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Aubrey POV

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TWO YEARS AFTER THE DATE

School.

A dreaded place for most. A place that has people trembling at its name.

A prison for most.

But I love school. I never got to go to high school. Not really. The first two months I got to go don't count.

After that dreaded track meet, I didn't go to another day of school.

While most kids spent their days in a classroom learning biology or playing basketball, I spent my every waking hour in a hospital bed or on the chairs where I did Chemo.

But that's finally over now. Yesterday the doctors told me that they tested my blood and found no cancer!

Next week will be a new week of my life. Finally I will be normal. Finally I will go to school. Finally I won't receive pity stares everywhere I go.

Over the past few months my hair has started to grow in small tufts. It is uneven and barely reaches past my shoulders, but at least I have hair now.

But the most miraculous thing that happened over the past two years, was my date with Justin. I doubt he remembers, but before the evening was over he gave me a small peck on the lips.

Justin was my first kiss!

I wish I could say it was magical and amazing and a kiss like in a fairytale, but it wasn't. In reality it was short and unpleasant for him, most likely.

I mean who in their right mind would enjoy a kiss with a girl whose lips were chapped and bloody? With a girl that has cancer?

No one! That's who. Except for pity people, but those people only enjoy the fact that they feel useful.

Let me tell you the thing about pity people. Every one of them is the same. These are the people who donate money to programs that have nothing to do with them. These are the people who comment on photos of girls like me online and say we are beautiful. Those are the people who donate money on the street to the homeless. Pity people.

And at first glance, those people probably seem like lifesavers. People who take care of others and care, but that's not true.

Pity people only do that stuff to make themselves feel good.

To make themselves look good.

But I see right through them, because I know the ultimate truth.

And that is that everything anyone ever does, deep down, they did it for themselves.

No one would give money to charities if it made them feel bad. They give charities money because it gives them a pleasant feeling. Like they helped.

Charities like the ones for kids with cancer.

Kids like me.

Or rather kids like who I used to be.

But I would rather forget about my old self. No one at school will ever know that I was that girl. The one with cancer. I won't let them.

Now all that's left is to go to high school for the next two years.

That's easier than being in a hospital for two years, right?

***

I have already picked out my outfit and tried to cut my hair into even pieces. I want to look nice. I don't want people to recognize me as a sick girl, because that's not me anymore.

I stare at my reflection in the mirror.

The girl staring back at me looks different than the girl that used to be there. This girl has soft lips. This girl has hair that is straightened and styled to fall above her shoulders in dark brown tufts. This girl had brown eyes that shine. This girl is tall in demeanor, yet has a little muscle. I'm not quite sure which girl I am yet. I know which girl I want to be.

*****

My outfit consists of a dark green crop top sweater and black leggings. My shoes are white sneakers with a black stripe on the sides. For once, I actually look like a teenage girl should look. For once I will fit in. For once I am pretty. For once and hopefully forever.

*****

"Mom!" I shout at the top of my lungs. "Come on! We're going to be late for-" I pause. I am about to say almost the exact same words I said two years ago. The words I said before we got to the meet and I collapsed. I can't say those words again. Yelling at my parents clearly brings bad luck.

"You know what?" I shout again, after a second of consideration. "Take all the time you need!"

My mom takes my words to heart and proceeds to take another ten minutes to get ready. For what? She quit her job once I got cancer. I am the one going to school. If I were her I wouldn't leave my warm pajamas.

When my mom flies down the stairs, I expect her to look like the beautiful and regal queen she used to look like, but what I don't expect is for her to look lost.

Her blonde hair lays in disarray on her head, like a mop that had just been used to clean the floor and is now holding the remnants of dust, dirt, food, and other things that made the house full of filth. Her face is full of wrinkles, I don't remember being there. Her glasses are a dull color now. The sparkles around the edges are almost all gone, slowly having fluttered away over the years.

Her clothes can't even be called clothes. Her sweatshirt is stained with everything imaginable. Food and sauces from the kitchen and even what I think might be pieces of barf from when I had Chemo.

Her sweatpants are too short and barely go past her knees, and not only are her socks mismatched, but so are her shoes.

