Magnolia Secondary School is a sub-average high school, but that's likely because it doesn't have much competition in the decently average city of Rothwood.

I stare vacantly at the three-story building from where I'm seated in my dad's matted black range rover: brick walls the colour of russet potatoes; every glass window was grimy, nontransparent; scattered pieces of trash partially concealed by slim tree trunks and oddly placed rocks.

Yeah, Magnolia doesn't have much going for it on its exterior, and it's exterior is somehow worse: trash in random lockers and desks; foul stench infecting every washroom; a myriad of isolated acts of graffiti on every floor. When it comes to Magnolia, there's no beauty outside, or inside.

But the majority still stick around here since the only other high school in the city was the prestigious, albeit exorbitant, Reamirora Collegiate Institute — the name alone screams 'above average and we know it'. Its costly tuition isn't the only downside of the school though, because to get to Reamirora you had to be willing to either travel to and back, or move to the other side of this city. Southside Rothwood(Bloom Hills) wasn't a stressful area to live in at all, if you didn't mind paying at least 2,500 dollars a month in rent regardless of what kind of residence you lived in.

If that wasn't up your alley (or your savings account), then your only other options were to commute either forty-five minutes left to Kitchener, or right to Toronto. Otherwise just move to another city entirely.

An abysmal, upbeat country tune cuts off my peaceful, vacant staring at Magnolia.

"Yeah, Phoebe, so what went down?" dad says into his phone.

Since we pulled into school property he's been in a texting frenzy with his coworker, Phoebe 'last name a secret in case I try to look it up'. Like her, dad's a bodyguard and has been since before I was born, but that's literally all I know about their job. Apparently none of them are allowed to discuss the details about their work with anyone except other coworkers. Somehow their texting suddenly turned into a phone call that's taking minutes way too long.

I groan loud enough for him to hear me, then wrench the passenger seat door open when he gestures for a 'minute' and continues to listen intently to what Phoebe's saying on the other end. On the outside of the vehicle, I instantly miss the cool breeze of the rover's air conditioning when I step onto the crunchy gravel of Magnolia's rear parking lot, right into the cloudless sky and blazing sun. I keep my hoodie on despite it, and I'm reluctant to take it off.

Six weeks ago, about a quarter of Magnolia's population saw me collapse in the gym before dance practice was about to start. At some point later, when I was conscious enough but not fully, about half the school witnessed me being wheeled through the hallways on a stretcher, paramedics at my side moving as fast as they could. By now, for sure the entire student body and staff had heard about Suzie Amana blacking out all of a sudden on a wednesday afternoon.

Who knows what kind of rumours are swirling around. Overdose? Was she popping ketamine, or what? Is she anorexic or something? Attempt at a diet gone wrong? Who knows how everyone will look at me now. What if she passes out again? Why's she moving so slow? Is her brain fried?

For now, my purple fleece hoodie is my cloak. Can't see me, can't talk about me.

Dad's still on the phone. With the speed of a turtle, I yank the passenger door open again and poke my head in.

"I'll go in alone," I bluff. No way am I going inside the lion's den by myself when I can't even move faster than a snail.

"No no no, let's go," dad sputters. "Phoebe, I gotta go. I call you later. Yeah, I'll tell her you said 'hi'."

He ends the call and pockets the phone with brisk speed, meanwhile I get the door closed again, adjust the hemovac pouch around my waist, and take my head start for one of the rear entrances. Dad rummaging in the back seat of the rover, fetching my backpack. I'm not allowed to carry more than ten pounds until the incision on my chest is healed.

I pause halfway up the concrete ramp, waiting for my shield to catch up to me.

Dad jogs up and says, "ready?"

The look I send him is withering, as if he hadn't been preoccupied seconds ago. "Let's get this over with."

********************************

Navigating the hallways was like traversing an active battleground.

It's lunch time, yet it looks like half the school would prefer to wander all over the place instead of spending the hour eating.

I've practically glued myself to my dad's backside, not leaving more than one step of distance between us and concealing my face behind him as he took the lead. I've been glancing up every few steps to check if anyone's noticed me, and I think the hoodie's doing a good job of obscuring my pudgy figure.

It's been twenty minutes and we've been to two of my classes collecting worksheets and lesson recordings. That's half of this chore done. And it would've been way less than twenty minutes if my anthropology and art teachers weren't such insistent chatters. I should've listened to my gut and dropped those courses back in February.

At least the second floor barely has any people floating around. Our next stop is at the very end of the hallway, and before I know it we've reached an opened, chirpy-yellow door.

Dad gives two light knocks, and then the person seated at the steel grey desk stationed at the head of the room, fumbles with a hardcover book in his hands before rising from his seat.

"Oh!- Oh, Mr. Amana. And Suzie!" Mr. Hersche runs a slim hand through his flowy pale-blonde hair. The lanky man's head nearly touches the ceiling, as it always does every time he stands up, yet it doesn't, like it never does. "Ah that's right, it's Monday, isn't it? I'm embarrassed to say I forgot you were coming."

I can't fight the smile that breaches my face. Mr. Hersche has been my English teacher since I was grade nine, and he's always been a bit of a scatter brain whenever his nose is buried in a book. "Too much reading can rot your memory, Mr. Hersche," I joke. I'll honestly never understand how anyone could enjoy reading that much.

Mr. Hersche laughs, a low, mannerly sound. "Don't worry, Suzie, I had recordings and worksheets prepared days beforehand. Welcome back, by the way."

He pushes aside the black vinyl chair behind him and strides towards me wearing a teacher-esque grin. I find myself meeting him halfway even with my heavy form still slowing me down. I let him clasp my shoulder, though he does it without much grip, and shoots off a full-fledged smile at my dad over me.

