Rising to another school day, I dangle my feet off my uncomfortable single bed and weigh up my options. I could walk to the hellhole for a change. Pros: Time to myself. Some exercise can't hurt. No annoying friends to pester me from the other day at the park and my gaping incident with the new girl. Cons: Probably ten or more incoming texts from those same friends to hassle me over said incident all the way to school.

I could wake up my mother and ask for a ride. Pros: none. She doesn't know how to drive. Cons: I can live another day of being freaking tormented about who gets to be my man of honor at the wedding with the look-at-me-I'm-so-weird-in-my-teal-dress girl.

I could call my dad, who's in France on business. Just to say hi. Ha.

I could feign feeling unwell. Pros: sleep all morning and play Call of Duty all afternoon—after silencing my cell, duh. Cons: I don't get to confirm Thaddeus' statement, who told me he saw her on Monday roaming our school hall.

Twenty minutes later, Thaddeus parks his dinosaur truck in my driveway. I wave at the gang from the porch. Lorna is applying red lipstick while Michaela holds a tiny, round mirror in front of her face. She chuckles at her friend's comment to keep it straight, and Sebastian howls like a wolf. Something like, "Red turns me on, baby!" I try nonchalance. It backfires and yes, I was right about them getting on my nerves.

#LongestRideEver.

Professor Ortiz stands like a flamingo in front of her class, one foot scratching the back of her leg with a black leather, high-heeled stiletto. How she keeps her balance remains a mystery. Speaking of another unsolved one: the reason I took this AP class in Advanced Literature.

"Okay, everyone," she says, determination etched in her sharp features, "today we'll be reading poetry from Plath."

A collective groan sets her in the mood for some lecturing on the importance of Plath's life and works. How she struggled with depression and how mental illness is to be taken seriously.

"Open your books, page thirty-four, poem Crossing the wa—"

The door opens, interrupting the class, and all gazes fly to the newcomer. It's her. My heart skips a beat and sinks at the same time—is that even possible? She might be here to haunt me... Still wearing that ridiculous dress. Still carrying her hobo bag, which looks unnecessarily heavy. Her hair is all over the place and those damn red-framed glasses make her green eyes huge.

"So sorry for interrupting," she says, taking me by surprise. I hadn't expected her voice to be so cool and defiant. Damn it.

Professor Ortiz stares at her for a second. "You must be the new transfer." She looks at her notebook and continues, "Dawn Gray. Yes, you came highly recommended. Impressive GPA."

"Chubby and nerdy. What a cliché," somebody behind me whispers. Lorna. Others laugh along. Michaela and Theresa.

She stands there, aiming her flaring eyes at us. The laughter stops, consumed by her molten gaze. My focus travels down her squared shoulders and lands on her full chest. My stomach somersaults. Her curves are alluring. I need to chill.

"So, Dawn. Welcome and sit down," Mrs. Ortiz gestures to an empty desk, a few rows ahead of me. She hands our teacher her paperwork and heads to her seat. She glances at me from under her lashes, I'm not sure. I want a way to get rid of her. To get rid of me and these thoughts. I put my earbuds on, hidden in my hoodie, and turn the volume all the way up. It doesn't help.

"We are reading poetry today, Dawn. Are you familiar with Sylvia Plath?"

"Yes," she answers.

I couldn't help myself and lowered the volume on the stupid song even more.

"Wonderful. Perhaps you'd like to get us started? Page thirty-four, poem 'Crossing the water.' Loud and paced, please. I'll tell you when to stop."

Dawn looks at our Professor like she hopes she was kidding. When it's clear that she isn't—Professor Ortiz never is—she starts to read.

"Black lake, black boat, two black, cut-paper people," she says.

From the moment she begins, with a deep cadence, it's as if both rotation and revolution stopped on this stupid planet. Hushed bickering comes to a halt, and even the sun conspires with her, sending a soft ray to play with her messy hair as she goes on. I realize she isn't reading but reciting. Her green eyes wander from the constraints of the book and search for the sky outside our classroom window.

"Where do the black trees go that drink here?" Her full lips move in perfect rhythm. My mind travels down their curves and I wonder how soft they might be.

I listen in waves that pull me under. Whenever I surface, I hear her. Snippets of glory, bits of her fearless soul.

