Chapter One

“Shut up!” I loudly whispered at the girl behind me. We quietly ran through the hallways of our middle school. The air was heavy for mid-October as if the air was partly liquid we made our way down the chipped and cracked brown steps—very unattractive. It was hard to breathe in the solid feeling air. I still don’t see why we raise so much money for the non-existent cheerleaders and not for improvement of the actual building. Whatever. “I wasn’t making any noises!” a whisper coming from behind me said. I stopped and turned around to face my curly-haired friend. Her hair stuck out at odd angles, the albertite strands coiling around one another. Pointing at her shoes, I stared at her. “Oh. Well I can’t help it.” The shoes in question being the loudly tapping flat top converse that Megan Gallagher was very proud of. “Can’t you take them off?” I whispered. “No!” she yelled. I clamped my hand over her mouth as if that would make the words and the sound go back in. It didn’t. “No,” she repeated, softly this time. “Have you seen the floors here, Maura?” she asked, implying with her tone that I was an idiot. You know, that tone that sounds exasperated at the fact that you just. Don’t. Understand. I shrugged and spun on my toes, tying to not careen down the steps to the yellowy floor two flights below. My little silver Canon camera swung around my wrist and I grabbed at it to keep it from swinging it into the brown railing. I saw Megan glance at her watch from the corner of my eye. “How much time?”

“About fifteen minutes.” Ever since I read through half of class in the library accidentally, I was anal about having enough time to get to class from our lunch period. That, and, if we didn’t get there in time, the great event would be over. At the bottom of the steps, we quickened our pace, still trying not to make a sound with our shoes on the floor. Pretty hard, considering the loud slaps of Megan’s converse and the dull thunks of my think Mudd loafers. It smelled like dust on the bottom level of our school and the once-white walls were yellowing with age. Right before we turned the corner, I switched on my camera, wrapping it up in the blue scarf around my neck to muffle the cheery ding it made. Sticking it, and my face, around the dirty corner, I saw what we had come here to see. My best friend—one of them anyway—kissing the boy that she had unconvincingly told us she hated. Snapping the picture quickly, I threw myself back towards Megan, apparently just in time to avoid Ami’s suspicious glance because he came walking slowly to the corner we hid behind. By the time she had walked over to the place we had been standing, Megan and I were already far up the stairs, running faster than we do in soccer, which, I guess, isn’t really saying much.

School is not boring. Never. Our teachers are really good and there are rarely dull moments. Today however, I couldn’t wait to leave. Megan was coming over, as was Ami for our Friday-night voodoo rituals—I mean, sleepovers. Ami had to go to a loon (my fond term for a psychologist) first, so that gave Megan and I enough time to take the picture and save it on my home computer and delete it from the camera. It’s not that we’re trying to be bitchy or anything, you know, about Ami and Riley—the guy she was kissing—but we’re just so excited about one of our friends having a relationship. I don’t know why. If you’re someone like me, the person obsessed with romantic dramas, then you live for something romantic going on. Or maybe it’s just me….

In the middle of reviewing the homework, the afternoon announcements came on,

interrupting us—again. It does this every day.

I ran out of the door and to my locker, opening it quickly—or trying to—and shoving everything in my backpack and grabbing my rollerblades before slamming it shut with a kick and running down the hall to Megan’s locker. Little did I know, I forgot my English folder in my locker along with the worksheet due tomorrow. Oops, sorry Mr. Montgomery. I’ll make it up. Eventually….

On the way home—at the risk of being semi-cliché—you could cut the anticipation with a knife it was so thick. Not nearly as thick as it had been when we were waiting to get the picture, no. Then, you could barely move, barely breathe under that much pressure.