I realize that though my cancer is forever behind me, it will haunt my mother till her dying breath.

*****

We roll up to the school and I am taken aback. The school looks so beautiful. There is a huge front lawn with sidewalks and benches all leading up to the astonishingly large pale wooden Victorian doors. There is a huge sign lit up, in lights that would blind even the most shallow of Hollywood movie stars, that reads 'Holloway High'. The building, made of brick and wood, is three or four stories tall and as wide as the park in front of it. Students are everywhere, scattered across the lawn reading books, studying, gossiping, and even kissing.

The high school is magnificent, yet I can't seem to remember if it was always like this. When I attended here for a brief period of time, I didn't seem to have paid any attention to these sorts of details. Did it always look this grand?

I get out of my mom's car, still gaping at the beautiful architecture of the building, and slam the door. The noise of the door startles me and I turn to see my mother waving 'goodbye' to me and driving away. Her mouth is smiling, but her eyes are sad.

I turn and stare at the school. It looks perfect. All the students look perfect too. I look like them. I look perfect.

*****

I walk down the sidewalk to the grand entrance and swing the doors open. The hall is plain. It is full of lockers and students. It doesn't hold up to the fancy exterior.

I walk up to what I assume is the front desk, but in fact look like an old dining table with boxes full of files under it.

"Hey. My name is Aubrey. I'm new." I say. The old lady looks up from her phone and glares at me.

"Can't you children learn not to disrespect your elders? Can't you see I'm doing something?" She asks, her voice annoyingly nasal, and not at all elderly.

"Okay." I say, then I turn around and walk away.

"Where are you going?" She asks.

"I know what classes I have and my locker number and combination. I'll find my own way around school. I don't need an 'elderly' person telling me what to do." I reply, as casually as I can, without even turning around.

I walk down the halls, which are surprisingly messy, again nothing like the fresh exterior of this magnificent building. I'm starting to think that behind the school's beautiful facade is a place that can barely call itself a public school.

I mean what type of school has a secretary that's rude to students. Aren't secretaries supposed to be all smiles and hall passes?

*****

My first class of the day English Literature. I know the teacher, but I have no clue where the classroom is.

I spot a herd of boys standing by a bunch of the tall blue lockers. I am taller than all the girls I have seen so far, but these boys are huge.

They all tower at about 6'4 or 6'5 and are super muscular. I assume I have just run into the cliche group of jocks that are all jerks.

But I need directions to class so I tap the tall one with charcoal colored hair on the back, since I can't quite reach his shoulder, and say "Can anyone show me the directions to," I pause to check the piece of paper I wrote the teachers name's on, "Mr. Varner?"

"Uh, sorry, I have class in the opposite direction." Says the guy. His hair is swept to the side and he is kind of handsome. His skin is pale and his eyes, a deep brown color. His voice is deep, and it's clear by his letterman's jacket that he plays football. I am slightly disappointed he can't take me to class.

"I have English with Varner next so I can take you." Says a voice from behind me. Instantly I freeze. My heart stops and I turn around to see the familiar blue eyes, the blonde hair that grew a few inches, but is still in the same style, the crooked smile with the straight teeth. His voice is different, deeper, manlier, but the same tone of kindness remains. The same note of sadness.

He is a bit shorter than the rest of them, but still towers over me. And all of a sudden I forget about the handsome, dark haired, whatever sport he played, boy behind me. All I can focus on is the boy in front of me and trying to breathe again.

I look different so he can't possibly recognize me. Now I have hair and eyebrows and even eyelashes. Now, I am remotely pretty. And he is the same, but better. He is tall. He is kind. He is right in front of me.

And suddenly I get the urge to lean forward and kiss him. Try to make a second kiss better than the first one. But I don't do it. Instead I heed his next words.

"Come on, follow me." His manly voice is talking to me. I see, in my peripheral vision, his hand waving for me to follow him, but I can't take my eyes off of his handsome face.

So, without ever looking back, while struggling for breath, I follow Justin's handsome figure down the dirty, narrow hallways, all the way to the door of the classroom, where he holds the wooden door open for me.