits down next to me and sets their lunchbox down on the table with a thump. I look over and am overjoyed at the face I see.