Chapter Three

                Nicolle opened her eyes. Sunlight and silence; beams from her window made squares of light on her walls, dust particles floating around in them like life underwater. Her body ached, for some reason, so she didn't move from her spot in bed.

                The calm after the storm; things seemed okay in the comforting morning glow, but that was a lie. It was time to do yesterday again, identical in almost every way: be unnoticed by Elijah Beaumont, watching from afar as he and Presley Llewellyn romance each other; listen to Timmy talk about nerdy and stupid things in a British accent; avoid most people, especially a-holes like Alyssa; fight with mom, be berated by mom, be belittled by mom; rinse and repeat.

                 But it was worse this time. Like a water balloon filling with water slowly over so many years, the breaking point had finally come, and pop.

                  “I could kill myself,” were the first words Nicolle said that day. The room had no reply. Granddaddy Longlegs, being her sole loved one, wouldn't live forever, and all of Nicolle's dreams and goals seemed so out of reach, so far-fetched. Continuing all of this was pointless. For every one step forward, she took fifty steps back, and no one looked up or appeared to notice that emotionally and socially she was falling behind.

            Nicolle felt lifeless as she swept her legs over the bed and stood. She began her I-do-this-every-morning checklist by turning on her computer, throwing on a random shirt, and walking out of her room. No one was up yet; she wouldn't make the mistake today of staying so long as to see them awake. She stepped into the bathroom feeling a bit nauseous from the recent events and wondered if she might vomit.

            She searched for the light switch and flicked it on; her image appeared before her in the mirror. She scanned her body's reflection starting at the feet: an ugly duckling, pale white skin, a wrinkled shirt she wouldn't have time to unwrinkle, purple lips from the night crying. She sighed... and then inhaled sharply, a breath of fear.

            Her eyes were no longer hazel. They were black.

            Nicolle quickly grasped the doorknob, an impulse reaction, but she did not flee; her stare remained on her reflection. Within the length of a heartbeat a thousand theories formed: Disease, a prank, I cried too hard, I'm going blind, I have something in my eyes...

            Nicolle reluctantly stepped up to the mirror, the approaching reflection scaring her, and looked more closely into the black. Unlike she had originally thought the irises were not solid black; inside the circle of dark charcoal gray was a starburst of a slightly lighter shade, an almost unnoticeable distinction. She reached out with her finger, heart racing, and gently touched her eyeball; the sting told her that the discoloration was not exterior but interior.

            “My God,” she whispered. “What...?”

            She closed her eyes and rubbed vigorously; the black eyes remained. Desperately she ran over to the medicine cabinet and withdrew an old bottle of eye drops. She returned to the mirror and placed two drops apiece in each eye. After a minute, she emptied the bottle completely, blurring her vision and giving her the appearance of fresh tears. When she could see again she got as close to the mirror as she could and stared. The hazel had not returned.

            “No,” she whimpered. Of all the theories one in particular stood out: disease, or a sickness of some kind. She had never before heard of a disease that turned your eyes black, though... what if she had cried so hard that blood vessels popped?

            Forgetting the approaching school time, Nicolle dashed to her room and fell into the seat at her desk; computer already on, Nicolle opened the internet browser and raced to Google.

            “Black...” Nicolle breathlessly read aloud as she typed, “... eyes...”

            The results were mixed: bands, contact lenses colors, piano keys...

            “Black... … eyes... symptoms of sickness...”

            How to treat black eye contusions appeared; pessimistically Nicolle clicked on the link. It suggested applying ice to the eye; it clearly wasn't the same thing as what Nicolle was having, but she had to try something. Quickly throwing on a pair of pants Nicolle left her room at a run, sliding into the kitchen.

            The place looked the same as it had the night before: pizza was left out through the night, flies buzzing over the food. Nicolle bypassed this, grabbing two rags from the dishtowel drawer, filling them with ice from the fridge, and placing them over her eyes. For minutes the sole sound in the house was Nicolle's asthmatic breathing as she stood in the middle of the kitchen covering her eyes; then, across the house, Nicolle heard the floorboards squeak. Someone was awake.

            “Mama!” Nicolle cried out, walking blindly in the direction of the noise. Her problems with her mother, recent and perennial, were temporarily ignored via fear. The sound of someone appearing made Nicolle stop moving.

            “What the hell?” her mother said, her voice sleepy. “What are you doing?”

            “Mama, my eyes,” Nicolle said. “My eyes are black!”

