“Hey, can I talk to you for a sec?” the stranger who I now know as Christopher asks. “I’d like to apologize for-”

“Well, look who it is!” The familiar raucous voice fills me with dread. “Goldilocks and Go Diego Go.”

Wearing a puzzled look, Christopher turns to me. “Do you know this immature child?”

Afraid of angering Gary and creating an even bigger enemy of him, I don’t respond.

“Are you two going out?” he questions, looking from me to Christopher. He smiles at me, but then glares at Christopher.

“No,” I answer immediately, then try to do a quick cleanup as I turn to leave. “Well, we just met. I need to go.”

“Then you won’t mind if I take her for myself, Chrissy?” Gary grabs my arm with a vise-like grip and quickly pulls me to himself. His grip is suffocating, and despite my shock at this sudden act, I have the presence of mind to defend myself.

I grab my left fist, pull it forward and, using all the power in my shoulders, ram my elbow into his stomach. Gary instantly releases me, then doubles over in pain.

“Trinity, go!”

I consider obeying, and even begin to move away, but then I’m compelled to stay to make certain that Christopher’s okay.

I turn around just in time to see him knee Gary, who is still doubled over, in the face. Gary’s head jerks backward and blood drips from his nose as he falls flat on his back.

Bending over Gary, Christopher shouts through clenched teeth, “Never touch a girl against her will again!” He leaves him on the ground as he hurries over to me and puts a hand on my back, leading me away. “Are you all right?”

I feel uncomfortable with his hand on my back, but I don’t want to be rude, so I don’t say or do anything about it. That is, until I remember that that’s why…

I walk faster than Christopher, to get his hand off of me. “Um, yeah,” I finally answer, “I-”

“How long has he and his crew been bothering you?” he asks, now beside me. I think he got the hint though, because his hand doesn’t return.

“Almost a month.”

“Wow. You-”

I suddenly stop walking and turn around, forcing him to stop as well, lest he walk right into me like he almost does.

“You knew…” I say slowly, my brows furrowed. “How did you know… that I needed help? Why were you in our community?”

Seeming surprised, Christopher raises his brows and puts up his hands. “Wait, stop. You two live in the same community?”

I nod slowly, repeating, “How did you know I needed help? Were you follow-?”

“No, of course not,” he says, and I believe him until he continues unconvincingly, “I was in the neighborhood… visiting a friend… and then I saw him drag you away. He won’t touch you again. Not when I’m around.”

“But… you... the… the truck? How did you know it was going to-?”

“It was just a coincidence, okay?” Christopher says firmly, not looking me in the eyes. There’s a certain look in his that makes me feel a little uneasy, and assures me that he’s not telling the truth. It was not a coincidence. His eyes tell me that much.

“Okay.”

“I’m sorry…” he says, surprising me. I’m not at all used to being apologized to. I’m confused for a moment, but he clarifies by going on to say, “for acting weird yesterday at church. You know, about holding your hand and all. I wasn’t feeling well and I didn’t want you to catch whatever it was I had...”

He was holding the other girl’s hand. But instead of questioning him, I answer a simple, “Oh, okay… Thanks.”

The loud ringing alerts us that it’s time for us to head to our classes. I have math next. It’s the class I hate more than all the others, but not for the reasons of most.

° * ° * °

No, that’s not the answer. I know that.

I bury my left hand in my hair and hold the pencil with my right as I try to convince myself that I won’t get into a car accident if I answer the question with the correct answer. It’s ridiculous, really.

I write the correct answer, but then quickly erase it and replace it with the wrong.

That’s better, I hear the loud voice inside my head say. You’re safe… for now.

Not five minutes later, I encounter yet another math problem that the nagging voice is telling me to answer incorrectly. It says that since the question is so long, the answer has to be short and contain certain, specific numbers. If I fail to act accordingly, I will run the risk of him successfully hunting me down with the plan to murder.

I’ve never voiced my fears, as even thinking of them makes it so much more real to me.

Suddenly, anxiety strikes due to these negative thoughts and imaginations of what he would do to me if he ever finds me. He’s already done so much… He’s thoughts up so many ways to harm me, but I have no doubt that his sick mind can invent more. Some of what he’s done is unheard of. My social worker could hardly believe some of the things he’s done. I wish I didn’t have to believe, but I have no choice.

