A Hero in the Dark: 2nd Edition

Chapter 80: February

Mr. Nally hands me a complete schedule for the winter semester. Since it's already December, we've decided I can't start a semester now. Exams will be held at the end of next month. There's no way I can catch up by then and write them with everyone else. "We'll worry about catching you up in the summer when we get there," he says.

"What am I supposed to do in the meantime?"

"It's up to you, but I can't force a student to take on so much coursework on such little notice. It's not fair to you or the staff. Ok?"

I nod. "More than ok."

***

First period is math with Ms. Chen, a younger, Asian teacher with slick black hair teaching mixed functions. Everyone still stares when I walk in. I find a seat quickly at the front. Ms. Chen is kind, slow, and easy enough to learn from, but I only ever grasp half of what she says.

I'm a good student; that's what Mr. Nally said. He wasn't wrong. I always paid attention when my teachers talk and I always take notes, but now, I can't bother. I'm too tired for this. I haven't been sleeping well, perhaps due to the extra guilt; it's John's birthday this Sunday, the fourteenth. He'll be turning twenty then, and it's like his telepathic shouts have gotten even more desperate. I'm only sorry I haven't answered any of them, and that I won't be there to celebrate. I want him more than anything, or anyone, but I know I can't have him—it's just a fact.

After math, it's straight to English. Ms. Sarjas is stricter, and she gets started right away with archetypes and literary devices. I have no idea what she's talking about most of the time, and she doesn't bother to explain, so I end up daydreaming.

I lay my head over my desk, cover my face, and close my eyes. I drift back to the last day I spent with John before everything went to hell. It's hard to remember. I need to go past West Virginia, New York, Mexico, all the way to Alabama. I focus on the light, the warmth of alien boy... He's pretty—his hair, his eyes, the way he looks at me... I hope he still looks like that today...

I snap back when the bell rings, then leave for lunch after catching a dirty glare from Ms. Sarjas, though I don't eat much, and I don't eat with my old friends. Their schedules are different than mine because they're a year older; that's the way it is.

Rather than eating the sandwich mom packed me, I wander outside. I walk around the building, slowly, leisurely, thinking of John and the Garde and the academy. Dad has been off and on call with the UN constantly these past couple months, talking about me, I think. I guess he's been successful because no one has shown up to drag me to California, and no cops have come to arrest me either. I'm more grateful for that than I thought I'd be.

I settle in the grass under the big oak tree, alone, and watch people wander the grounds while Ruth B. sings along to "Dandelions" in my ears—it's one of my favourites. Its lyrics remind me of John and what I could've had. It makes me feel like he's still here, in some way, liking me, and not upset about everything I did, and sooner or later, I'm taken back to the day I arrived in Paradise. I remember sitting under the tree there too, waiting for him to finish school. It's a nice memory, a somber one, but I still blame myself for everything that happened after. If I hadn't had left, none of it would've happened. He'd have no reason to hate me and maybe, just maybe, my life wouldn't be so thrown out of whack like it is now.

I shake my head and blow out a sigh, then look through my phone. I have three new messages, all of them from dad:

          (11:01) You okay?
          (11:05) Emily, answer me
          (11:05) Are you okay?

I roll my eyes and pick myself back up to retreat inside. I make my way to the school cafeteria, walk by the food, thinking that maybe something will spark an appetite, but nothing does. The only thing my stomach yearns for is John. It roars like it's in pain for him, and just knowing that it's my fault that I can never see him again makes me feel like throwing up.

People watch as I sneak my way out of line. I keep my eyes down. I reach for the door to leave the cafe altogether, and as I do, I run into a guy, or rather, he runs into me. I stutter backwards.

In that split second, every eye is settled on us. He must be at least six feet. He's wears a letterman jacket with the school's mascot on the front: an orange and black moose called the longhorn; really, it's only the head and antlers that show. "Watch it, freak! Go back to your own alien school!"

Alien? "I'm not an alien," I mutter.

"No?" I wish I knew who this guy was. "Then what the fuck are these things, huh?" He doesn't even ask before he snatches my seven pendants and pulls.

"Hey—!" My vision flickers blue on its own. I catch his hand and try to pry his fingers loose, simultaneously trying to keep my Legacy tame. I don't even realize that I'm bending the guy's fingers backwards until an arm comes over my chest—the lunchroom attendant.

He's a burly man and he stands between us; I don't know his name. He stares at me more than the guy. "You okay?" he asks in a way that makes it clear I'm not the same.

I glance at my hands—they're normal. Everything else is too. I meet the burly man's stare, don't shake, nod, or gesture anything. What a stupid question.

Seriously?! Am I okay?! I grit my teeth and spin on my heel. I don't run even though I so badly want to, but rather, exit at a brisk pace; it still isn't quick enough. "Go back to freak school, alien-girl!" the guy yells behind me, and no matter how hard I try to ignore him, he says it over and over on a loop in my mind. "No one needs you here!"

A tear slips down my cheek as I hurry to the bathroom and slide down the wall. Dad calls me in the last stall. I don't want to answer, not after that. Ultimately, though, I do with a sigh. I know dad. He'll keep calling if I don't pick up. "What," I spit, blatantly aware of how pissed I sound.

"You didn't reply to my texts."

"I didn't want to."

"If someone texts you, you text back. What's the point of having a phone otherwise?"

"You knew the answer. I didn't need to text back."

"No, I didn't."

"Bullshit. You did."

"Watch your language," he reprimands. "I don't care what your reason is. Every hour I'll check in on you, and I expect a straightforward reply in return. If you don't text back, I'll call, and if you don't pick up, I'll be there in ten, tops."

"Come on," I complain. "Every hour?"

"It's to make sure you're safe."

"But what if I'm in class?"

"This isn't the '90s. You can send a quick text," he says. "Don't make me call again."