It was warm out. Surprisingly warm for mid-October, which really sucked because a) I like the cold and b) I had dressed for frigid weather like it had been yesterday. Great. So we walked across the white sidewalk, Megan, looking into the distance with that not-really-there look, and me, studying the corrosion holes that peppered the sidewalk, marring it into imperfection, unlike all the other cement blocks. Then I thought that this was unfair. It’s not that block’s fault that it looks like that. Why should it be looked down on? Or pitied, as I was doing that very moment? What’s so wrong about being different? Why should it be looked down upon? Unless it wasn’t? Thankfully, before I could senselessly ponder any further and give myself a migraine, we reached my back door. I dropped my overly heavy blades and tried to flex my reddened fingers, noticing that there was quite some resistance there. I pulled the key out from the cereal case that we had on the porch for some unearthly reason and unlocked the stupid sticky lock that continues to give me grief. It took a minute or too to get in, but after that we didn’t waste a second. Megan raced up the carpeted stairs behind me and to my room where we dug around for the ever-elusive gray cord that plugged the camera to the computer. We waited, side by side, for the computer to load the incriminating picture before saving it into a file labeled “Love-love” and saving that onto a very pretty blue disk. When I pulled it out, Megan had grinned, clapping her hands like a little girl and said, “Preeeetty.” Well, she’s just like that. Then I remembered that I had a PowerPoint for student council that was going to be uploaded on the school website. I stuck the two blue disks in my backpack. If you don’t want someone finding something, keep it on your person at all times. Then. We went to do our exciting homework. Yay.

Early in the morning, I ran into the school, knowing that I was running minutes late on the deadline Ms. Frankel had assigned me. I flew through the door to her room and dropped my backpack on the floor, hitting my foot. As I unzipped it, I glared at the thing for hurting me, pulled out the disk and handed it to her. I checked to make sure that the other one was still there. Not only did it have various pictures, but also it had the e-mails that Ami and Riley sent to each other. Hey, it’s not my fault she gave us the password. Zipping the bag up and running out again, I went outside and sat on the wall, waiting for Megan and our other friend Melinda to arrive. Hey! All our names have m’s in them. Weird….

Classes weren’t as interesting as they usually were for some reason. I sensed that the world was waiting for something to happen. It seemed to have anxiety crawling everywhere. Across the desks, chairs, and blackboards, holding onto the football during gym, and clogging our instruments during band. Not to mention clogging our heads so that we couldn’t think straight, which we got rewarded for when Mr. Quincy yelled at us in Social Studies.

Finally something did happen. It happened during Math class, around fifth period. Ami, Megan and I were all sitting at our table. Ami swung her pencil around, rolling it across her thumb and twirled her orangey hair around. Megan wrote Fanfiction in our secret alphabet, and I studied people. Then, the annoying buzz of the intercom came on and an equally annoying voice filled the small and somewhat agitated room. “Ami Peterson to Dr. Hamm’s office.” The three of us looked at each other, knowing what would happen next. Ami was always being called to the psychologist’s office because her father thought she needed therapy for her…violent attitude. She doesn’t. She has almost all she needs right here, with us. But adults are blind, so we don’t expect them to figure it out.

Ami left the room and a minute later, I raised my hand and asked permission to go to the “bathroom”. The teacher nodded vaguely and waved her hand at the door, signaling my leave. I walked out into the hallway and got to the staircase when I heard the loud click of a door opening. Turning, I saw that it was Megan, as was expected, and waited for her, hand raised to push open the heavy door. She jogged as quietly as possible towards me and pushed the door open. We walked down the halls of our fairly old school to the ground floor where the main office, the principal and vice principal’s offices were. As was the psychologist’s office. The door was open, as usual, propped open with a weak looking wedge. Leaning against the wall on either side of the door, Megan and I turned into the doorframe, knowing that we would be unseen. The structure of the room was built so that, if you walked in about three feet, then you still wouldn’t be able to see Dr. Hamm but you could see whom he was talking with. Wait, sorry, Ms. Hamm. We can’t call her Dr. because doctors help people. Ami kept her eyes trained on the wall behind Ms. Hamm, preventing herself from looking at us and arousing suspicion. We heard the conversation s Ms. Hamm asked questions and Ami answered them, avoiding the land mines set before her, trying to make her trip up and break down. Not gonna happen. Not Ami. Ami is a strong person and she wouldn’t break down. Even as I told myself this, I saw tears roll down her cheeks, her eyes become red and slightly puffy, and her nose begin to run. Her silent tears slid slowly halfway down her cheek before falling off and onto her clasped hands. While I had been studying my friend, I failed to listen to the individual words that were being traded.