            “Black?! Well... what do you want me to do about it? Someone punch you? You're not trying to start some rumor that I beat you or something are you?”

            “Look!” Nicolle yelled, pulling the ice from her face and looking at her mother. She watched closely for her mother's reaction when she noticed her daughter's irises...

            Sylvia barely looked at her daughter's face. “So what? You're making a mountain out of a bump, you're not blind, are you? Don't worry about it. If you want go into town and ask somebody, a doctor or something... bring back some milk if you do.”

            Nicolle ran back to her room, closed the door, and paced the floor. She couldn't miss school; she had already played hooky so many times that missing again would certainly put her in a hole that would be very hard to climb out of. Time was passing; she had fifteen minutes left. She grabbed fistfuls of hair, walking back and forth...

            And then, out of thin air: “Nicky.”

            Nicolle screamed, backing into the corner of her room, hand on her chest. A whisper... that's what it had been. Someone had just called her name. Or... what? What had happened exactly?

            Nicolle held her breath, listening. She heard nothing, save for the sound of the distant television.

            “... just a few more feet!... yes, he passed the check point... if only Natalie can finish in seventeen seconds, team gold will win this round!...”

            Her mother's game show; had that been what she'd heard? It probably was... but Nicolle did not move from her spot. Maybe her mother was right... maybe she did need to go ask someone for help. But who? She had no money to see the doctor. Someone needed to hear about this, though. She needed a second opinion.

                Across the room she could see on the computer screen a chat window had opened; Timmy was trying to talk. Nicolle's heart racing, she walked over to her computer and read what Timmy had sent her.

               LordNemesisOfTheTower: Quel amrun! (That means good morning in elvish hehe)

               LordNemesisOfTheTower: Mani naa lle umien?

               LordNemesisOfTheTower: Nicolle? Are you on?

               Salem4: I need help.

               LordNemesisOfTheTower: How? Is something wrong??

               Salem4: I don't know. Just meet me in the parking lot in ten minutes.

               Only a short pause followed; she pictured him just staring at the screen, staring at her words. Then:

               LordNemesisOfTheTower: No fear, Nicolle. No fear.

               LordNemesisOfTheTower: I'll be waiting for you, Nicolle.

               LordNemesisOfTheTower: Whatever power I have to aid you in whatever ails you, consider it yours.

               He was typing something more, but Nicolle didn't have time for it; she closed the laptop and ran out of the room, into the living room, and toward the front door. Her mother yelled something as she passed; Nicolle didn't hear what. She crashed through the exit, ran a few feet, and then turned and stepped back inside; reaching over to the kitchen counter she grabbed a pair of aviator sunglasses, put them on, and left.

 

            “Nicky.”

            As she drove she wept; something wasn't right. Nearly ten miles from her mother’s game show, she could no longer pretend she wasn't hearing that almost undetectable whisper. Nicolle had been afraid in her life aplenty, mostly coming from her parent’s bizarre upbringing methods, but this was different; this felt as if something had crawled out from the shadows and touched her on the leg.

            “Nicky.”

            “Nooo...” Nicolle cried.

            “Nic"”

            “NOOO! NO!” She shrieked, her hands shaking over the steering wheel. She went well over the speed limit; Nicolle had the unfounded idea that in the presence of others things would get better, like a nightmare exposed to morning light. The campus eventually came into view; once close enough she spotted him easily; Timmy had likely raced to the school parking lot as soon as she made the request. He stood beside his Chevette attempting to strike an impressive pose.

            Nicolle's car slid to a stop, spraying gravel and drawing unwanted attention. She secured her sunglasses, wiped her eyes, and climbed out of the car before the silence was broken by another ghostly whisper. As soon as she was out Timmy was in front of her.

            “Whatever ails you,” he spoke softly, “I'll take care of it for you. Heart, soul, and mind, this morning I'm at your disposal.” That was rehearsed; Nicolle faintly wondered if she was making a mistake confiding in Timmy Stoker, who might take her desire for help as a desire for something entirely different. Then an image returned to her " her frightened face looking back at her in the mirror, eyes black as night " and she spoke.

            “Something's happening to me.”

            “What is it?” he asked in his cultivated accent, moving into her personal space.

            Nicolle bit her lip; tears appeared under her sunglasses.

            “Why do you wear those?” He asked. “It's overcast today...”

            “To cover my eyes,” she whimpered, looking around. Across the parking lot Alyssa Craven watched with mild interest. She wasn't the only one; a few others watched from various spots.