"Cold worlds shake..." I hear her say, and I sink again.

"The spirit of blackness is in us," she is saying while I resurface, craving more of her air in my lungs.

"Are you not blinded..." and I'm gone again, into her turbulence, adrift in her debris.

"This is the silence of astounded souls," she finishes. Mrs. Ortiz didn't stop her.

"That was wonderful, Dawn," she tells her, with a dash of respect underneath her praise. "I hope you stay with us for the semester. Very well done."

"Makes sense," Lorna says, her snarky comment sharp and deadly, tarnishing the moment, clogging it with dark, viscous tar. "All she has going for her is that ridiculous poem and a bunch of cookies waiting at home. Am I right, guys?" She barks a sick laugh, and I can't help the words that spew out of me or the loudness exploding in each syllable.

"Shut up, Lorna!"

Silence envelops the class, killing the remnants of the cruel remark. The weight of twenty-four sets of eyes drops onto my shoulders. Mine lock on hers, on Dawn's. Her brow furrows. My heart skips its next beat.

Her hands tremble as she closes the poetry book, caution in her demeanor. Time stands still and my legs are making me stand up and reach out to her. She notices and sprints towards the door just as the fucking bell rings.

On her way out, I swear I spot a tiny, glistening tear rolling down her cheek as mine burn in return.

"What was that all about, River?" Lorna throws her hands up in the air and pouts at me with her inappropriate red lips.

"What do you mean?" I ask her, trying to walk faster and get rid of her on my way to the cafeteria.

"Are you serious? You totally shouted at me in literature. Told me to shut up in front of the entire class." Her annoying tone gets on my nerves so I lie—que le hace otra mancha al tigre, ¿no? "Oh, that. I was listening to a Green Day song, and the banter you've started with the girls was ruining it for me. Sorry if I yelled. Volume was all the way up." I throw in the classic lopsided grin, and she falls for it like a moth to a flame.

"What song, baby?"

"'Basket case'." Ha. I couldn't help myself.

"Is it any good?" Why is she still walking alongside me, for crying out loud?

"Yeah, you'd love it." I try to hide the sneer between coughs and she chuckles.

"Watch it, bozo!" a voice says to my right. It's Michaela. She's bumped against Dawn, who was dashing towards the entrance door. Why? Doesn't she have more classes?

She says nothing in return, but I notice how pressed her lips are while she kneels down to shove her sturdy, brown book back in the hobo bag. No wonder it looked so heavy. Why does she carry that damn thing around all the time? Why do I care anyway?

As if on cue, a new anxiety wave laps at my chest. I need to get away from her. There's no way we can be friends. She's too weird. I can almost feel Sebastian, Thaddeus, and the rest licking their chops as they get closer to where she stands.

"Don't you wear glasses, girl?" Sebastian says with remorseless, passive-aggressive delight.

"I'm sorry, I wasn't really watching where I was going," she says, in a calm voice.

"Well, then next time put those ugly-ass glasses on and to good use," Theresa snaps, bringing another laughing fit that makes me sick. Bile rises in my stomach, and I taste the acid as it burns its way up.

Turn around and leave, Dawn. I try to look away, fidget with my earbuds, ignoring the quiver of my fingers as I play with the white cord. But I do nothing. I hate myself for it. If my mother could see me now, she'd tell me to step up and stop being a prick. She'd be right.

I look at them, ready to unhinge their jaws at the girls' next comments, and wonder how I have never noticed how petty they are. As for the girls, it's like I can see their horns hiding under their bangs.

Dawn adds nothing else. She stands there, in the middle of the beast's belly. For a brief second, something dark storms her weary eyes. Rocking backward, she looks like she might start crying but doesn't. Collecting herself, she tugs at her dress. She spins on her heels and gives us her back with nothing but silent confidence.

Thaddeus laughs, and the rest fall in a few seconds behind him, resuming their walk to the cafeteria.

I watch her leave. Rooted in place. A myriad of stars going supernova in the darkness of her flowing hair. It's then when I see it. A wrinkled paper crown on the floor. It's hers, no doubt about it. I come closer to it and pick it up. She's barely a dot now. Without thinking twice, I dart after her, smelling the soft dash of honey she's left behind.