Now I paid close attention, moments for studying now over. “Ami, are you aware that your parents, specifically your father, are very worried about your mental health? They are worried that you will become Goth and start up on bad things,” Ms. Hamm said slowly, as if talking to a four year old. It took all in me, and all in Megan too apparently, from flying out from behind that wall and killing Ms. Hamm on the spot. Megan was trembling, either from restraint and/or coming tears. She was also albescent, more and more rapidly with each passing moment. Upon gaining no reaction from Ami, Ms. Hamm said, “Let me put it this way, you need counseling. You do.” She nodded, looking owlishly at Ami. “I have numerous complaints from students and teachers about your behavior and I am telling you right now, you need therapy. It’s for your own good, you know. Your father has agreed and we have decided that you will be going to see a psychologist every week on Tuesdays.”

“But I have Soccer,” she said quietly, through her tears. “Yes, that’s true. Extra-curricular activities might be good for you. When do you not have practice? Fridays? How about Fridays then?” Ami looked as though she was either about to say something, or kick that bitch off the arm of the chair she was sitting on. Instead, she stood up, chair almost tipping the chair over and glared down, narrowing her eyes at Ms. Hamm with accusation and hurt before running out of the room, almost colliding with Megan. We followed her out, trailing after like useless little accessories, incapable of doing anything for her. “Ami!” I yelled. “Ami! Wait!” She wouldn’t wait though. I saw her drag her arm across her face and turn the corner. We waited for a second, wondering what to do, then we heard a click of a door opening and figured that she must have gone into The Closet. The Closet is an old custodian’s closet that we sometimes hide out in during lunch. We heard footsteps again and waited for Ami to turn the corner, hiding her emotions from us, tears gone, and her normal self back.

Instead, we saw Rhea, our other other friend (we have lots) and look at us questioningly. “I never thought you guys were the ones to skip class,” she said. “We’re not!” Megan protested. “What about you?” I asked, somewhat accusingly until I remembered the look in Ami’s eyes when she looked at Ms. Hamm. (As I said, doctors help people.) Rhea held up a black square and flipped it so the words “bathroom Pass” faced us. Nodding slowly I asked, “Did you see Ami?” This time it was her turn to nod and when Megan asked where she went, Rhea responded with, “The Closet.” Now we were all nodding slowly until we realized what we were doing and then stopped abruptly. “What happened? Was it Ms. Omelet?” This is what Rhea calls Ms. Hamm. I still can’t whether it’s purposeful or accidental and I’ve learned not to bother asking. Megan said something along the lines of a yes and I spaced off, staring at a really pretty moth that had landed on a nearby windowsill.

Remembering that our friend was upset I walked through the double doors that led to the second hallway where The Closet was located, knowing that Megan and Rhea were following behind me. Knocking first, as was policy, I waited for Ami to knock back. When nothing came, Rhea stepped forward and tried to open the door. Locked. That was the solitary problem about our problem. But as General Ulysses Grant theorized, every problem has a solution. I wondered why I remembered this. History is definitely low on my list of things important, so why bother. Deciding not to dwell on this any longer, I reached into my pocket and pulled out a mess of metal, dragging out a small metallic red key. Too bad people leave keys lying around everywhere. Not. Sticking the key into the lock, it slid in easily unlike my home door and I turned it counter-clockwise. That was a plus. Even if you did have a key, you didn’t know which way to turn it at first, so we’d hear the person coming in and knock them out…. Pushing the door open, we walked in the surprisingly vast closet and saw that the light was off. Now, either Ami didn’t turn it on, the light bulb burned out—again, or the school’s power failed—again. Swinging my arms wildly like an idiot, I found the switch, which hung from a string tied to a stupidly placed ceiling fan, and pulled down. I love the sound that it makes when it does that. The ocher light flickered to life and we saw a huddled shape in the corner. Which was also stupid. So much stupidity in the world. Cobwebs were very popular in the corners; no matter how often we cleaned them—which was often. Slowly stepping over various debris that had been left there over time, the three of us made our way over to our friend.

Crouching next to her, we tried allaying with small things like revenge plans, which always worked in the past. This time however, I’m not sure that it would be so simple. Megan and I had witnessed what went on in there but Rhea had not so she asked Ami to explain. She just shook her head and said in a low, weak voice, “I don’t want to talk about it.” So then Megan asked her if we could tell Rhea. She shook her head but then paused. “Not around me. I just want to be left alone.” Knowing she might very well attempt to kill us (not literally) if we stuck around longer, Megan and I dragged Rhea out behind us and closed the door, locking it and returning the keys to my pocket. “Where did you get those?” Megan asked, pointing at my pocket. “Oh, just keys that I’ve accumulated over the years and made copies to.” She raised her eyebrows and flashed a skeptical look. Sighing, we walked on.