            “Why cover your eyes?” Timmy asked, and then, summoning courage: “You have beautiful eyes.”

            “Not here,” Nicolle said. “I'll tell you when we're alone.”

            “We are alone,” Timmy said, looking around them.

            “More alone.”

            Timmy said nothing at first and then nodded; apparently he was willing to postpone the chivalrous routine if it meant one-on-one time with Nicolle. She began up the hill at a fast walk; Timmy, more confident than usual, walked alongside her instead from the usual behind. She braved a glance back at the parking lot as she moved; most everyone else had returned to their early morning business, but Alyssa slammed into her car horn a few goods times to show Nicolle that she hadn't.

            “Whooo, Nicolle, you s**t!” She yelled across the parking lot, laughing. “I saw you two kissing out there!”

            Her friends laughed at the lie; Nicolle walked onward to the school, the feeling of a hundred eyes on her back pushing her faster.

            “I can't believe her,” Timmy said, a hint of smug in his tone. “Yelling that out so the whole school could hear it...”

            Nicolle secured her sunglasses again as they moved into the school building; like a drum the vibrations from her heartbeat shot through her body, making her feel hot and anxious. She picked a vacant hallway and started down it.

            “Where are we going?” Timmy asked.

            “Right here, to theater storage,” Nicolle said, keeping her voice low. With no plays currently in production, she could be assured no one would interrupt. “It should be unlo"”

            “Nicky.”

            Nicolle gasped, instinctively jumping aside. Hand to her chest, her back against the wall, she stared at her surroundings; at the mouth of the hallway stood a few students, some apparently amused, others confused, a few concerned; Timmy, moving to be beside her, was among the concerned.

            “What, what?!” He looked around for danger. “What's wrong...?”

            Nicolle waited a moment without answering, listening.

            “You didn’t hear that?” Nicolle whispered. “That person, saying my name?”

            “Noooo…” Timmy said, eyebrows raised. “Alright, now you’re scaring me… what’s going on…?”

            Nicolle opened her mouth, lips trembling, and stopped short as Mr. Meister, the Mathmeister himself, walked up, eyebrows furrowed.

            “Miss Darling? Everything alright over here?”

            “Yes"”

            “Oh, yes sir, I’ve got it under control,” Timmy said, stepping closer to Nicolle, a dog guarding its bone. “There’s no worry.”

            “I just watched her smack into the wall, she looked pretty upset about something,” Mr. Meister said. “Are you sure…?”

            “Nicky,” the voice said, then: “Oh, Nicky.”

            Nicolle dry sobbed, backing away from Mr. Meister and Timmy, both of whom stared. Nicolle shut her eyes tight, gushing fresh tears, a sad attempt to will away reality. She slumped onto her bottom, her hands in her unkempt hair.

            “Nicolle!” Timmy yelled, running over to her side and kneeling.

            “Run and get the nurse, if she’s arrived yet,” Mr. Meister said to a nearby student, of which there were plenty; a sneak speak outside her closed eyelids showed Nicolle that she had accumulated a small (and growing) audience. Among them: Alyssa Craven, an entertained grin at the corners of her mouth.

            Nicolle covered her ears with her palms and closed her eyes again, leaving her in utter silence save for the thumping of her racing heart. She listened for the voice again, hoping it wouldn’t appear; through her covered ears Nicolle heard her name called frantically.

            “Nicolle! You can tell me anything, just talk to me, please…”

            Nicolle opened her eyes and looked to here left. Timmy was staring at her with wide eyes, shaking her shoulder.

            “The nurse is coming,” he said. “Are you hurt...?”

            Nicolle didn’t answer but looked over Timmy’s shoulder at the group of students that stood there. Chic, intimidating, and sexy, the Chess Club, eyes shaded by sunglasses, looked down on her with interest. Among them, Blue Hawaii at his right, was Elijah Beaumont.

            “I’m fine,” Nicolle said, climbing clumsily to her feet and placing a hand to her forehead. “Just a little woozy…”

            Though Mr. Meister nodded his expression was still troubled. Alyssa rolled her eyes, giggled a whisper to her friends, and walked away. Elijah Beaumont, his face giving away nothing, simply turned and left. Most students did the same save a few:  Timmy, of course, remained stapled to her side, and a pretty strawberry blonde of the Chess Club, her white-rimmed shades accenting her heart-shaped face perfectly, watched on attentively. Then she too left, leaving no audience for the nurse when she came walking up.

            “What’s the problem?” She barked, apparently unhappy at the early morning commotion.

