There’s a large gray-haired teacher sitting behind a desk at the front of the room, but he doesn’t even look up from his papers, so I head to the back, sit quietly at an empty table, and pretend to be busy with something.

The teacher doesn’t say anything, not even after the bell rings for the start of class. He’s probably just in his own world. After a few minutes, he gives one quick intro, then sits at his desk and lets everyone work on some random project.

I spy on a few of the kids closest to me. Most of their artwork resembles fourth-grade drawings, but one catches my eyes. It’s pretty spectacular. I wish I could draw like that.

I pull out a piece of paper and begin to doodle. Seems right since that’s what everyone else is doing. Except that they’re using pastels and charcoal and other random art supplies I’ve never used. And I’m using a pencil and notebook paper.

I draw my city—New York—though I’m pretty sure I’m the only one who would know it’s New York. Westchester isn’t that far from the city, so I’m sure a few of the other students have been, but my rendition includes the people you only see if you’re there all the time, because really, they’re who make it spectacular.

Each line drawn on the stupid notebook paper gets me closer to that old dream, takes me deeper into my mind, where everything is fine. Good even.

Soon, I forget where I am. Forget the uncomfortable seat beneath me, the frumpy mom jeans and who bought them for me, the disappointment in my father’s eyes.

I jump when someone speaks. “Interesting. New York, I’m guessing?”

I lift my head but don’t turn to see who it is standing over me. Based on the age in his gravelly voice, I’d say it’s the art teacher.

“Maybe,” I say.

He doesn’t speak for a moment, but I see eyes drifting toward us.

“Well, wherever it is, it’s clear you love it,” he says simply. I don’t answer, but apparently he doesn’t need me to. “But is it the city you love, or is it the drawing?”

Now I look at him, curious.

“What do you think?” I say.

“Both,” he decides. “A beautiful city captured in beautiful art.”

I’m not sure he’s right, but I like that he believes it. It feels a little like he believes in me.

“Next time ask me for the proper supplies,” he says. “A good artist deserves the right tools.”

I actually smile as I nod at him. For the first time, I feel like a real student.

The bell rings, and I’m impressed with myself when I don’t jump. I grab my things and follow the rest of the class into the hall.

“Miss Rodriguez,” the teacher calls out. “I think you may have talent.”

I’m surprised to find he knows my name, but it doesn’t take much for me to realize oh, of course he knows my name. He has a list of the students in his class.

I give him a look that most people would take offense to. I hope he doesn’t.

“I don’t know if I have talent,” I say.

He smiles. “Some people can draw effortlessly, others can’t, but that’s not the kind of talent I mean. It may take you more time to learn the technique, but you have the passion, and that is much more important.”

I nod, because, well, I don’t know what else to do.

I walk into the hallway and pause to find the right direction and walk through the crowd. The stares seem less obtrusive now somehow. Maybe it’s just having someone actually on my side that helps. I used to like crowds in the city because I could blend in. No one noticed me. It could be the same here.

One kid shakes his head at me as I walk past. “How many?” he says.

“Huh?” I say, but I keep walking.

“How many guys?”

Now I stop. “What did you say?”

“I heard you like to sleep around.”

Funny, really funny.

I flip him off, which only shows them it’s getting to me.

“Maybe I could be your next date,” he says.

I should keep walking, ignore him, but I’m still high on confidence from Jackson and art class.

“Go screw yourself.”

The guy’s face scrunches up. I’ve seen that look before, like he means business. I steel myself, but before anything can escalate, I hear someone behind me.

“Is there a problem here?” a deep voice says. No normal human’s voice should be that deep. I freeze.

If I thought the other students maybe finding out about my past was scary, hearing this voice… My skin breaks out in a cold sweat, my entire body goes numb, my heart pounds in my ears, my head throbs.

I turn around, and the second my eyes rise high enough to see his face, my stomach twists and my head spins.

Calm down. Calm down.

I don’t know him. He’s just a middle-aged white man with a scraggly beard and bloodshot eyes.

But he looks so much like someone I’d give anything in the world to forget. That might be the only thing I’d turn Luis in for—to forget that man, that night.

Luis didn’t care that the guy had paid for three sessions up front. He kept the money and made sure the guy knew to never come back.

You hurt my girl, I hurt you.

My hands start to shake as I fight to keep calm, to keep my head grounded in reality. The guy’s wearing a blue jumpsuit and pushing a cleaning cart. He must be the janitor.

But he smells like cigarettes—his cigarettes—and suddenly all I can feel are that old man’s hands on me, forcing me onto the bed, undressing me, pushing me down, and I want to fight him, to call for help—

I close my eyes.

It’s not him. This isn’t real. I’m fine.

Everything is going to be okay.

I open my eyes and expect to see the real world again, but all is see is a large fisted hand coming right for my face.

I trip backward and fall hard onto the ground. I bring my arms up over my face, and one part of me knows it’s not real, it can’t be, but the other part can’t escape the past.

A scarred fist crashing into my face.

A burst of pain.

The pressure of a huge body shoving me down onto a filthy, lumpy mattress.

Stinging. The horrible pressure of the man holding me down. Pinning me beneath his disgusting weight.

I scream, but the pressure only gets worse.

I push, but the weight only gets heavier. He takes and takes, and he doesn’t stop.

I can’t breathe. Can’t see. Can’t think.

Please. Make it stop.

Chapter Ten

I barely register the bustle around me as someone shoos away the gawking students and asks someone to call my parents.

I force my brain into the present, and by the time I have enough control over my body to open my eyes, it’s not the janitor looking at me anymore. It’s a young female teacher who leans over me and asks if I’m okay.

I nod, pull myself up, and walk with her down to the nurse’s office without speaking a word. I don’t look at anything around me, don’t listen to the people. I don’t let myself think. I’d rather be numb, kind of like when you’re in the fuzzy almost-drunk place. I don’t want to feel. Don’t want to hurt.

After a while, Sarah and my mother come into the nurse’s office. No sign of my father. Never have I been so glad how much he works.

They share a whispered conversation with the woman behind the desk, and I try my best to ignore it, to pretend I don’t hear what they say about me, but really I wish they weren’t saying anything at all, because my mother really doesn’t need more reasons to think I’m completely insane.

It’s Sarah who turns to me first¸ eyes full of sympathy and worry.

I don’t like looks like that.

I mean, I get it. I’m a wreck, and that’s how you look at people like me.

But I still don’t like it. I want to be strong. Impressive.

If I want this to work, I have to be.

My mother turns, and at first she keeps her eyes cast to ground, but then she glances at me, and I see a hint of what I saw the other day when she spoke over my father, a woman who maybe cares but doesn’t know what to say any more than I do.