Because it was now well into sixth period, we walked into the library and hid in the back behind the science books that no one reads. Sitting on one of the wooden square stools, we all talked about what happened. Reviewing the conversation, I realized that Ms. Hamm had meant she needed therapy because she was different. That wasn’t fair. Not at all. It reminded me of the sidewalk. Why should it be looked down upon because it’s imperfect or different? And why should it be pitied? Then it struck me that I was comparing my friend to a sidewalk, so I stopped.

Early the next morning was when I showed up at school. Very early. It was dark outside, I couldn’t feel my hands although they were wrapped in my scarf, and my face felt like ice was pressing against it. It happens. What doesn’t usually happen is that there is a flyer in front of me. Well, not one that’s white, clean, freshly thrown. Our middle school doesn’t allow any type of litter. At all. There still is some but only a little bit, and then it’s always dirty by the time I see it. Our school is very strict. And we have to wear uniforms, but can at least accessorize them…moving on. So, imagine my surprise when I looked up, and saw that the entire school was littered with them. Paper everywhere, sheets of white, yellow, blue, green, and purple, all covering the ground, like overly large confetti at a parade during New Year’s. Rolling towards the one at my feet, I picked up the thing. It was a little packet, not just one paper, and so I flipped through page after page, thinking how I must be delusional if I’m seeing this. Very delusional. The cold must be getting to me. But when I pinched myself, bit my tongue, and pulled my hair, I knew that this wasn’t a delusion, dream or nightmare: it was reality. And it was about to become very screwed up.

Rolling frantically, I tried to pick up every single packet that lay on the ground. Some were getting wet from the wet tar but I picked them up anyway, not caring about how dirty I got. Finding no other option, I crammed them all in bag, but I had no idea that this would not be enough to change the next series of events.

At 7:35 exactly, they open the doors to the school. I wait there with Megan and some other stray early bird kids and we freeze together, talking. I didn’t tell Megan about the flyers even though that might have actually helped later on, but I did tell her to look out for Ami to make sure she was all right and didn’t see anything that would upset her. Megan looked at me questioningly as if she knew I was talking about something specifically, but she shrugged it off, knowing that I wouldn’t tell her. She knew I was guided by secret ulterior motives.

When the doors opened, the sight we saw was the worst ever. Tacked up on the walls were the flyers, littering the floors again were the flyers, crammed everywhere you could cram something were the flyers. This person or these people must really hate us. Or really, Ami. “What the hell is this?” she asked, turning and turning to get a look. “Doesn’t matter,” I said from halfway down the hall. “We have to get rid of them.” She nodded slowly but then snapped up like my words had hit her just now, and then Megan scrambled around, grabbing sheets of paper and cramming them into her backpack too. Then, I got an idea. Pulling out my jumble of keys, I dashed over to a closet, dropping my bag and blades on the floor. I fumbled with them for a while before finding the right key and sticking it into the keyhole. Moments later, I re-appeared with garbage bags in hand and began to pull more sheets of paper down, ramming them into the bag. Before I could even blink, I saw that the people who wait with us outside in the morning—the people we barely know—were grabbing bags and helping out. I looked at them questioningly until one of them—a fellow eighth grade girl—said, “We know Ami, and we want to help. This just isn’t right,” she said, indicating at the mess with her hand. Nodding, I got back to work.

By the time other people had started arriving, we had picked up all the flyers and thrown them into the dumpster in the back of our school. Megan sighed and sat down against the wall in our usual spot, far away from the door so that we don’t catch a draft. A few minutes after that, Ami walked in, looking fairly depressed but not like she was about to kill herself. “Hi Ami,” we said to her. She said a small “Hi” back and sat down next to us, flopping tiredly. More of our friends arrived after her and we were soon immersed in a laughing conversation—even Ami.