            “Nothing,” Nicolle said, shaking her head.

            “Just a tad woozy, she said,” Timmy explained. “She’ll be safe with me.”

            The nurse actually shrugged before walking away, as if saying suit yourself. Timmy watched her leave, took a glance around to ensure their privacy, and leaned in to whisper.

            “Okay, now please tell me what really just happened… are you really woozy?”

            The bell overheard rang; it was time for first class. Nicolle weighed her path forward and made her choice, knowing regret would eventually follow, whenever that may be.

             “Come on,” she said, power walking in the direction of the theater storage room. Timmy jogged along behind her until they reached the door and stepped inside. There were no lights on, merely the morning light from the windows; silhouettes of theater props and cardboard boxes filled the room like a carnival graveyard, dusty and colorful.

            Apart from the distant sound of moving crowds and closing doors everything was quiet. Nicolle had never confided much in Timmy before, nor had she given him a genuine moment of heart-to-heart conversation for as long as she could remember. Generally she allowed him to hover out of pity, but she couldn't face this morning alone. Timmy approached her with a look of compassion on his face; he even had the courage to reach forward and lay a hand on Nicolle’s shoulder.

            “What’s worrying you…?”

            Nicolle took a deep breath, held it, and removed her shades, facing him directly. She wondered how long it would take him to notice the change, to see the ebony eyes with the charcoal starbursts within. At first his face was curious, seeing nothing, and she hoped that her original color had returned. Then Timmy’s eyes grew wide and his jaw fell; to Nicolle’s surprise, he took a few step back.

            “What happened…?” He asked; momentarily he reverted to a slightly less aghast expression and said, “Are they contacts?”

            “No, there’s nothing in my eyes,” Nicolle said. “I woke up this morning and they were like this.”

            He stared in disbelief. “They’re black…”

            “I know,” Nicolle said. Hearing someone else say it increased her panic a level.

            “Are you sick?” He asked.

            “Maybe… I don’t know. I’ve never heard of anything like this… ever.”

            “Are there any symptoms?” He asked. “Abnormalities of any kind? Fever? Dizziness? Nausea?”

            I hear voices, Nicolle thought, but didn’t say aloud; she had resolved in the hallway against telling anyone that piece of the story. Not yet, anyway… hopefully, she thought, it would resolve itself. Once the black eyes were cured (if that was possible) then the delusion of voices would end. That’s what she told herself.

            “No,” Nicolle said, looking away. “Nothing like that.”

            Timmy looked at her for a moment and Nicolle knew what he was thinking: After what just happened in the hallway you want to tell me that all there is to it is black irises? But he said nothing, perhaps not wanting to discourage the trust Nicolle had oddly set in him. He nodded.

            “Okay… but if anything happens just tell me. We’re in this together, you and me. Hand in hand, we're unstoppable.”

            The verdict was in: Nicolle had made a mistake. Telling Timmy had been a bad idea.

            “We should get to class… we have only a minute or two,” Nicolle said, putting the sunglasses back on and making for the door. Timmy followed alongside her, unaware that Nicolle was ignoring an ethereal voice with all her might.

 

              Nicolle opened the door to her biology class -- Timmy so close behind her as to be touching -- and a realization hit her like a hammerblow: she should not have come to school today. Under normal circumstances it could be called a bad day: she stood before her peers with a wrinkled shirt, a pair of overly large sunglasses, and an explosion of hair on her head. Among those peers sat Elijah Beaumont and Presley Llewellyn, their seats pushed together, a shared book between them, and Alyssa Craven, her classic amused-at-your-expense expression in place.

            These were not normal circumstances, however; behind her shades Nicolle’s eyes were a cryptic black, and inside her mind she heard disembodied voices. This wasn’t a bad day… this was something much more horrific. Late for class as she was, there was still fifty-five minutes remaining; for one entire hour Nicolle had to survive.

            A gentle hand pushed her into the class from behind: “Go on… I’m right here, don’t worry.” Timmy's whisper was loud enough that she expected he'd meant for the entire class to hear. She groaned and walked forward.

            “Ms. Nicolle and Mr. Timothy… you’re tardy,” Mr. Browning, Nicolle’s mustached biology teacher, said. “I heard that there was a little trouble this morning, though, so I won’t check it against you, I guess. Just have a seat.”

