The first time you see her, you wonder if she's even real.

There's something ethereal about her that makes you want to rub your eyes to check that you aren't dreaming: a pale girl in a paler coat, slight and somber. You're sort of afraid that if you blink, she'll disappear, and then you'll have to call your mom and tell her that you need your meds adjusted again.

But when you open your eyes again, she's still there, unsmiling and beautiful.

She brushes by you in the hall, giving you a whiff of her perfume.

Her arm grazes yours.

She stops in her tracks, stiff.

When she turns around to look at you, her green eyes carry something sharp.

She glares at you, like she wants to kill you, right here, right now.

Being a shy awkward thing, hardly more than a little boy, you blush, vague apologies spilling from your mouth before you can even properly construct them in your mind.

She doesn't say anything to you. Just scoffs and turns back around, head held high as she tears down the hallway.

You stand there, weak-kneed, feeling like a fool as you watch her head to class.

-

Her name is Amy. You know that, but you didn't pick up on her last name.

That doesn't matter too much, though.

She's the only Amy in your English class.

Maybe it's something that starts with an O.

The teacher did seat her next to you, after all.

She calls on both of you a lot.

You don't really know if that's because you're two of her best students, or if Mrs. Chapman sees how you look at her and wants to push the two of you together. She was the one who pulled you aside last semester and informed you that your assignments always ended up being some of her favorites, after all.

Maybe she wants to do you a favor.

Not that her favors go a very long way.

You've been called to the front of the class together a few times, put in a discussion group with one another a few more.

You're sure everyone else picks up on how you look at her, — with longing.

She's so fucking beautiful, you can't help but stare at her. Even though her dark brown hair looks dirty more often than not, and she doesn't smile, and she always wears that white coat, as if she's perpetually close to freezing to death.

Your classmates clearly don't see what you see in her, — they laugh at her, shun her, just like they do to you. There's something more mean-spirited in the way they treat her, though, — something sinister.

They laugh at you because you stutter, because you turn all your papers in early, because you wear huge glasses and a girl's choker that Todd gave you, because you write geeky songs about girls you met in seventh grade. Because you're a dork and a teacher's pet and you've let them see that.

They laugh at her because she has secrets, —  demons hidden beneath her long coat, a tendency to stay silent and shoot death glares at the drop of a hat. She doesn't give them anything to go off of when it comes to her identity, nothing particularly embarrassing to make fun of, and that just makes them even more ruthless.

You wouldn't treat her that way. You wouldn't force her to talk.

You'd sit and wait for her to say something, however long she needed.

Even if she didn't want to say anything at all, that would be okay.

You just wish she'd stop looking at you that way.

Her eyes… They're beautiful, green like the grass coming back up after a summer rainstorm.

But they cut you like knives, — sharp edges digging deep into your skin, twisting the blade of unfounded hatred deep into your flesh.

When they shine in the light, however, you see what rests under all of that feigned animosity, — distrust.

You want to figure out how to make her let you in, how to tell her that you won't hurt her.

But she always makes sure she's gone just when the bell rings.

You watch the blinding white of her back, framed by the open door. She always leaves before anybody else, and you know you couldn't catch her if you tried.

So you don't.

-

Your older brother's having car troubles, and you don't want to take the bus, so you figure you have to walk home.

You don't mind, really, — it's a beautiful spring day, the perfect weather for wandering and getting lost in your own thoughts.

You take the familiar path home, hands in your pockets, idly kicking a tiny stone in front of you as you compose lines that you hope you won't forget in your head.

A bird sings somewhere above you. The wind blows, gently ruffling the golden field that you walk past.

You know it's stupidly sentimental, and the dickheads at school would no doubt deem it 'gay,' but you have to stop for a moment to take in how unusually perfect everything seems.

The sky is a clear, pale blue, the afternoon sunlight shining bright and making everything seem endless. The hills wind and roll, the earth beneath your feet uneven and beautifully imperfect.

You take a deep breath of fresh air as a smile comes to rest on your face.

For once, everything seems almost... right.

Then you look down the hill, and see her standing there.

The back of that long white coat facing you, dirty brown hair blowing in the breeze.

Your heart jumps into your throat.

Next thing you know, you're running down the hill.

You call her name, like this is natural. Like you're not risking life and limb to get to know her.

"Amy!"

She turns around. You register the narrowing of her eyes as you bring yourself to a halt in front of her.

You dig your sneakers into the ground, attempting to catch your breath. Then you smile at her, trying not to take too much notice of the sharpness of her gaze.

"Hi," you mutter.

She just stares at you for a while, like she's trying to wish you away. Once it becomes apparent that you're not going anywhere, she parts her lips, offering a hesitant response.

