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Pelkey. “She’s such a cool kid. She’s going to be amazing someday. She learns everything so fast.”
    â€œBut she’s stepping on your toes,” he said.
    â€œA little,” I admitted. I leaned down to look for his metal trash can to throw away my wet tissues, and he nudged it toward me with his foot.
    â€œI’m glad you shared all this with me. I want you to know I’m here for you anytime. I’m happy to listen. And I can also get you in touch with some people who can really help you if you think you need it.”
    Silence fell between us again. I knew what he meant. “I’m not sad like that,” I said. “I’m okay.”
    He nodded. I was just about to stand up, when he asked, “Can I give you a phone number?”
    It was a suicide hotline that he had written on a Post-it note preprinted with a picture of a German shepherd’s head. Oh my God. This did not just happen. My mind reeled. He actually thought I could do it. He was giving me a goddamn suicide hotline number. I bowed my head over it while my face burned. Wow, this was really heavy. What on earth could I say?
    â€œYou must have a dog,” I said inanely.
    â€œYes,” he said. “Betty. She’s eleven. Getting gray hairs under her chin.”
    â€œThat’s pretty old in dog years,” I said. I stood up. “Thanks for this. I don’t need it, though.”
    â€œI know,” he said. “It’s just in case. And you can talk to me anytime. I mean that.”
    I wondered if I was supposed to hug him. How often do teachers in a big high school like this bother to have such an intense conversation with a student? He truly cared about me, and that showed in every inch of his worried face looking up at me.
    Instead of a hug, I lightly touched him on the upper arm. Even that felt weird. “Thanks,” I said.
    â€œYou bet.”
    I mustered up the most genuine smile I could under the circumstances, and picked up my books from his desk. I’d have to go to the bathroom first, to make sure my face didn’t look like I’d been crying, before heading in to trig. If there had been a quiz, by now it was over.
    â€œI won’t read that story to the class,” he said. I turned back, surprised.
    â€œIt’s okay if you do,” I said. “It’s not a big deal.”
    I walked back across the classroom, feeling his eyes on my back. He thought it might be the last time he’d see me, before I went home and offed myself.
    â€œThanks, Mr. Pelkey,” I called when I opened the door, but I didn’t look back.
    Â 
    I opened my eyes.
    I was sitting on the floor of the den. Sheets of paper surrounded me in a fan shape. It was a perfect, deliberate crescent. Cramped handwriting covered every page.
    I gave a half scream and scrambled backward, as if the words were insects.
    Had I written all this? I didn’t even remember managing to pick out a pen, let alone getting the paper.
    I crawled back to look at what was surely the first sheet, the one on the far left.
    You invite me to write . . . well, I shall, it started.
    This wasn’t my handwriting. The letters were so tiny they were difficult to read. And . . . it looked like the old-fashioned kind of writing where s ’s were f ’s and grandiose flourishes marked each capital letter. While I was sitting here daydreaming, Madame Arnaud had manipulated my body, moving the pen to her own use.

    Apparently legend has soaked the countryside about my unholy appetite, she wrote. Half-toothed quarter-wits kneel by their firesides and tell the tale of Madame Arnaud . . . or perhaps there are no firesides anymore. From the glass tower atop the manor, I rarely see evidence of smoke wending upward on a crisp autumn twilight.

    It had actually happened. She had used my body. There was no way I could’ve written this myself. I swallowed hard. Had she used my right hand? That was the one I