            Nicolle kept her head down as she walked to her seat, which was unfortunately in the dead center of the classroom; on the day she hoped to remain unnoticed the most she was in the middle of everyone. Alyssa Craven stared without fear of being seen. And while Elijah Beaumont and his gal pal paid her no attention, the heart-faced girl from the Chess Club did, the same girl who had seemed concerned with Nicolle after her tumble in the hall.

            “… to continue our reading,” Mr. Browning said, “whose turn was it next…?”

            Her voice was so sultry and confident, Presley spoke.

            “Mine.”

            “Okay,” Mr. Browning said, looking down to his open textbook.

            At that moment, as if from directly beside her, Nicolle heard it: “Nicky. NICKY.”

            Nicolle inhaled in fear, slapping a hand over her mouth. No one in the classroom seemed to notice, though, no one but Timmy; he laid a hand on her shoulder.

            Presley cleared her voice and began to read; so mellifluous was her speaking, it was nearly singing. “Nucleotides, when joined together, create the structures for RNA and DNA. In addition to this, nucleotides also play a central role in the proper working of metabolism. They can be synthesized…”

            “Please, Nicky…”

            Eyes wide with fear behind her sunglasses, Nicolle bit her trembling bottom lip.

            “Nicky…”

            “… Deoxyribonucleic acid holds the blueprint for our genetic lives…” Presley continued.

            “Nicky… listen…”

            What do you want?! Nicolle thought. She was weak with fear; she felt literally shaken, inside and out.

            Blue Hawaii’s silken voice suddenly stopped and Mr. Browning spoke.

            “Good, good… now that we’ve all been listening so well, who can tell me when DNA is first created, hm?”

            Presley spoke again (“At conception”) just as it resounded: “Please, Nicky… come… please…”

            “That’s right… our personal DNA is there right from the start,” Mr. Browning said. “Miss Presley’s been paying attention, looks like… anyone other than her want to tell me what the name of the stage is when the sperm and the seed become one, hm?”

            Someone answered, Nicolle didn’t pay attention as to who it was; she pressed her right hand to the side of her head, as if holding her sanity together. Suddenly a folded square of paper fell over her shoulder and into her lap. Nicolle tossed it back over her shoulder without even reading it; going crazy exempted her from hearing Timmy’s declarations of loyalty; telling him anything at all had been a panic-driven mistake.

            The square fell into her lap again, and this time he rested his hand on her shoulder, perhaps as a means of appealing to her. Nicolle fumbled the note open quickly and read it at a glance.

            I could be mistaken (forgive me if I have made a blunder in judgment) but it appears from my vantage point that you could be having headaches. Think that could be a symptom of your peculiar ailment? Perhaps it would be wise to attend the nurse on the matter. Perhaps she can tell you about why your eyes are black.

            Nicolle, shaking her head, froze when Alyssa Craven’s voice interrupted Mr. Browning’s own.

            “Excuse me, uh, sir?… sorry for speaking up, but Nicolle and Timmy are passing love letters back and forth... kinda distracting me from learning the lesson.” A quiet blast of laughter came from few others around her.

            “Hm?” Mr. Browning said, looking to Nicolle, whose heart froze in her chest. She wanted to throttle Alyssa, whose cruelty was even more effective than planned. Not only had she succeeded in humiliating Nicolle, but Elijah and Presley were watching on.

            “Nope, nope, nope,” Mr. Browning said, reaching over and plucking the note from Nicolle’s hands. “You two know the rules about this stuff… let’s see…” His eyes scanned the paper. “… forgive… blunder in judgment… symptoms…” His brow furrowed. 

            Nicolle braved a glance around the room. Presley Llewellyn’s head was resting on her boyfriend’s shoulder, her attention on Timmy’s note, his attention focused on the window and whatever was outside it. Alyssa winked at Nicolle when their eyes met, puckered her lips as if for a kiss, and then nodded toward Timmy. And lastly, the red haired Chess Club girl was staring directly at Nicolle, her head tilted curiously to the side.

            “Black eyes?” Mr. Browning read from the note before looking to Nicolle. “You have a black eye, Nicolle?”

Elijah Beaumont turned from the window and looked at her. The girl in the back's head straightened up, apparently in interest.

            Nicolle shook her head vigorously. “No.”

            “Did someone punch you in the face?”

            “No,” Nicolle said, looking down and securing her sunglasses.

            “Do you need to go see the nurse?” Mr. Browning asked, visibly less patient.

            Nicolle kept her gaze down and shook her head. “No, I’m fine…”

            “The love doctor, maybe,” Alyssa joked. More laughter.