"Hello."

She turns her back to you again. You only walk around her so that she's forced to look at you again.

She stares you down with those mean emerald eyes before spitting out a demand for an explanation.

"God, dude," she says. "Just leave me alone. Who the fuck are you, anyway?"

You stay rooted there, persistent. "I'm Conor," you reply. "Conor Oberst. I sit next to you in English class."

She shakes her head. "I wouldn't know," she says bluntly. "I don't pay attention to anything but the books."

"And the writing," you add.

She stares at you, the edge in her eyes morphing into something almost soft. Curious.

"Mrs. Chapman talks a lot about your assignments," you continue. "She says you and I are her standouts. She really liked the one you did on Wuthering Heights."

The corners of her lips twitch. "Yeah, well..." She turns back towards the sun. "I try."

You quiet for a while, letting the silence settle in. Amy doesn't bother to send you one of those angry looks that make it clear that you're unwelcome. The two of you just stay there, side by side.

You register some sudden unrestful movement out of the corner of your eye. When you turn to Amy, you find that she's shivering somewhat violently.

You eye her quizzically. "Are you cold?"

It doesn't feel cold to you. You're wearing short sleeves, and you feel fine.

Still, Amy nods. "Yeah," she says. "I'm anemic, so... I'm cold a lot."

"Oh." You stay quiet for a bit before speaking again. "Do you want me to walk you home?"

"Oh, no." She shakes her head hard enough to give herself whiplash. "No, I'm good."

"Are you sure?" you press. "I don't mind. I have to walk home, anyway."

"No," she repeats. "I swear, Conor, I'll be..."

"Amy." You let her name fall from your lips again, quieter than before. Those two syllables roll off your tongue so easily.

You like saying her name.

It feels like something you could get addicted to.  

Her eyes meet yours again, reasonably less sharp than they were before. In fact, where there would usually be anger, there's something like sadness.

You knew it. You've always known it.

You hold her gaze, refusing to give up. "Let me walk you home," you tell her, — and you kind of want to slap yourself, because you're desperate, you're practically begging. "It makes me sad to see you by yourself all the time."

She looks at you for a long while, her mouth a perfectly straight line of grim contemplation.

Finally, she breaks the silence, giving you her long-awaited response. 

"Alright," she mutters.

You stare at her wide-eyed, not quite believing what you're hearing.

"Alright?" you echo her.

"Yeah, alright." With that, she begins walking back up the hill, leaving you behind at the bottom.

"And if you're going to walk with me, you'd better catch up!"

And so, on weak knees, you follow her up that hill, feeling like you're walking in some sort of dream.

-

Out of nowhere, this becomes your regular routine. You stop having Justin pick you up after school, — instead, you walk.

Unceremoniously each afternoon, Amy emerges from that field and joins you.

You bask in her company like sunlight as you head towards the beat-up two story in a sea of nearly identical houses. You can hardly believe that she's there at all, — let alone that you speak to each other nearly the entire time, usually.

You talk about books, music, art, — passions you both apparently share.

You argue good-naturedly, — she rolls her eyes at your dismissal of most popular alternative rock bands, pointing out afterwards that you have a practically religious devotion to The Cure, by the sounds of it.

"A bit ironic, isn't it?" she asks.

"Not really." You shrug. "Robert Smith carved his own path rather than trying to market too much. The outfit part was entirely incidental."

She rolls her eyes. "Come on, Conor," she says. "Surely you don't actually believe that."

"What?" you shoot back. "I'm not allowed to have an opinion?"

"You are," she replies. "And I'm allowed to point out that this particular opinion of yours is absolute bullshit."

You watch her for a while, not replying as she skips up the sidewalk with an almost childlike sort of energy. It amazes you, really, — all this energy is such a far cry from the standoffish girl you first met a few months ago.

If you didn't know any better, you'd say that you're becoming friends.

You speed up your own stride so that you fall in step beside her.

"Who are you to call bullshit when I'm the one who is an insider to the music scene?" you ask. "I'm friends with Todd Baechle, you know."

She snorts. "Excuse me, — who?"

"Oh, only the coolest motherfucker in Omaha... aside from yours truly, of course."

Amy laughs. "Oh, please," she says. "Gimme a break. Cocky is not a good look on you, Conor. It just isn't natural."

"And why not?"

The two of you stop to cross a particularly crowded street. As you step onto the crosswalk, she threads her fingers through yours. You feel the blood rush to your face.

Amy giggles as you step back onto the sidewalk.

"Because you blush like that when a girl holds your hand," she says, releasing her hold on you. "You're so shy. It's hard for me to imagine that you're anything less than humble."

