A loud crash wakes me from my sleep. My eyes immediately shoot wide open. I quickly close them. It's bright in my room. I must've forgotten to close my curtains last night. I feel something cold on my stomach. I look to see what it is. I pull a pen from under myself.

I don't even remember falling asleep. I get up off my bed and look straight to the floor. I bend down and pick up my little black book. I sit it on my desk, and then I hear yet another loud crash coming from downstairs. I exit my room and walk down the stairs.

My dad is in the kitchen dressed in black slacks and a dark blue button-down shirt. He has the kitchen towel slung over his shoulder. He takes the spatula and scraps up the eggs. When he turns around, he spots me. "There she is!" he says animatedly. He places the eggs onto the plate. I walk around the island, and in front of him, the sink is full of dishes. He slides the plate to me; there's bacon, eggs, and toast on it. "Enjoy." He says with a huge smile. He's in a good mood. I don't know why.

"Where were you last night? I fell asleep around eleven, and you weren't home." I just ruined his good mood, his whole body stiffens, and he presses his lips together.

"Out." he simply says, without going into detail on where exactly out is.

I question him further. "Out where?" and take a seat in one of the island chairs.

He takes a deep breath. "I went out with some people from work.. we went out for drinks."

"Drinks? Do you really think that was a good idea?" I narrow my eyes at him. I remember the last time my mother left, he went out and got drunk. I had to skip school to take care of him. He isn't drunk now, but still. I take a bite of my bacon.

"So," he says, raising his eyebrows, changing the subject. "Are you not going to school today?" he asks. I tilt my head in confusion. "It's nine fifty," he says.

"What?" I say quickly, nearly choking on my food.

"It's nine fifty," he repeats. I swiftly hop out of my chair and run upstairs. "You're not gonna finish eating?!" I hear him yell.

...

Ugh, I can't believe I'm late. I turn my car into the school's parking lot and quickly pull into the only available space I see. I grab my book bag off the seat and hop out of the car.

As I walk towards the front doors, I look down at myself. I have on a blue hoodie and white jeans. I don't think I have ever worn these jeans before. I'm not really a white clothes person. It gets dirty too fast. These are the only clean ones I had. I need to do laundry when I get back home.

Usually, my mom does it, but, well, you know. I open the doors and walk into the school. The hallways are quiet. I think it's still first period. It should be ending soon. I walk up the stairwell and to the third floor, where my locker is at. Once I get there, I throw my bookbag in and grab my books for my morning classes. I close my locker and lock it back.

I walk back down the stairs and to the first floor where my history class is. There are only five minutes left in class, but I want to get the work I missed. I open the door. As soon as I open the door, two boys rush out. I move out the way before they can push past me. They playfully shove each other and continue down the hall. The classroom is loud and rowdy.

My eyes go to the teacher's desk. My teacher isn't here; instead, there's a sub. He's sitting there with his headphones in, reading a book; I squint my eyes to see the title; it says To Kill A Mockingbird.

I've read the book numerous times. My grandmother bought it for me a month before she died. I've read it about four times since last August.

The sub isn't paying any attention to what is going on in the class. I slowly walk into the room.

There are more kids here than usual. There are kids here who aren't even in this class.

I try to find an open seat, but I can't, there aren't any.

"Well, look who finally decided to fucking show up?" Matt yells. I look to my left. He is sitting on a desk, Ryder is beside him, Zach and a dark skin boy whose name I think is Lucas, is with them also.

I roll my eyes and turn away from them. "Oh, baby, don't do me like that," he says. The sound of his voice makes me want to hurl. "Not after the night we had!" His friends place their hands on his shoulders, applauding him, making it seem like what he is saying is okay.

They're cheering him on, amping him up at the disgusting things he is saying to me. Ryder doesn't even look at me. He keeps his head down to the floor. I'm not surprised. "Come here, Jayda, come show everyone how you got on your knees and.." before he can even finish his sentence, I'm storming out the classroom. I open the door so hard it goes flying back, hitting the wall.

My breathing is rapid. I can't feel my eyes prickling with tears. My hands are shaky, and my body temperature is rising.

Breathe, just breathe, I tell myself. I take two deep breaths. I can feel the water in my eyes, drawback; my hands aren't as shaky as before. I'm starting to cool down as soon as I open my eyes, the bell rings, and all the kids flood out of their classes.

...

"Has anyone started on the assignment yet?" Mr.Brooks asks the class. No one raises their hand. "Ms. King?" he looks at me. Of course, he would ask me. I always do my homework ahead of time, but this time I didn't, and I'm glad; if I did, I know he would've told me to share with the class.

"I haven't started on it yet," I tell him. Even if I did, I wouldn't share, I would never share my writings with anyone in here, except for the teachers, of course, that's only because I have to, if I didn't, I wouldn't. Lucky I haven't been ever called on to share, thank god.

Look what happened with the admissions dean at NYU. The first time I share my work with someone other than a teacher, they hate it.

Mr.Shepard hated my work. He basically said that everyone else would hate it too. I never want to go through that type of embarrassment ever again.

Mr.Brooks looks back at the rest of the class. "Well, I guess I will have to share more poems with you all since none of you have grasped the meaning of Oblivion yet." he walks behind his desk and pulls out a stack of papers. "Mr.Adams, can you pass these out?" Mr.Brooks asks.

