Prologue

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I stand with my back against the cold, hard lockers in the fluorescent-lit hallways of the preppy high school. Giggling girls bounce past me, dressed in cheerleading uniforms; their skirts are excessively short after clever tailoring removed excess inches. Well, so long as the uniforms match, no one should notice, but I notice.

I notice the sloppy hemming from the girls’ alterations that just can’t quite match the preciseness of the original assembly-line production. I imagine the whole cheerleading team gathering at the captain’s house, hosting a party to make the uniforms a little more provocative.

I can see their empty smiles while they each pretend to be comfortable in their uniforms -- in their exclusive group of friends -- while their thoughts whir beneath the calm exterior, their eyes flashing from student to student, wondering what others are thinking. Do they notice the change to the uniforms? Do they like it? Does anyone notice that one flaw that each girl is trying so hard to hide?

Their eyes flicker around the hallway while they pass through the crowd of students, their gazes settling on everyone and anyone, their peripheral vision scanning for faces turned their way. When they pass a tall, handsome boy, one cheerleader giggles a little louder, but his head doesn’t turn. A flash of disappoint weakens her smile for a moment, almost too little to be noticed -- but I notice.

While their helium-influenced voices disappear down the hallway, a boy suffering from a late growth-spurt shuffles along. His gaze is locked on his shoes as though he thinks that if he isn’t watching, his feet will disobey him and lead him somewhere he doesn’t want to go. His face is sunken as if he doesn’t eat enough, and his thick-framed glasses reflect the glare of the harsh lighting in the hallway, making it difficult for anyone to see his eyes.

The angry, red welt of a zit nestles into his temple and a flop of brown hair hangs across his forehead, the end twirling into a point that rests right between his eyes. As he passes me, he seems to slow, infinitesimally, almost too little to be noticed -- but I notice. After his eyes shift from his own feet to my plain brown shoes for a moment, his glance flicks up to meet my gaze. I hold his green-eyed stare until he shuffles on down the hallway, breaking eye contact.

I can’t help but notice him clutching the straps of his backpack when a group of high school jocks, wearing leather-sleeved, red and blue varsity jackets shove past him. I can’t help but hear the couple of slurs muttered at the boy with glasses while a member of the group pushes him, causing him to stumble. The words are almost too quiet to be noticed, but I notice.

A jock turns from watching the boy hurry away, and while smiling at his assumed cleverness, catches my gaze. I’m not in the least of afraid of him, yet I can see he expects me to yield to his scrutinizing glance due to his assumed dominance. By the way he holds his shoulders back and his chin up, I can tell he’s never met any opposition to his authority. My steady gaze matches his to challenge that notion.

After a few seconds of studying my unreadable expression, he offers a lopsided grin, giving me a wink as he passes by. My eyes watch his back; I wait. He glances over his shoulder for a millisecond, just to see, but I’m not smiling. It appears he isn’t all that confident after all. He needed to look back to see the effect his gesture had had on me. It had none.

The bell blares overhead, ringing in my ears. In mere moments, the students scatter, abandoning conversations to get to class. With hallways desolate and empty, the buzz of the fluorescents becomes overwhelming in the silence.

A gust from nowhere screams through the corridor, slamming all the classroom doors. Through the rectangular windows, I see the teachers inside, lecturing while writing on the whiteboards. I can almost smell the overwhelming odor of the dry-erase markers.

The cold, hard pad-lock of the locker digs into my back while I stand, alone, in the deserted hall. I want to move, but I can’t. I want to act, to say something, to ask for help, but I’m frozen in place as I miss class, receiving the first tardy of my official educational record. I’m paralyzed, yet not one student bothered to notice; there’s no one here who cares.

A janitor passes by, whistling a merry tune, oblivious to my predicament. Just a few moments ago, people saw me -- they looked, but now, things turn for the worse. When the custodian and his rolling cart of cleaning supplies disappear down the hallway, I wonder how long I’ll be stuck like this. How could people not notice? How could they all just leave me here?

If only the crew were with me. They’d wonder why I wasn’t in class; they’d realize something was amiss. This is my fault; I sent them away. How could I think that splitting the crew apart would keep us safe? That wasn’t ever true before, and it isn’t about to change.

I squeeze my eyes shut, praying that one of them -- any one of them -- will appear before me when I look again, but no one does. The poison continues to course through my veins while I remain helpless, leaving me to wonder which paralyzing compound has been used against me. Soon, the toxin will take everything away. When the nerve-blocking agent reaches my diaphragm, I’ll cease to breathe; I’ll die.

In a last ditch effort, despite the reality that I know better, I tense every muscle in my body. None of them respond. I watch as the clock above me ticks off second after second. The lights overhead dim gradually, creating the illusion that the sun is setting. Soon enough, everything’s gone. Gone is the buzzing of the florescent lights, gone is the ticking of the clock, gone is the cold, hard locker digging into my back. I can’t see, hear, or feel anything as darkness consumes me.

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