As I go deeper into my thoughts, the test slips away from my mind. My chest becomes tight and I feel as if I’m being choked… as if an elephant is sitting on my chest, making it difficult for me to breathe. It seems as if I can’t get enough air in my lungs. I feel like a fish out of water.

I take deep, slow breaths, but soon start to feel dizzy as a result.

I feel a sudden urge to place my pencil on the paper and decorate the page in specific patterns, according to what the voice says to do.

I can’t do that!

The pressure causes me to feel even more anxious; almost anxious enough to step out. The room seems to become smaller… like the walls are closing in on me.

I tug the collar of my shirt down, so it’s not tight against my neck, and breathe some more, despite the lightheadedness that brings me further away from all thoughts of my math test that I have five minutes left to complete.

I can’t do this.

I raise my hand, saying, “Mr. Wilkerson?”

He shoots me a glare, making it clear that he’s irritated. “Can it wait, Miss Martin?”

I sigh. “Yes.”

“Good. Now I’d appreciate if you wouldn’t disturb the class, especially while a test is being taken.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Thank you.” Mr. Wilkerson returns to his phone, and suddenly a wide smile comes to his face. He’s most likely texting Ms. Benton. The whole school knows that there’s definitely something going on between them.

I begin to tap my pencil on the desk, but immediately stop when he looks up from his phone and squints his eyes at me again. Embarrassed, I sink down in my chair a little, biting my lip.

Looking down at my paper again, I become even more overwhelmed. Anxiety distracts me and I just stare at the test until time runs out.

“Pencils down, please,” Mr. Wilkerson says firmly. One of the students ignore him, quickly writing down an answer until the teacher walks up to him and snatches the pencil out of his hand. The boy looks up, embarrassment written all over his face.

“I’m sorry Mr. Wilkerson,” he says. “It’s just that-”

“No excuses, Walter. I kindly asked you to put your pencil down and you ignored me.”

“I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

“It had better not.”

Walter nods once, visibly gulping.

Mr. Wilkerson walks around the room, collecting the papers. I grit my teeth and breathe in through them, thoroughly embarrassed as well as disappointed in myself. I have to learn to control the anxiety. If only I could have taken the liquid medicine during the test, even though it doesn’t always work.

When the teacher gets around to me, I hand him my test sheet and wish I could disappear, just until he gets over the shock of my answers.

The teacher seems to be scanning over my paper, then he looks own at me with a raised brow before moving on to the rest of the class.

The bell soon rings and we are all dismissed.

° * ° * °

“Hello dear,” Mrs. Thompson says, taking my hand and bringing me further into her house. It’s quite small, but it’s bigger than it looks on the outside.

Her house is beautiful, clean and smells of lavender. I take a deep breath, and she notices. A smile comes to her face as she looks at me, her eyes smiling as well.

“So, your mom isn’t forcing you to attend this dance, is she?” she asks, the smile not gone from her face.

“Um…”

“Yes, I am, actually,” Mrs. Johnson answers for me. “I’d like her to get out and make some friends.”

Friends I can’t keep, I think. Who knows when I’ll have to leave? I don’t want to ever go back.

“Oh, well, friends are good,” Mrs. Thompson says, agreeing. “Let me show you the dress darling, and if you don’t like it, you can be honest.” She leads me across the house and to the master bedroom, where she opens her closet. My jaw drops and my eyes widen when I see what must be the very dress she’s been talking about. “What do you think?” she asks.

“It’s beautiful!” I exclaim. It actually makes me excited about this formal. I want to feel pretty, for at least once in my life. I’ve lost count of the times he’s called me ugly in the most awful ways, and put horrible scars and bruises on various places of my body, which only made it worst. Most of them have faded over the years, but some have stayed. Every time I look in the mirror, I’m reminded of how I got them… of who put them there.

“I’m glad you like it. It’s yours.”

I just stare at the gorgeous white dress in amazement, but I still feel that no matter how beautiful it is, my face and body would dress it down.

“Thank you,” I say quietly.

“And of course, Trinity, I can’t give you this dress without giving you the matching shoes. Try them on.” Mrs. Thompson points to the floor, where, at the bottom of the sparkly dress lies a pair of white, high heel shoes.

“I couldn’t possib-”

“Please, take them,” she insists. “I have no one else to give them to. No granddaughters, no nieces, no one. Consider me as your grandmother, for the remaining time you’re here.” Mrs. Thompson suddenly reaches out and hugs me gently, causing the small smile I had to leave my face, as bad memories are brought back to the front of my mind.