The second set of double doors opened to let us into class, but what we saw here was not what we usually saw in the morning. More flyers. Everywhere. Again, plastered to the walls, on the floor, covering the staircase. The crowd of students just stood, there, staring, until Ami stepped forward and picked one up. Scanning it, she realized what it was and dropped it suddenly, only to pick it up again soon after and start shoving them all in her bag. The crowd watched on still. When her bag ran out of room, she grabbed Megan’s and mine. Not stopping her, we forgot that we already had some, but instead of looking for another bag after seeing ours, she dropped them at her feet and faced us, and as cliché as this sounds, her eyes bore holes into us (or tried to anyway). Then, quietly, she said, “You guys did this? You took a picture of me and Riley and did this?” Her voice rose as she spoke and we found ourselves stepping backwards a little. “How did you get my emails anyway? Well? I thought I could trust you guys with my password, but I see that I was wrong.” Welcome to Cliché Day. But seriously, her words hurt; as if they were piercing me physically, needles stabbing into my skin. “Ami—.”

“Don’t,” she whispered at Megan, who had extended a hand to reach for Ami, “Don’t you come near me ever again!” she yelled at us. “Ami we didn’t do it!” I managed to yell. “Then why was it in your back pack?”

“Because they were all over so we cleaned them up, hoping you wouldn’t ever see them. We didn’t know that they were up here though,” I said, trailing off at the very end. “Well it doesn’t matter now!” she yelled at top volume, which, for Ami, is pretty damn loud. “Not only do I know you betrayed me, but the whole school knows! Thanks a lot you guys.” Her expression that followed resembled a smirk to me but I didn’t have time to analyze it because right then, the windows exploded. Or maybe that was my sanity/comfortable world.

I shielded my face with my arms and crouched on the floor, trying to avoid the spray of glass. Only moments afterwards, I opened my scrunched eyes and stood up. The window was still intact. Ami was running up the stairs. The crowd was looking at the flyers, calling up the stairs, laughing, and being idiots. Megan was looking at me in a confused way. I guess my face mirrored hers because she didn’t ask for any explanation—not that I could give one. I still don’t know what happened, but I had to forget for the moment and run after my friend, grabbing my bag as I ran. Usually, the heroine—that’s me—would then swing the bag over her shoulder and run majestically up the stairs where she would then search for her friend. This is not a “usually” nor is it the movies. So of course my books fall all over the stairs. When I pick them up with Megan’s help, I try to run up the stairs. Then I find myself on the floor, obviously having tripped on my own foot. Thankfully the crowd was not paying attention to us or I would have been laughed and pointed at like I am normally. Too bad they don’t only because of the circumstances. The circumstances suck. The circumstances must die. Okay, I’m shutting up.

Megan tells me that we should not split up. “Why not?” I ask. “Isn’t that what they usually do?”

“This is not the movies!” she says, emphasizing each word. “It would be better to help her if it was two of us and not one!”

“Yes it would, wouldn’t it?”

“Okay! Stop thinking and let’s move!” We ran down the hallways and were not yelled at by any teachers as we usually are. I should just forget usually. It lies. Finally we heard an echo of our own footfalls and figured that Ami must be just around the corner. Well when we rounded the corner, it definitely wasn’t Ami.

What we saw upon rounding was some tall, tall girl, wearing what Ami usually wore: black. But this girl did not have the same red hair, but had long stringy black hair. Her back was to us and she was slumped over. Out of sadness or because she didn’t want her head to go through the ceiling, I don’t know. What I did know, was that this was Ami. It had to be. Not only did the tall girl have the same shoes, clothes, and backpack, but also she had the same voice. I don’t know what she was saying, and by the looks of it, neither did Megan, but I heard the noise. She was mumbling. I could have sworn I had heard something along the lines of traitorous, and then murder, but I can’t honestly be sure. Then I woke up.

I don’t know what happened, one moment, Ami was staring me down, the next, I was opening my eyes to Megan’s concerned face. “What happened?” I asked, noticing the throbbing in my head. “Ami pitched something at your head.” How lovely. “What was it?” Megan pushed something in my line of sight, but I pushed it back. It was too close to see clearly. A textbook. My friend just hauled a science textbook at my head, knocking me out. “I took it in my hand, but then felt it hit my leg because, I know this sounds pathetic, but it was really hard to hold up a textbook at the moment. I brought my hand to my head. When I brought it down to look, my fingertips were slick with blood. “Maura! Maura! Come on. To the nurse.”

“What?” She dragged me off the floor and asked own of the members of the crowd to get our bags. Megan then proceeded to drag me upstairs. I turned back to see Melinda grab our things and follow. I tried to say thank you, but it hurt too much to breathe.