"I'm not 'back' back, not yet anyway," I say to Mr. Hersche. The thought of actually being back — sitting here in this classroom with everybody else, probing eyes on me for an hour and fifthteen minutes instead of the chalkboard, indiscreet whispers wafting around the room — terrifies me to no end.

"In due time, Suzie," Mr. Hersche reassures. "Just rela-"

"I'm he-I'm here! I'm here! I made it! Right on time, right?"

Someone stumbles through the doorway; sweaty, fair-skinned face; stringy black hair restrained in an unseeable hair tie; full, chapped lips panting profusely, words trying to form themselves.

"Actually super late, Nilsa," dad says, both his tone and expression feigning disappointment. He turns to my best friend with his arms crossed and eyebrows raised like he's waiting for an explanation, and Nilsa totally falls for it.

"W-what? Seriously? Oh my god the meeting wasn't supposed to last that long and I ran straight here — I literally took the steps two at a time! And-"

"I just got here, Nil," I cut in with a laboured chuckle. Nilsa's amber eyes finally connect with mine from across the room but only for a split second as she bounds toward me, ensnaring me in a hug.

I reciprocate, trying my best to ignore the disagreeable sensation of an outside force pushing against the raised skin on my chest, the incision site.

"Not funny," Nilsa grumbles as we hear my dad trying to stifle his laughter. I want to explain to her that if my dad was still here than obviously so was I, but that would sound too much like I approved of his little prank, and then it wouldn't end well for me.

"Three weeks off work turned him childish," I say instead, taking Nilsa's side as I should.

"Honestly," she concurs. Her toned arms increase their hold around me, and it's more than me and my chest can handle.

A few strained coughs slip out.

Nilsa pulls back instantly as if I've impaled her with a sword. "Are-are you okay? Did I hurt you, Sue?"

Mr. Hersche comes up beside me, unease screwing up his face. Dad steps closer and shoots daggers of apprehension at me over Nilsa, and his lips part, ready to ask the same question as her, but my coughs peter out and I'm able to beat him to it.

"I'm fine. It's actually good for me to cough, right dad?" I give a flimsy smile, and my dad nods hesitantly, accepting my answer. Nilsa visibly relaxes, and Mr. Hersche seems to believe it too. My English teacher aside, I've hardly smiled throughout a month trapped in the hospital, so maybe any smile is enough for Nilsa and my dad. "Okay so, lunch won't last forever, and I don't really want stick around when it ends, so can we can get this over with, please?"

"You're right, Suzie," Mr. Hersche says. Any trace of his scatter brain-self has dissolved and he's all business now as he stalks back to his desk. "If all of you could take a seat, we'll get started with the review."

I turn and start for a desk in the front row, when a gentle grip takes hold of my shoulder blades and steers me towards the exact spot I was going for. I don't even need to glance back to see the person when the smell of sweat is so strong.

"Happy belated b-day, by the way," Nilsa whispers in my ear.

I turned seventeen on April fourteenth a couple weeks ago, meaning I had to spend my seventeenth birthday stuck in a damn hospital because of my busted-up heart. I ended up spending that day with only my dad and Nurse Jarvis, indulging in a small-scale buffet in my hospital room while opening up a few presents. Nilsa had a volleyball game on the same day, and despite her insistence on skipping it, I made her go. I don't get volleyball much, but I still wanted Magnolia to win, and Nil's one of the best player's on the team. Last I heard, Magnolia Mockingbirds were victorious in that game because of an insane spike she'd made.

"We'll definitely plan some crazy shit when you're all healed up," Nilsa continues quietly. I grin at the promise of an exciting day out. Nil always knows best in that department.

I slip into the seat and Nilsa grabs one right beside me out of habit. English is the only class we share this semester, so she and I had made it a priority to always be early to get spots next to each other.

Behind me in another seat, dad outstretches his hand holding my psychedelic-purple backpack, and I carefully take it from him so as not overexert myself. I unzip the bag, but then I freeze with my hand on a notebook inside.

What's that smell?

It's so bitter, acrid. It almost smells like...almonds? But like, acidic almonds or something. If that even makes sense.

My head swivels back at dad, but he's laser focused on his phone now. Can't he smell that? Whatever that is. I look to Nilsa next; she's got a bottle of sparkling grapefruit Ting in her hand and then uses her teeth to bite the cap off — a poor habit she's had for years. I'm about to look away, but then I notice her nose crinkle and eyebrows draw together. She smells it too, she has to.

Tension evaporates from my body and I relax into my chair. I hadn't realized how much I'd seized up. My eyes drift upwards as I finally extract my notebook, and then I notice Mr. Hersche. He's got his favourite silver tumbler out, the one that's always sitting on his desk during class. He's guzzling its contents like all beverages are going to be banned tomorrow. The tumbler gets placed down on the desk next to the book Mr. Hersche was reading, as he grabs a napkin and dabs his upper lip.

My eyes stay on the tumbler. I never saw Mr. Hersche slide the lid close, so it must still be retracted.

Maybe I'm wrong...but I think that acidic smell is coming from that tumbler. What kind of tea is that? Or...coffee? I actually have no clue what Mr. Hersche's preferences are, but no way could be drinking something with, what? Acid almonds?

This is like...no, what am I saying? It's nothing like that weird moment where I thought I saw my doctor's eyes glowing last week. That wasn't real. Some side-effect of the numerous medications I have take everyday. The smell is real though, I think. Nil can definitely smell it. Probably coming from the hallway or something. Wouldn't be the first time a bad smell plagued Magnolia's halls.

Why'd I even bring up last week?

Fuck...

A worksheet about literary devices along with a copy of Othello get passed onto my desk, and for once I'm grateful to have schoolwork as a distraction.

Maybe Shakespeare can keep me in reality.