"Hey, you never know," you reply. You glance over at her pretty face in the afternoon light before speaking the truth you were thinking of. "I thought that you were going to be a lot different before we really met."

Curiosity shines in her green eyes. "What do you mean?"

"I kinda figured that you were gonna be... mean." You chuckle nervously, knowing that sounds bad.

Still, Amy doesn't look too offended, — only inquisitive. "Go on," she encourages.

So you do. "You were so quiet," you continue. "Never talked to anybody. And there was the first time I saw you..."

She cuts in then. "You remember the first time you saw me?" Her voice has gone soft. The curiosity in her eyes has turned to the same watery sadness you saw that first day in the field.

"Yeah." You sound nearly breathless, flustered. Hoping she won't poke fun at you for blushing again, you focus your attention on your shoes. "First day of the school year. I bumped into you in the hall... and you looked at me like you wanted to murder me."

She stays silent for a while. You keep looking at your feet, not wanting to see any possible negative reaction.

When she breaks the silence, her voice is soft, little more than a whisper. "I'm sorry," she says. "I didn't mean it... I'm just..."

You lift your head again to look at her. Surely enough, she's frowning again. The happy, skipping girl from a few moments ago is gone.

Nice going, you scold yourself.

"Well, I'm not just like that." An empty sort of chuckle follows her words. "Somebody made me that way."

You stop, grabbing ahold of her hand once again. She freezes up, staring at you with wide eyes.

"Somebody made you that way?" you ask. "Who?"

She slips her hand out of yours with a shrug. "Jesus, I don't know. It's not like I have a written shitlist or anything." Her eyes dart off to the side. "Everybody, I guess."

That's not an answer that you really want to accept. "Everybody? Even me?"

She sighs, shaking her head. "No." The irritation in her voice is palpable.

You think she's angry when the silence settles between you. But then, she speaks again, and her words take you by surprise.

"You're nicer to me than anyone."

That statement is made quietly, a confession. It triggers this feeling in your chest, different from the fluttering that used to always occur when you were around her. This one feels like a ship sinking.

You know what everyone else sees when they look at her.

They see her dirty hair. They see that same old coat, no matter how hot it is outside. They see her downcast eyes and her scowling mouth that never seems to form words during school hours.

You know that she's an easy target.

But you also know that they don't know her.

Of course, you don't know her that well, either. But you know her well enough to tell her one thing.

"You deserve for people to be nice to you," you tell her.

She lets out a dry laugh. "Well, other people don't see it that way. According to everybody else I'm just..." She stops, sighing.

"Not right," she mutters. "In their eyes, I'm just weird."

"Well. I'm weird, too," you reply. "And I think you're great."

Amy looks up from behind her hair and smiles at you then. Despite that sorrowful gleam in her eye, you think that smile is some genuine indication of hope.

"Yeah," she says, so quietly you can barely hear it over the sound of the passing cars. "I think that you're great, too."

-

The week before spring break, Mrs. Chapman has the two of you working on another project.

You're supposed to be analyzing the symbolism in the works of Ray Bradbury when Amy's sleeve rides up her arm.

Your mind stops working as your eyes fall onto her skin.

A bruise encircles her wrist like a bracelet. You can see the blood pooling beneath the surface, a mess of red, black, and blue, grotesquely painted porcelain.

You sit still in your seat, utterly wide eyed. Amy just keeps writing, unaware of any disturbance.

Finally, she sets her pen down and turns to you. "So," she starts, "I was thinking we could talk about..."

She pauses when she sees your face, her enthusiasm quickly fading. She frowns. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

You shake your head, reaching a shaking hand in her direction. "Your arm..."

She looks down, only to grimace when she sees what you're talking about. "Oh," she says. "That."

With that, she pulls her sleeve back down. It's all so casual, as if you'd just told her she had a bit of food on her face.

Nonchalant as she is, you find yourself shaking.

You want to know who did this to her.

You want to do things to them that you're probably not physically capable of, whoever they are.

"Amy." You speak her name quietly, like the prayers you used to say by your bedside when you still believed the things your parents told you about God. "What happened?"

She frowns as she looks up from her sleeve. "Nothing," she says coolly.

Though you don't exactly know what the truth is, you know that that's one of the most hideous lies you've ever heard.

Once the bruises are covered once more, Amy goes back to work, rattling off ideas to you as she jots them down. Your ears only register her voice as background noise as your head spins, an awful nauseous feeling taking root in your stomach.

Something has happened to Amy, — no, something is happening to her. Something terrible and likely way out of your control.

You watch her stand when the bell rings. She throws up her hand to you, then turns for the door, quickly escaping into the corridor.

You watch after her, feeling helplessness become you.