When we got to the nurse’s office, the nurse was just unlocking the door. She moved easily, not knowing that I was mentally dying here. When she heard footsteps I guess, she turned to us and then, seeing my head, ran over. It’s foggy. What happened next is foggy. And boring. The two of them dragged me (lots of dragging today, and more to come!) into the room. The nurse scrubbed at my head with vaguely stingy stuff and bandaged my forehead, where the book hit. Then she gave me ice and told me something. Getting no reaction, she turned to Megan and repeated it, getting a response from my friend. My mouth hung open slightly and I stared at the floor. Today was not a good day. And that just might have been the understatement of the year.

Throughout the rest of the day, I didn’t see Ami. Maybe she skipped. Maybe she feigned sickness and went home. I don’t know. As soon as homeroom ended, I asked Megan if she could come over today. She said it was fine but she would have to check with er parents. That meant yes.

During the day, all anyone talked about were the flyers. Probably because the Amoebas did. Amoebas are those popular girls that everyone loves, listens to, worships, and obeys to the letter. The jocks were also talking about it. From unnamed sources I found out that Riley wasn’t at school either. He was sick though. I guess that’s a good thing because, you know, he’s such a nice guy I don’t think I’d be able to stand seeing him teased incessantly. But anyway, I had the feeling that this would go on forever. I already heard people quoting the emails that they sent to each other.

When I’m nervous or anxious I chew gum. You have no idea how much gum I went through in just that school day. And how often I got reprimanded. I hate that word. You have no idea how often I got yelled at. That’s better. I went through four cases of altoids gum. I bet you’re wondering why I carry so many cases around with me, and the answer is: because of things like this. And I like gum. Gum’s good.

As soon as I got home with Megan, we ran to the phone and dialed Ami’s number. The rings were deafening. They went on forever, echoing in my head, over and over, until finally, finally a click came. Answering machine. While Megan continued to call every number that she might be at, I got on my computer and emailed her. A lot. And just for good measure, I wrote a letter of apology and sent it by mail after I faxed it. It may seem obsessive, but we weren’t the same with one of us missing. We were an unstoppable trio and had been since we were six. I remember when we met. That’s not important though so I won’t go into details. Finally we gave up after endless attempts, but only for the night. After all, tomorrow was a new day. And a Saturday, which proves to be more relevant than one might think.

Immediately after waking up on Saturday, I called Megan and arranged for a meeting. At Ami’s house. I pulled on the nearest thing: black button-down shirt, black pants, and my long black coat. Black.

I ran out of the house after searching for any food. I found stale bread, a moldy pickle (I don’t want to know), and a tomato. Okay, there was more food, but none of it was any good. Except for the pizza goldfish I had in my pocket. I ran all the way to the town, which was five blocks away, and met up with Megan on the way. We both ran through the woods, the shortcut, to Ami’s house, jumping over logs and trying not to get hit in the face by trees. Or fall in brooks. The latter happened anyway. It usually did.

“Do you think that she’ll even open her door?” Megan asked as we stood outside, huddled in our jackets and ringing the doorbell. “No,” I muttered from somewhere deep inside my scarf. She turned and started whacking her head into the pillar behind us. “Megan, Megan. Megan, stop that.” I stuck my arm out in front of her and dragged her away. “You’re losing more and more brain cells and you don’t have many left to spare.”

“Ha. Ha. Ha,” she said. I shrugged and went back to the routine.

The Routine:

-Ring doorbell

-Wait one second

-Ring doorbell

-Wait another second

-Ring doorbell

Well, you get the idea. Finally Megan grabbed my arm and dragged (what did I tell you?) me around to the side of the house where Ami’s window was. The purple curtains were drawn and the window was frosted over so that we had no hope of seeing what was inside. Still, I reached forward and tapped the window with my knuckle. I don’t understand how they do this in movies because, you know, it hurts. But I kept knocking. I would not let the Evil Mastermind have their way with our friendship. The Evil Mastermind was what we called the person who printed those flyers and scattered them around. When I find that person, they are going to be so sorry, you have no idea.

Anyway, after fifteen minutes of knocking incessantly on our “ex”-friend’s window, I got up and turned to Megan. “We should just leave, huh?”