            Nicolle shook her head again, giving Mr. Browning a quick glance. “No, I’m okay…”

            “Alright then… no more notes passed, though. Now,” Mr. Browning said, walking over to a table at the front of the room that was littered with scientific instruments. “I borrowed all these compound light microscopes from Franklin Community College, so we’re all going to be very careful, understood? We’re going to be taking a closer look at these flowers I’ve brought in, help us better understand what chapter two has been all about. So… everyone come up and grab your microscope, and be careful with it! And I’ll distribute the flowers to each seat when you’re done. Chop chop chop and stuff!”

            Nicolle watched the class slowly shuffle to the front of the room for their microscopes from her seat, waiting until Elijah Beaumont and Presley had already sat back down; she didn’t want to be bumping elbows with them on this particular day. She was saved the trouble, however, by Timmy, who returned with two microscopes, leaving one on her desk.

            “There you go,” he said with a smile. Alyssa barked a laugh.

            “Oooooo! There ya go, Nicolle! Your lover’s looking out for you!”

            Less than a minute later Mr. Browning was placing skinny vases on each student’s desk, a single flower in each. Elijah and Presley got one to share, a beautiful red rose (“Straight from my wife’s garden,” Mr. Browning smiled). He went back and forth from his desk to the students, distributing flowers; at last he left a vase on Nicolle’s desk, a white tulip.

            “Okay! Now… take one of the petals from your flower and rub it a bit to loosen the outer skin. Once that’s done, lay it on your microscope’s slides and take a look!” Mr. Browning removed a petal from a nearby yellow rose. “Like this.”

            Everyone watched as he performed an example; eventually students began mimicking him. Nicolle, keeping her head down, looked around; Alyssa was giggling about something one of her friends had said and took a deep whiff of her red carnation; Presley was smiling, watching Elijah’s strong hands gently take their rose, which looked even more vibrant at his touch; the Chess Club girl in the back wasn’t participating in the lesson at all… she just sat there, staring into space, apparently lost in thought.

            Nicolle was in no mood for experiments but didn’t want to be in the spotlight again for not participating. Timidly she reached out and took her white tulip.

            “Please.” Louder than before. “Nicky.”

            Nicolle jumped; Timmy leaned forward to whisper, his lips uncomfortably close to the skin of her neck.

            “Hey, everything alright…? Is it your head…?” She ignored him. “Nicolle?”

            Insanity scared her; what else could it be? A voice only she could hear, trying to get her attention… what would anyone think if she told them that? She shut her eyes and tried to be calm.

            “I’m fine,” she whispered, shaking her head, “I… I…”

            Nicolle did not finish her sentence, instead becoming entranced in what she was seeing. Her jaw dropped and her chest locked up; the flower in her hand was withering. Fast. One minute prior a strong, white tulip sat in her vase; now its petals discolored and fell onto her desk one by one. Finally the last petal fell, leaving only a dry and sickly stem. It had been like watching a time lapse video; what should occur over days had happened in seconds.

            Nicolle just stared at it. Coherent thoughts wouldn’t form.

            “Excellent, excellent!” Mr. Browning said to Elijah and Presley; their rose was a vision of health, a single red petal on their slide tray. “Everyone, watch closely! See the way they used the razor to make a slight incision… allows you to see more! And… hm? Well…that’s just plum strange.”

            Nicolle looked away from the stem in her fingers to Mr. Browning. His attention was on the lifeless tulip that covered her desk.

            “That’s impossible, the tulip I gave you wasn’t dead… that one’s completely gone. Hm… how could that have happened, I wonder…”

            “What have you done?” The voice was as confused as she was.”Nicky.”

            I’m going crazy, Nicolle thought, and against her defenses, in the middle of the entire class, tears bean to fall in earnest. Yesterday she could say she was unbearably lonely, incurably sad, and altogether lost in life; today, among those problems, she added mental illness. She saw the plan forming in her head, saw herself searching online for painless methods of bowing out, of letting go quietly, of killing herself without pain.

            “Nicolle… is everything okay?… there’s no need to cry…” Mr. Browning said, approaching her as if approaching a crazed animal.

            “She’s crying about it!” Alyssa Craven called out, laughing. “Crying over a dead flower!”

            “It’s okay, I’m here,” Timmy said, massaging her shoulders, again speaking so loudly as to advertise his support to the classroom. “Just breathe…”

            “Mr. Browning,” an unfamiliar voice called out. “I think I should take her to see the nurse immediately.”

