Ell Sadem

ONE: THE NEW GUY

AN/ so I changed the last part of this chapter. I'd say it's worth reading since it's someone else's pov entirely.

Another note, because this is a rewrite, there will be shenanigans like this where I may seem to randomly insert chapters or parts of chapters between previously published parts. I'm sorry about the confusion it might bring but it's for the best...

—Ella—

The first thing I notice about the new guy is his height and his relaxed posture. But the next thing makes my stomach drop to my feet and my heart pound against my ribs as if in an attempt to escape; a solid, glistening silver ten floats over his head. He's dangerous. Horrifyingly dangerous.

“Class, please give a warm welcome to Evan Ritcher.” Mr. Jeffrey's rank is a high four, a stark contrast.

The guy smiles partially and waves, seeming to scan the class as it gives a discombobulated greeting. His eyes linger on me.

I avert my gaze, trying not to shrink back while fighting the memories of the last time I ran into a ten from resurfacing. Breathe. Just breathe. This is a safe place, Mr. Jeffrey will make sure we're safe.

"Ella,"

I jolt, looking up to see a wrinkling brown face looming over my desk. "Yes sir?"

"Make room." He gestures at my things on the bench beside me and my gut falls to the floor. Betrayal!

I vaguely hear Mr. Jeffrey tell the guy to take a seat by me through the loud sirens screeching in my head, the shooting from when I was small flashing before my eyes. They were tens too, both of them.

Sliding into the seat to my left, Evan gives a quiet ‘hi’ and a polite smile.

Frantic tingling spasms across my side as I return his greeting without leaving out the smile, my voice somehow not exposing my internal terror. I scoot over more and glue my eyes back on my work as Mr. Jeffrey begins his lesson.

My heart still hasn't slowed down, and my hands are shaking so bad I can hardly write legibly, let alone focus at all on what’s being said. I'm going to die. This is it, I'm dead. I'm going to be murdered.

The period bell sounds an all-consuming ring.

I scramble to shove my stuff into my bag, my head spinning and my chest aching as if I've been shot; I feel sick. Once out in the hall, I hurry for the nearest door to the outside, but a hand on my shoulder stops me.

It's that Ritcher guy. “Hey, so my schedule says I've got lunch next, but I don't know where that is,” his grey eyes bounce from me to the paper in his hand and back again. “Do you mind helping me out real quick?”

I feel someone bump into me from behind and drape an arm around my shoulders. I don't have to look back to know who it is.

Brooklyn Meraz grins at me, her rank a happy shade of green. “Not at all. We were just headed that way, weren't we, Ella?”

I try to swallow, but it's like a hand is squeezing my throat shut, “I was actually about to head to the nurse’s office. I'm not feeling very well.” That would be an understatement. I can see myself from somewhere else, from outside my body and I am not okay with it.