“Yeah. I think so.” Now see, in movies, when something terrible happens to the main character, the weather instantaneously becomes stormy, rainy, etc. etc. We’re not in the movies, so of course the weather was bright. As cold as it was, the sun was out, warming us a little on the outside, but on the inside we were unbearably cold. The trees still had a lot of leaves on them and they were beautiful golden and orange colours. The sky was blue with really fluffy, peaceful looking clouds. Kids were outside jumping in small piles of leaves, undoubtedly getting a lot of ticks, which would result in hysterical screaming later on. Parents were probably inside next to the fire, and everything was at peace. Except for our small, chaotic world. It seemed that nobody got the memo that the world was crumbling. I heard mail travels slowly this time of year.

Apparently it doesn’t as I soon found out Monday. Mail travels very quickly. Too quickly. On Monday, the whole school was still laughing about Friday’s incident. Ami showed up at school, which must have taken a lot of courage because she was being ridiculed. Not as bad as it had been on Friday. No, much worse than that. It seemed that everyone who had a blog or website had a special feature on Ami and Riley. Anyone who had been absent was hurriedly Im-ed or emailed about what had happened. That’s why I say that mail travels quickly. Everyone knew, even the teachers. I later overheard Ami talking to Riley, saying how he was the only one she could trust anymore. I felt so sorry for her that I almost collapsed under the weight of the feeling. I wanted to reach out to her, to help her some how. The only problem was that I didn’t know how. Wait, there was another problem. Anything that Megan or me did would probably just make things worse.

Apparently there were a lot of people who felt sorry for Ami. All those people were against Megan and I. The called us bitches to our faces (and behind our backs), and spread the rumour that Megan and I had made those flyers. Of course anyone who felt sorry for her was right. Ami was just like that. She liked attention and sympathy. If things didn’t go her way, she’d think someone was conspiring against her. Then, the people who were on her side and pitied her were saints. I don’t mean to sound like the bitch they peg me as, but it’s true. I’m just stating the facts here.

Around sixth period it dawned on me as to what happened. The blue disks. The blue, identical, unlabeled disks. One of which I had given to Ms. Frankel. And the disk I had given to her was…. (Surprise, surprise) the disk with all our Ami and Riley evidence. It was inconceivable how idiotic I felt that very moment. I felt like such an idiot, that I banged my head into the desk right as we were reviewing our science tests. “Maura, are you okay?” Ms. Frankel (she doubles as a science teacher) asked. I can’t tell whether she really meant that or if she was annoyed at my having interrupted the class. “Absolutely,” I said, continuing to bang my head some more. I don’t know why I did that. Melinda, my science partner slash “school friend” pulled me back up, preventing any further brain damage. Ms. Frankel gave me a look and went back to reviewing. Melinda shot me a questioning look and scribbled a note. After pulling it from her unsuspectingly, I unfolded it, keeping my eye on Ms. Frankel, and then reading it. ARE YOU OKAY? It asked. I nodded slightly and pushed the torn paper back in her direction. She scribbled something again in her slanted, non-curvy writing. LIAR. Okay, so I was. It should have been obvious as to what was bothering me, but I guess not. Melinda doesn’t really get other people’s problems. She’s not stupid; she just doesn’t see the drama in our lives. She’s acts and looks like a little girl. And there is nothing wrong with that. She has a small heart-shaped face, big green eyes, dirty blond, wispy hair that goes down to her shoulders but is always tied back in two braids. She has a lot of freckles too. Lots and lots all over her pale skin. And if you want to know what I look like, then I’ll tell you. Actually, even if you don’t want to know, I’ll tell you anyway.

I do not look like some great heroine.

I have gray eyes. Heroines always have blue, green, or black eyes. I obviously don’t.

My hair I short, just above me ears in front and to the nape of my neck in back.

It’s reddish blond. I don’t understand how that’s possible, but it is.

I’m not tall, I’m not short. I wear size eight shoes.

I have a lot of scratched and scrapes from roller blade-ing.

I like to paint my nails pink but it doesn’t go well with me and the polish gets chipped so easily that I’ve just stopped.

I don’t wear make up.

I am definitely no Elizabeth Barker. She’s the most popular girl in school.

But I am definitely no Maureen Joseph. She’s the least popular girl in school.

Anyway, that’s me. That was boring, so let’s get back to the story.

