My eyes devour the words on the paper clutched in my hand as my brain reels like a slot machine, trying to find the right combination, trying to make everything line up.
But it doesn’t line up.
I keep losing.
Are these really my words? Did I really write this?
But that’s impossible. This paper isn’t even about me. This is about someone else. It’s about another life.
A better life.
So it’s fiction, right? A short story.
I eagerly flip to the second page, but before I can read a sentence the paper is snatched out of my hand. “Relax,” CoyCoy55 tells me. “It’s only a first draft. If there are any typos left, you know Fitz will find them. Not that there would be any. Your first drafts always read like final drafts.”
“I wrote that?” I ask, leaning over to try to get another glimpse of the paper.
She rolls her eyes and replies in a sarcastic tone. “Yes. You wrote it. You’re a genius. Okay? Enough ego-stroking. We both know you’re a better writer than me, you don’t have to rub it in.”
“But I wasn’t—” I start to argue.
CoyCoy55 lifts a hand to silence me. “Let’s just turn it in, okay?”
She hands me the gray laptop bag that she retrieved from the nurse’s office. It’s the same one I remember seeing on the floor in the corner after I woke up.
“That’s not mine,” I say.
“Of course it’s yours,” she says. “See.” She points to the flap and I nearly choke when I read the words stitched right into the fabric.
KENNEDY “CRUSHER” RHODES
“Oh,” I reply lamely, taking the bag.
“And you better put your blazer back on before you go into Fitz’s room.”
I slip my arms through the sleeves and slide the unfamiliar jacket back on. It feels so strange. And yet so right. Like I was born to wear it.
“C’mon,” CoyCoy55 says, and leads me up to the second floor of Royce Hall and through the door of room 211.
The classroom is unbelievable. I mean, I’ve seen Windsor Academy classrooms in pictures before and a few on my tour in the sixth grade, but nothing compares to this. It doesn’t even look like a classroom—apart from the whiteboard and the posters of quotes from famous authors on the wall. But other than that, it looks like someone’s fancy, formal dining room. There are no desks, just a huge oval-shaped wooden table in the center with thirteen chairs around it.
This is where they teach English?
Where do they teach astronomy? At NASA?
The room is so stunning, I lose my footing as soon as I step inside and nearly bite the dust all over again. Fortunately this time, CoyCoy55 reaches out to catch me. “Whoa there, Crusher. Maybe we should start calling you Stumbler.”
“Hello, ladies.” I hear the deep, silky voice come from the corner of the room and I turn to see a young male teacher sitting behind a large mahogany desk. He has dark blond hair and hazel eyes framed by wire-rimmed glasses that he pushes up the bridge of his nose as we approach. “What can I do for you?”
“Kennedy is here to turn in her Personal Essay.”
Personal Essay! PE!
Duh!
The man turns his gaze on me. “Sequoia said you had a little accident on the grand staircase. I’m sorry to hear it. Are you okay?”
Sequoia.
Se-quoi-a.
I let out a gasp and whip my gaze toward the girl who dragged me in here. “CoyCoy55! I get it now!”
I’ve been trying to figure that out for years!
CoyCoy—Sequoia—gives me a panicked look, then turns to Mr. Fitz. “You’ll have to excuse Kennedy’s behavior. She hasn’t really been herself since the fall.”
Mr. Fitz narrows his eyes at me in concern. “Have you seen the nurse?”
“Yes!” Sequoia answers. “And she’s totally fine. She just needs to sleep it off.” She shoves the paper back into my hand and nudges her chin toward the teacher.
“Uh,” I stammer, and take a giant step forward to hand the essay to Mr. Fitz. I really don’t want to give it up. I want to keep reading. But I have a feeling if I don’t turn it in, Sequoia might actually have a pulmonary embolism.
“Here you go.” I force a smile, proffering the paper. “One Personal Essay. Written by me.”
He glances down at it and then at the clock on the wall. It’s two minutes past three o’clock. I can see his tongue jab against the inside of his cheek.
“Well, it is two minutes late.”
Sequoia opens her mouth to protest but he continues before she can speak. “But I’m willing to make an exception just this once. Given the circumstances.”
Sequoia breathes out a heavy sigh next to me. “Thank you, Mr. Fitz.”
“Thank you,” I echo.
Mr. Fitz tilts his head and studies my face with a mix of curiosity and something else I can’t quite identify. “Are you sure you’re all right?” he asks.
“She’s fine!” Sequoia insists, pulling on the sleeve of my blazer.
“I understand it must be hard for both of you,” Mr. Fitz goes on. “After what happened to Ms. Wallace—”
“Thank you, Mr. Fitz,” Sequoia interrupts, sounding flustered and desperate to end this conversation. She gives my blazer another tug and drags me out of the room. “See you tomorrow!” she calls out, closing the door behind us.
What was that about?
Who’s Ms. Wallace?
I’m about to ask Sequoia this very question when she collapses against the wall and sighs like she’s just prevented a nuclear weapons crisis. “Phew. That was close. Good thing you’re Mr. Fitz’s favorite student. I don’t think he would have accepted that paper late from anyone else.”
“I’m his favorite student?” I ask in disbelief.
She snorts. “Obviously. You’re only the best writer in the class. He adores you. I could have come in with a bleeding gash on my forehead and he’d be like, ‘Oh, sorry about your damaged brain, Sequoia, but your paper is still late.’”
“Well,” I say, feeling awkward. “Thanks for helping me get it to him.”
She grins. “What are best friends for?”
“Best friends?” I blurt out. “We’re best friends?”
Sequoia breaks into a totally charming, infectious laugh. “You really crack me up, Crusher.” Then she loops her arm through mine and guides me back to the stairwell. “Come on. I’ll take you home. You could really use a nap.”