            Nicolle turned. It was that Chess Club girl again; she was already standing and shouldering her bag, her untouched flower forgotten on the desk.

            “I’ll take care of her, she’ll be okay” Timmy announced to the world, struggling to remove his overweight body from his desk. He walked over to Nicolle’s desk and, her inside it, skidded it next to his own. “Hey, don’t cry,” Timmy whispered. “All will be okay… just let those sorrows melt away… just breathe… just breathe… just breathe…”

            Everyone watched the social train wreck with expressions of curiosity and caution; Mr. Browning said nothing but looked on with polite alarm. Nicolle was in a place akin to an out-of-body experience, wondering if such an overwhelmingly terrible day was even possible. She'd never been so embarrassed, so horrified.

 Presley laughed to Nicolle’s left. What she laughed about was unknown, but she lifted their intertwined hands and planted a single kiss on the back on Elijah’s. As Nicolle watched with sadness something in the back corner of the room moved in her peripheral vision; she turned to see a teenage girl in extremely white clothes standing there, looking directly at her.

            Nicolle gasped and, without thinking, grasped Timmy’s arm.

            “Who’s that?” Nicolle whispered; several students turned to stare at her.

            “Hm?”

            “That person… back there, in those clothes… who is that?!”

            Timmy stared at the back wall for a moment before finally shrugging; he turned back to Nicolle with a look of alarm.

            “I don’t see anyone.”

            “She’s right there,” Nicolle whispered again, panic rising rapidly; the girl was now walking closer and closer. “How can you not see her? She’s by the planets display!”

            “What’s going on now?” Mr. Browning snapped.

            “There’s no one standing back there at all,” Timmy said, his voice apologetic. It was he this time, not Mr. Browning, who regarded Nicolle as unhinged.

            The girl was now close enough that Nicolle could see her more clearly. Her clothes were not merely white; they were also glowing. Her hair moved about her head as if by a breeze, her eyes focused on Nicolle unblinking. Nicolle stared back, and after a moment she realized she could see through the girls body.

            Nicolle jerked in her desk, skidding several inches, mouth open in terror. Several students were watching her with apprehension; even Elijah Beaumont saw her now, not understanding her fear, his eyebrows furrowed over his sunglasses. Nicolle’s seat overturned with the strength of her standing; ignoring Timmy and Mr. Browning’s words she forced her numb legs to move. She reached the door, flung it open, and fled. People shouted behind her.

            The halls were vacant, providing no obstacles for Nicolle’s fevered run; vertigo took her, a sense of unbalance. The girl’s restroom was near; she pushed open the door and rushed inside. She ran to the stall across the room, swung open the door, and stepped inside, taking a seat on the toilet. She stared wide-eyed into the her surroundings, her throat constricting with sobs.

            Black eyes, plants that died at the touch, see-through people appearing through the wall, voices heard from thin air; what had happened during the night? Was she sick? Delusional?

            There was no sound in the restroom. Nicolle spoke.

            “H… h-hello…?”

            No voices answered.

            “Is somebody there?” She appealed, and listened.

            … nothing. Seconds ticked by and Nicolle held her breath; her knees shook; she could feel her heartbeat in her stomach.

            … nothing still. She held her breath.

            “Am I insane?” She asked nothingness, nearly yelling it.

            Fast, alarmed: “NICKY.”

            Nicolle did scream this time, a watery, choked sound; delirium mounting, Nicolle fought the stall door open and exploded from the girl’s restroom at a full run. She smashed the door open, flew into the hallway, and collided with something, someone. A girl entering the restroom. Books tumbled from her arms. A rose fell to the floor and busted.

            Nicolle had not intended to apologize --  she felt the situation allowed it -- but to rise and run away. Then she heard his voice and stopped.

            “Are you hurt?”

            Nicolle looked around to see her legs tangled with those of Presley Llewellyn, Presley herself wincing and holding her elbow. She looked to Nicolle with eyes of confusion; to Nicolle’s surprise she did not seem angry.

            “Didn’t see that coming,” she half-smiled, pain still on her face.

            Elijah’s voice was deep.

            “Take my hand,” he said, and Presley did; he lifted her to her feet without effort.

            “My elbow feels like garbage,” she said, straightening it out and bending it back. She looked into his eyes… or moreover, his sleek sunglasses. “I hit the ground pretty hard. That’ll be a fun bruise.”

            Elijah massaged her elbow lightly, working his fingers as if on piano keys. “Better?”