I wrote down what happened with the disks and pushed it her way. I saw her green eyes widen as she read and her expression change into a small scowl. Then she wrote back to me, furiously. I think she’s mad at me. That doesn’t make sense though, because she never gets mad. This can’t be good. I unfolded her note and braced myself for the weirdness. WHO THE HELL MADE THOSE FLYERS????? WE HAVE! TO FIND THEM AND KILL! THEM. Oh yeah, she writes in all capitals in case you haven’t guessed so whenever there’s an exclamation point next to a word, she wants us to emphasize a word. I wrote back saying that I thought kill was a little too dramatic. She shrugged and then wrote that we should at least permanently maim them. I shook my head in defeat and went back to trying to pay attention.

Later in the day we were talking about my answering machine and how weird it was. It was a recording of Rhea and me on crack and yammering. It was really funny except that if our World History teacher ever called home, he would find out that Rhea was “madly in love” with him. I tried explain that he wouldn’t call because I never did anything that would get myself in trouble except conspire against the government. But that wasn’t a bad thing. That was a “you’ll-thank-me-for-this-later” type thing. They laughed.

After lunch we walked down to The Closet. It was our free period so we could wander, study (yeah right) and generally do whatever we wanted as long as we stayed within school grounds and obeyed the rules ad blah-blah blah. So Megan, Rhea and I had all walked down the stairs leading to our Closet and were about to turn the corner when we suddenly heard a yelp of surprise. Stopping just short of the corner, I peered around the edge warily. I saw Melinda in someone’s arms. This someone was wearing a blue, long-sleeved shirt, but I couldn’t see otherwise. Then I heard Ami’s voice. “I thought you liked me! You even said that you loved me! I don’t see what happened! What does she have that I don’t? I thought I could trust you but you betrayed me just like the rest of them.” At first she yelled, rage definitely showing. Then she grew quieter (How do you GROW quieter?) and her voice took on a more bitter tone. I let the rest of me go around the corner, not caring that I could be seen. I kind of wanted to be seen. When I was in plain sight, I saw that she wasn’t even facing me. Melinda and Riley had turned so that they were facing me and Ami’s back was towards me. I felt Megan and Rhea come stand next to me. Ami extended a hand gently, placing on the side of Riley’s face. Then he drew it away quickly and, without warning, slapped him hard across the face. “I see that I can’t trust anyone anymore. You bastards double-crossed me enough, and now you’ll be sorry. Believe me. You will all pay,” she said, tracing a finger down his jaw line and scraping it with her nail. She walked briskly past the pair and nudged them hard so that they stumbled a bit. I knew that her face was distorted with an evil grin. Her voice had that sound in it that indicated that her mouth was stretched out.

I hadn’t noticed until I felt them fall, but there were tears rolling down my cheeks. This wasn’t Ami. The Ami I knew really liked Riley and she would never slap him like that. She might playfully, but that one was quite clearly meant to hurt. His cheeks was red and he was trying to console Melinda who was shaking, really worried about what just happened. Riley turned and icy glare to us as if to say, “This is all your fault”. “Riley, we didn’t do it. You know we could never—.” But she cut herself short before finishing. Megan returned his glare and grabbed Rhea, keeping her from saying any more. Then Rhea began to glare as well and I walked over to him. “How dare you think that we had any hand in this!” I yelled. “Do you honestly think that we would, or could, do something like this to our best friend. I’m glad she hates you now because if you can’t trust her friends, then that’s just another way of saying you can’t trust her! And I don’t think that Ami needs someone who can’t trust her. And I see she can’t trust you either,” I told him, gesturing towards Melinda. I kicked him in the shin with as much force as I could—which was a lot—and walked away towards Megan and Rhea. “You three are crazy!” he yelled after us. “I’m glad she hates me because I can’t stand being around you or the other two. You’re insane!” I turned on him and smiled. “Thank you.” Rhea mockingly bowed and Megan curtsied and we went off. If only Ami had been there to see us standing up for her. Then maybe, things could have been different.

The next day something entirely unexpected happened. I opened my locker and was about to put my bag in when I noticed a note taped to the back wall. It was folded in half so that I had to open it to see what was inside. Pulling it off the wall, I read its contents.

Maura,

You are the most traitorous bitch I’ve ever met in my life. I hope that you know this. I don’t know what I ever did to you to deserve this. I never expected you to do this to me. You deserve to be tortured until you break down and go insane and so I will give you what you deserve. I’m doing this for your own good by the way. You would much rather have me punish you than karma. I’ll tell you that. If you want to stay sane and become friends again, then you had better come at me on bended knee, apologizing like there was no tomorrow.

Your ex-best friend,

Ami Lee

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