need to understand how Iâve been tricking myself. I use what little energy I can muster, and then I close my eyes and focus.
When I open my eyes, itâs morning. Iâm no longer at home. Iâm standing in front of Jar Island High School, in the fountain. It must still be winter, because the water is shut off.
A bell rings in the distance. I walk to one of the heavy steel doors. Once the school day starts, the janitors lock them so outsiders canât get in. Itâs a security measure. Through the window I watch a few last stragglers sprint down the hallway to their classrooms.
If I were a real girl, a living girl, Iâd have to go to the main office and sign in at the front desk. But Iâm not. I pass through the door like itâs nothing. Like itâs air. And Iâm on the other side.
Iâve probably been doing that all along. Only I didnât let myself notice. I think back on the days I spent here this school year, going to classes I thought I was enrolled in, doing homework I thought was assigned to me. Even dreaming of where Iâd apply for college next year.
Except Iâm not a student here. I never was.
The clock says 10:35. If this were a normal day, Iâd be in Spanish class with Señor Tremont, so thatâs where I go.
Señor Tremontâs door is wedged open, so I walk right in. Heâs sitting on top of his desk. The fluorescent classroom lights are off, and he has a video going on the TV. Itâs a Spanish soap opera called El Corazón Late Siempre . It means âThe Heart Always Beats.â Señor Tremont normally has us watch an episode on Fridays.
Okay. Itâs Friday. And itâs winter. But January? February?
I have no idea.
I glance out at the room, at the desk where I used to sit. Itâs an empty desk in the back, one that was probably never assigned to anyone. I just sat there. I pretended it was mine. Just like I pretended I was alive.
Thatâs why whenever I raised my hand, Señor Tremont never once called on me.
Thatâs why I never got a report card sent home, or a test handed back, or my name up on the bulletin board.
No one could see me.
I feel so completely stupid.
A fiery anger begins to simmer inside me. I used to hate feeling angry. I used to fear it. Except now . . . it feels good. It feels like something.
I take a couple of steps so Iâm standing in front of the television, blocking everyoneâs view. But not everyone is watching the show. A few girls are whispering behind a notebook. Alex Lind has his forehead down on the desk, but I know heâs not asleep, because his left leg is bouncing up and down. Another kid is drawing black circles over and over again on the sole of his sneaker.
I open my mouth and scream. Scream as loud as I can.
And no one hears me.
Shaking, I press down on the channel buttons. I can actually feel them underneath my fingertips.
The channels start changing, and everyone in class snaps to attention.
âAy, diosmÃo,â Señor Tremont says. He stands up and comes over to the television with the remote. I move my hand to the power button and click the television off and on. âThis . . . I donât understand.â
Iâm laughing now; I canât help it. Señor Tremont looks so confused, and the rest of the kids do too.
And then, with every last bit of strength Iâve got left, I push my body into the television cart and knock the entire thing over. The screen bursts into a million pieces on the floor. And the crazy thing is that doing it doesnât make me feel tired. Itâs the opposite. It has filled me back up with energy.
Just then the bell rings. I walk out into the hallway like everyone else.
âMary?â
Her voice comes from far behind me, from the other end of the hallway.
Kat.
âYo! Mary!â
I take off, keeping my back to her, and then step through thedoor of the janitorâs closet and
When I open my eyes, itâs morning. Iâm no longer at home. Iâm standing in front of Jar Island High School, in the fountain. It must still be winter, because the water is shut off.
A bell rings in the distance. I walk to one of the heavy steel doors. Once the school day starts, the janitors lock them so outsiders canât get in. Itâs a security measure. Through the window I watch a few last stragglers sprint down the hallway to their classrooms.
If I were a real girl, a living girl, Iâd have to go to the main office and sign in at the front desk. But Iâm not. I pass through the door like itâs nothing. Like itâs air. And Iâm on the other side.
Iâve probably been doing that all along. Only I didnât let myself notice. I think back on the days I spent here this school year, going to classes I thought I was enrolled in, doing homework I thought was assigned to me. Even dreaming of where Iâd apply for college next year.
Except Iâm not a student here. I never was.
The clock says 10:35. If this were a normal day, Iâd be in Spanish class with Señor Tremont, so thatâs where I go.
Señor Tremontâs door is wedged open, so I walk right in. Heâs sitting on top of his desk. The fluorescent classroom lights are off, and he has a video going on the TV. Itâs a Spanish soap opera called El Corazón Late Siempre . It means âThe Heart Always Beats.â Señor Tremont normally has us watch an episode on Fridays.
Okay. Itâs Friday. And itâs winter. But January? February?
I have no idea.
I glance out at the room, at the desk where I used to sit. Itâs an empty desk in the back, one that was probably never assigned to anyone. I just sat there. I pretended it was mine. Just like I pretended I was alive.
Thatâs why whenever I raised my hand, Señor Tremont never once called on me.
Thatâs why I never got a report card sent home, or a test handed back, or my name up on the bulletin board.
No one could see me.
I feel so completely stupid.
A fiery anger begins to simmer inside me. I used to hate feeling angry. I used to fear it. Except now . . . it feels good. It feels like something.
I take a couple of steps so Iâm standing in front of the television, blocking everyoneâs view. But not everyone is watching the show. A few girls are whispering behind a notebook. Alex Lind has his forehead down on the desk, but I know heâs not asleep, because his left leg is bouncing up and down. Another kid is drawing black circles over and over again on the sole of his sneaker.
I open my mouth and scream. Scream as loud as I can.
And no one hears me.
Shaking, I press down on the channel buttons. I can actually feel them underneath my fingertips.
The channels start changing, and everyone in class snaps to attention.
âAy, diosmÃo,â Señor Tremont says. He stands up and comes over to the television with the remote. I move my hand to the power button and click the television off and on. âThis . . . I donât understand.â
Iâm laughing now; I canât help it. Señor Tremont looks so confused, and the rest of the kids do too.
And then, with every last bit of strength Iâve got left, I push my body into the television cart and knock the entire thing over. The screen bursts into a million pieces on the floor. And the crazy thing is that doing it doesnât make me feel tired. Itâs the opposite. It has filled me back up with energy.
Just then the bell rings. I walk out into the hallway like everyone else.
âMary?â
Her voice comes from far behind me, from the other end of the hallway.
Kat.
âYo! Mary!â
I take off, keeping my back to her, and then step through thedoor of the janitorâs closet and
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