When we stop in front of the school, he waits to make sure I’m not zoned out again. I nod at him to let him know I’m okay.

He files out into the crowd. I follow him inside and go to my locker instead of joining him at the staircase where he likes to sit before classes.

It’s not that I don’t want to sit with him. Eventually something will go wrong. It always does. I’ll just try to enjoy this while it lasts. And the longer I space out how often I see him, the longer I can keep this warm feeling.

There’s one thing I know for sure: Jackson is way too good for me.

Once I finally get my locker open, I take out my history book and drop off my backpack. I’m about to shut it when I notice a piece of paper sitting on the shelf…the same place as the last time.

I pick it up and I close my eyes for a moment before unfolding the wrinkly paper. My stomach sinks as I read the same sloppy writing as the last note. A note I was sure was some kind of joke. Except this time, it can’t be a joke. It hits way too close to home.

Dear Exquisite,

I know who you really are and I’m going to tell everyone.

My stomach drops. Exquisite. My street name. No one should know that name, not here. Is this a coincidence? My hands shake as I study the writing, trying to find some kind of logical explanation.

The only thing I come up with is an image. No, not just one image, a thousand. Faces. Men. Too many men.

I squeeze my hands into fists and try to push down the urge to throw up.

Someone walks up to the locker next to mine and I jump. My stomach roils again. I fling the note back into the locker and run to the nearest bathroom until classes start.

I hide in one of the stalls like the biggest geek who ever lived. After a few minutes, the bell rings, letting me know I’m late for class, but I don’t move. I stay in the stall for several minutes. At first I worry someone will realize I’m hiding out in here instead of going to history, but after ten minutes, then fifteen, no one is slamming on the bathroom door and I figure I’m safe. Alone and safe.

Still, memories I’d rather forget plague me.

“Hey there, Exquisite,” a man who smelled like cigarettes would ask. All johns are gross, all johns are nasty… This one was the worst of them all.

He never left me alone, always following me around when I was on the street. It got to the point that I had to change my usual tracks to avoid him. He was the violent one, the one…the one I want to forget forever.

Yet it’s his memory that follows me the most.

Even here, he won’t leave me alone.

I force myself back to reality. I’m in school, not in New York. He can’t find me here.

Instead I think of the possible explanations for the note. It’s filled to the brim with possibilities. Whoever left it, if they do know more, why would they tell me first? Why not just shout it out to everyone who would listen?

Maybe they don’t have proof. And without proof, no one would believe them, right?

So instead, they want me to freak out about it and expose myself.

I won’t let that happen. If I could keep myself together while strangers climbed on top of me, a note in my locker won’t get anything out of me.

Eventually the bell rings again, and I realize I was in here for the entire first class. I’m just about ready to pull myself together and get to my next class when a group of girls enter, talking in hushed, panicked tones. The room is filled with the sound of a girl sniffling and huffing. Guess I’m not the only one having a bad day already. I quiet my breathing and hold myself as still as possible. I’ll wait this out.

“Seriously,” one girl says. “Why is Brandon such a jerk all the time?”

I lean forward to look through the crack of my stall, thankful for the distraction, even one as lame as high school girl drama.

“He’s just…” the sniffing girl says between a sob. “He’s horrible!” she says much more adamantly, like it’s the first time she’d admitted it out loud.

“Why don’t you dump him?” I see a redhead rubbing the back of the crying girl.

“I can’t,” she whispers.

No kidding. I’ve been there. Really, who would listen?

The bell rings then, and I realize I’m late again. I can’t hide out in here anymore. Missing one class was dangerous enough, but I can’t have anyone come looking for me.

The girls continue their conversation in whispers, clearly not worried about being late themselves.

I unclick the lock to my stall and take a slow, awkward step toward the sink, hoping they don’t notice my own red eyes and blotchy cheeks. There are three girls surrounding the crying girl, whom I recognize much too quickly.

Marissa. The girl whose boyfriend slept with Jen even though Jen didn’t want to. The popular girl who makes the “uncool” kids’ lives miserable. For one second I think she deserves whatever happened that brought her crying in the bathroom. But then I figure I don’t know her, and I really have no right to judge.

No one deserves to be treated like trash. Boy cheats on her and she’s still with him? Treats her like trash and she’s still with him?

She “can’t” dump him…

There’s definitely more to the story here.

If I were the kind of person to talk to strangers, I’d tell her to hang in there. Eventually, it won’t hurt as much.

It’s none of my business, though, and based on the way the girls stare at me, some shocked I overheard them, one girl horrified, and Marissa…oh, Marissa looks like she’s ready to set my hair on fire.

Yeah, guessing she’s not exactly my biggest fan. I’m probably not in a good position to help her, even if I knew how.

I walk past them without a word and head down the empty hall toward art class, knowing that somehow the note isn’t the only thing that’s going to bite me in the ass.

Chapter Sixteen

I interrupt Mr. Harkins’s lecture and apologize, then find a seat at my empty table in the back. Jackson sits at the front with another group of kids. He watches as I pass him. I’d like to give him that smile that lets him know I’m okay. But I’m not sure I actually am okay, and I don’t want him to see my face like this.

Mr. Harkins gives me a look and waits until I sit before continuing.

“I expect you’ve all turned in your first-quarter projects,” he says. “If you haven’t, you’re late. See me after class.” He searches the class until his eyes meet mine. “You, Anna, are excused, of course. We have a new project starting today. If you need extra help, just see me any time before or after class.”

He has a few people present their projects, but not everyone. I thought at first it was just the projects with the best technique, but it only takes a few for me to see what’s really going on. Even the ones that aren’t as good are interesting. Different.

Out of the box, as Mr. Harkins often says.

Wow. So they just put some creativity into it and it’s good enough? What must that be like for the students presenting, knowing what they do doesn’t have to be perfect?

Then Mr. Harkins flips on a slide show and teaches a more typical lesson. As the clock ticks closer and closer to the end of the day, I’m disappointed to realize that I won’t get to draw today. I’ll just learn about art history or something. Lame.

He shows us some famous artists who painted some depressing paintings in all blue. Some of them are kind of neat, some just plain old ridiculous. I zone out a few times, but I figure out he wants us to do a project using our emotions. Sad, angry, scared, happy. Pssh, who’s actually happy? And who would want to see it plastered on a canvas?

I bet that’s what everyone in here does to express their emotions and their lives. Pink flowers and clouds and butterflies. I’ll draw a ditch in the inner city, full of trash and used needles. Yeah, that sounds fitting.