After Hours

Some girls dream about princes. I dream about monsters. The kind of monsters that lurk in the shadows after the halls have emptied out, after the last shrill bell echoes off the lockers. The kind of monsters who watch you-not because they want to save you, but because they want to ruin you. I met mine at seventeen. I claimed him at eighteen. And when I told myself it was wrong, that it was dangerous, that it would break me-I craved it more. My name is Joanne Whitmore. And this is the story of how I burned the whole world down for a man I was never supposed to touch.