            The muscles in her face relaxed and she smiled. “Yeah… you have the magic touch, looks like. Thanks babe.” She then turned to Nicolle, who remained on the floor beneath them. “Are you okay?”

            Nicolle sat open mouthed, wondering what moronic thing would tumble out, when Elijah spoke first, his voice ringing with authority, frustrated but controlled.

            “Watch where you are going… there’s no point running in the hallways. You should apologize to my girlfriend.”

            “I… I…” Nicolle stammered.

            “It’s okay, really,” Presley said, offering Nicolle a hand; Nicolle took it, envious of Presley’s soft skin. “It was just a mistake.”

            Nicolle was pulled to her feet. She wasn't used to standing so near to such pretty people; her awareness of her own hair and clothes heightened a few painful degrees. They were both much taller than she, looking down on her like the mess she was.

           “Is everything okay?” Presley asked, seeming genuinely concerned; atop looks, brains, and popularity, Nicolle was impressed against her will to find Presley gracious as well. “You just kind of left running, everyone was freaked out.”

            “I… threw up.” Nicolle lied. Then a realization: this was the first time she'd ever spoken to Elijah. In her dreams their first meeting didn't involve her informing him that she'd barfed, true or not.

            Presley nodded in understanding and then suddenly smiled, as if noticing something. “Oh! You’re in the Chess Club, too?”

            Nicolle finally looked up. “Huh?” Not I beg your pardon, or excuse me, but huh.

            “The sunglasses… only Chess Club members are allowed to wear sunglasses in school, otherwise it’s against school policy. I would join,” she chuckled, “but I’m afraid I’m no good at chess. Elijah is in the club, too.”

            “She’s not part of the Club,” he said; behind his shades Nicolle thought he was looking at her. “She needs to take those off.”

            “I, uh…” Nicolle started, and then the sound of stampeding elephants came from behind her; Timmy Stoker, huffing and puffing, ran up. He stopped beside Nicolle and rested his hands on his knees, bent over, gasping for breath. Nicolle wanted to die.

            “Are… are you okay?” He breathed, looking up to Nicolle. “Just left… looked scared to death… been looking up and… up and down the halls…”

            “I’m fine,” she lied for the millionth time that day. She began backing away from the group. “… and I really need to go, so…”

            “No, I’m supposed to take you to the nurse, just in case,” Timmy said. “Mr. Browning’s all worried… he’s already called it in, so they know you’re coming. And you’re mom’s been called, too, due to your… er, behavior.”

            Nicolle’s head dropped. She was done. Including her mom was the final ingredient in the Worst Day Ever recipe.

            “Perhaps she can give you something for that upset stomach,” Presley smiled.

            “Let’s go,” Elijah said, wrapping his arm around Presley’s waist. She nodded, raised a hand in farewell, and they departed down the hall together. Nicolle watched them until they turned the far corner and was out of sight.

            Timmy slipped his hand around Nicolle’s waist (perhaps hoping in her condition she would allow it) and tried guiding her in the direction of the nurse. “Off we go, now…”

            “No,” Nicolle said. “I’ve… I’ve got to get away…”

            Nicolle wriggled out of Timmy’s hold and set off down the hall at a fast pace.

            “Wait… Mr. Browning said…” Timmy started.

Nicolle shook her head, moving farther and farther away from him. When the day had begun Nicolle desired fellowship, hoping that her problems could be fixed that way. Now, heart broken, sanity slipping, Nicolle wanted solitude. She remembered being told once that dogs go off to be alone when ready to die. She got that now.

“I’m sorry… I need to be alone…”            

“… alone?” That disembodied voice.

            Timmy did not follow. Overhead the bell rang, and within seconds the murmuring sound of an awakening student body filled the building. Nicolle walked onward steadily, ignoring the river of people to her left and right.

            “… you’re never alone, Nicky…”

            She looked up and stared down the hall. Among the hundreds in her sight, one small, unmoving body caught her attention. Sandy blonde hair, eyes hazel, skin porcelain as it had been in life, Adam stared at her for the first time in ten years.

            Nicolle froze. Students bumped into her, fussed at her, but went utterly unnoticed. Nicolle had no thoughts, no anything. The fabric of reality ripped and her sanity tumbled out.

            Nicolle’s brother, his ten year old face saying hello after all these years, raised his hand and waved. Then his mouth moved.

            “Hey Nicky.”

            She stared for several seconds before her vision started to blur and her ears stopped working; darkness came, she fell to the floor of her crowded high school hallway.