He knows he won't do it. Ryder is not the passing out paper type of person. I don't know why Mr. Broookes test him like that. Maybe it's a male dominance thing. Then again, no, it's just Ryder being Ryder.

"I'm good," Ryder responds sternly. Some in the class start to laugh. Ryder doesn't even look up; he just continues writing in his book.

"Mr.Adams!" Brooks says a little more forcefully.

Ryder closes his book with his pen still inside. He stands from the desk and walks straight out of the classroom.

"Ryder," Ashely calls him, trying to get him to stop. He doesn't, which is no surprise. He doesn't listen to anyone, so why would he listen to her? He doesn't even storm out of the classroom like he usually does. He simply just walks out of the room.

"Well, I guess he wants an F for the day," Mr.Brooks says once the door closes. "Ashely, how about you pass out the work since your boyfriend refused." Ashely stands up from the desk and grabs the papers from him. "Today, we will be reading a poem by Clark Ashton Smith. The name of this poem is called A Dream Of Oblivion. Now, this is a difficult poem to read, but as seniors, you guys should fly right through." The class groans. Ashely places the paper on my desk; I scan over the poem. I know they definitely won't understand this. "Just kidding, even I had a hard time interpreting this when I read it. So everyone take out a sheet of paper. We will be spending the remaining time in class annotating and dissecting this poem."

Before I can reach down and grab my notebook, the intercom comes on. "Jayda King, please report to the counselor's office." I stand up from my chair and grab my things.

"Come see me after school," Mr.Brooks tells me before I leave the classroom.

"Okay." I walk down the hallway and then down the stairs to the counselor's suite. I open the door and walk into the office. Ms.Rodriguez comes out of her suite to greet me.

"Jayda! Long time no see," she says with a smile on her face. I walk over to where she is. She holds the door open for me, and then I take it from her allowing her to go first.

I stop in the doorway as memories of my last being here floods through my mind. I remember when I sat there in that chair and really started to believe things would be different, I wanted to live. I wanted to go to college and get away from everything and everyone. I dreamed of having a different life away from here. And those dreams were crushed in less than two minutes, in a stupid interview.

Sometimes I picture myself going to UCLA like my father wants me to, I could always go there and still keep the same plan, but I don't want to.

Life is filled with disappointments and heartaches, and unavoidable fates. Life is something I don't want to be a part of.

Like oil and water, the world and I just don't mix.

"Are you gonna come in?" she asks.

"Uh yeah," I quickly walk over to the familiar seats and sit.

"So, I heard about you and the seizures" Oh, of course, she did. "How are you doing?" she asks me.

I don't want to talk about it. "Better." I give her a one-word answer.

She nods her head. I don't think she is going to ask me anymore about it. "So... how was your interview at NYU?" she says high pitched.

I definitely don't want to talk about that. Wait a second. "So, I'm guessing you haven't talked to your friend, Mr.Shepard." I slouch in my chair and fold my arms.

"Actually, no, I haven't. Now that you mention it, he was supposed to call me after he met with you. He never did." she pauses. "So, what happened at the interview? Are you, NYU class of 2025?" she asks me excitedly. She pushes a strand of hair behind her ear.

"No, I'm not." The whole facial expression changes. "Long story short, He said he liked my work, but it was just too dark, and then he said how the program and the board is looking for people who can write from all genres. And then he added how I would be wasting my time applying because I wouldn't get in." Just thinking about the situation makes me cringe; even though I'm telling it, it feels like I'm reliving it. That day wasn't just the day I basically got rejected from my dream school without even applying.

That was the day I had the seizure; I remember how nauseous I felt. I remember the room spinning at full speed. I remember just not feeling myself physically. The whole day felt like a dream... no, a nightmare.

"Hm," she tilts her head in confusion. "He said that?" she says as if she doesn't believe me.

I may not have been myself the whole day, but I know what I heard; I know what he said. I will never forget what he said. "He did," She still looks confused; she has a furrowed brow now, she scratches the side of her head. I can see her going back and forth with herself in her mind, she isn't speaking out loud, but I know she is trying to figure something out. "What's wrong?"

She tilts her head back up. "Ummm, I'm just a little confused."

"Why?"

"I sent your work to him, ahead of time, the day you told me you were interested in going to NYU for their creative writing program. I immediately spoke with Mr.Brooks; he gave me some of your work from his class. I also talked to your English teacher from last year and got your hamlet assignments from her."

"Okay." I draw out the word.

"Jayda, I sent Mr.Shepard your work that very day. He called me later on that same day and said that he had to meet you because he couldn't believe someone your age had the intellectual skills to dissect such hard passages," she explains. Now I am confused.

"He stated that your understanding of the work was well beyond your years. He said that your writing also had a different feel. It was dark but real and relatable, something that the world needed to see."

I can't believe what I'm hearing right now. Mr.Shepard said all those things about my work. I thought he hated it. I thought he just said he liked it because he didn't want to be mean and say that he didn't like it, so instead, he tried to say that the board wouldn't like it. I can believe this.

He was so bent on the fact that my writing was dark and that they wouldn't let me in because it was different. But now I'm hearing that he loved the fact that it was different, and he thinks people should hear it. I don't get it.

"So, I'm just not understanding why he told you something different than what he told me days before," she says. She hits a button on her computer. "You don't worry. I will figure this out."