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  “Midnight in a Perfect World” hovered over me with a stack of papers in his hands. His eyebrow was raised in an unnaturally high arch, and he stared at me with a mix of annoyance and amusement. I shrugged and gave him a half smile.

  He sighed heavily, deciding whether to send me to the office for my little joke or leave it alone. It was obvious he knew why I was wearing the jumpsuit. I was trying to be tough. He didn’t want to embarrass me, but he also couldn’t let other students think they could pull this kind of bullshit in his class. Oh, what to do?

  “Cadence, you probably wanna go change,” he suggested softly.

  Oh my God! He remembered my name!

  I blushed fiercely and looked down at my desk. Suddenly I felt irrationally angry and defiant. I don’t know why. I should have felt flattered that he remembered my name. But I wasn’t. I was pissed that he suggested I change. Why should I? I was only wearing a present that some nice bitches left in my locker. What was so wrong with that?

  I shook my head and looked up at the teacher. “I’m okay, actually.”

  Converse All Stars clenched his jaw and narrowed his eyes. He wasn’t expecting that response.

  “Okay,” he said patiently. “Not really a suggestion.”

  I locked eyes with him. His were a steely blue. Almost completely gray, actually. Smoky, sensual irises that could teach me everything I needed to know about math and love and beauty and sex. And how the world was created. And how gravity works. And how chemicals react. And how—

  “Did you hear what I said?” he asked.

  “I heard you,” I replied, distracted by my thoughts. I shook my head. “I don’t wanna change. It’s a present, see? It was left for me in my locker this morning. I wanted to wear it to show my appreciation.”

  The girls stopped giggling. They knew I’d gone too far. Arguing with a teacher on the first day of school. Big mistake.

  And just like that, the humor playing on Converse All Stars’ face disappeared. Five minutes of his precious teaching time had already been eaten up by my jumpsuit, and I could tell he feared losing complete control of his classroom. The fear was unfounded, though. No one was making a sound. They were all listening intently to our civil disagreement about my outerwear. I think they hoped it’d turn into a screaming match.

  “Go to the bathroom and change,” he ordered.

  “I don’t think there’s anything in the student handbook that says we can’t wear jumpsuits with spray painted numbers on them,” I replied. Why was I being such a royal pain in the ass?

  He walked to the first row closest to the door and started handing papers to students to pass back.

  “Cadence, leave my classroom!” he roared. “And when you come back, I better not see you wearing that ridiculous jumpsuit! You’re not in juvenile hall anymore!”

  An audible gasp filled the room. I was shocked, too, and felt the instant hot tears. I thought it wasn’t right that he yelled at me. He knew me from Highway 28, so he shouldn’t have yelled at me. He should have understood that I couldn’t let the bullies win. But he yelled, and so they won.

  My skin prickled with embarrassment, and I gathered my books quickly, sliding out of my desk and pushing past him for the door. I was pissed that a tear sneaked out of the corner of my eye, and I hoped he didn’t see.

  I hid in the girls’ bathroom on the second floor of the school building for the rest of first period crying my eyes out, breaking my first and most important survival rule. I made sure to keep the orange onesie on while I blubbered. It helped with dramatic effect. I looked like a baby and sounded like one, too. And then I dried my eyes and remembered that I did a stint in juvie. I was supposed to be tough—a hardened shell with zero emotion. I drew in a deep breath, vowing to never cry again, not knowing at the time that I would break it that afternoon.

  I stripped off the jumpsuit and planned to take it home to show my father as evidence for why I should be homeschooled this year, but I decided it wasn’t worth it. I doubted it would change his mind, and then I didn’t want to risk seeing his indifferent reaction. That would hurt worse than the prank. I tossed the jumpsuit in the trash and left the bathroom at the sound of the bell.

  The rest of the day was uneventful barring the insults hurled at me every time I visited my locker between classes. Apparently I was a murderer, slut, bitch, drug addict, whore, crackhead, dyke, hooker, and Nazi fascist. When I asked one student what made me a Nazi fascist, she replied, “The fact that you’re a fucking whore!”

  Okay.

  I had no idea what that meant, and I had no idea why people were calling me a whore. Well, to be fair, not everyone was calling me a whore. A few students said hello to me instead of calling me names. In any case, what did being a whore (which I wasn’t) have to do with a convenience store robbery? I mean, sure, I made out with Dean before we robbed the store, but how many people could know that? And anyway, it was just making out. I was a virgin, and I thought that was obvious. I had one serious boyfriend last year before being carted off to juvie, and he touched me between my legs once. I made him stop because I was convinced I’d go to hell for it, and he broke up with me two weeks later.

  I noticed “Midnight in a Perfect World” never tried to find me at any point during the day, and I realized I’d have to visit him after school to learn what I missed in class. God, I hope they didn’t actually start a lesson. I was the worst at math and couldn’t afford to miss a sliver of class time. I didn’t plan on sticking around for more than five minutes, hoping he’d just shove the important papers in my hands and let me leave.

  “You missed a lot,” he said when I entered the classroom. He didn’t look up. I thought I was pretty quiet walking in, but apparently he heard me. Or maybe he’d been expecting me.

  “Sorry,” I mumbled. “I got caught up.”

  “Your zipper got stuck?” he asked, finally looking up from his desk. The intensity of his gaze knocked me back a step.

  “Huh?”

  “You said you got caught up,” he elaborated. “Did the zipper on your jumpsuit get stuck?”

  “Yeah,” I replied, feeling that defiance sneak back. “I had to ask around until I located some scissors to cut myself out of it.”

  He smirked. “Well, glad it all worked out for you.”

  I ignored his sarcasm.

  “Do you have any papers for me?” I asked. I checked my cell phone and realized I’d miss the bus if I didn’t leave in three minutes.

  “Yes,” he replied.

  I stood there waiting. He said nothing, turning back to his work.

  “Well?” I said.

  “Well, what?”

  “May I have them? I’ve gotta leave in, like, a minute or I’ll miss the bus.”

  “You take the bus home?” he asked.

  I huffed and nodded.

  “You’re a senior,” he said.

  “Yeah. The lamest one here. Now may I have the papers so I can go?”

  He handed over a stack of papers, and I shoved them inside my bag without looking. I turned to leave.

  “You might wanna grab a textbook,” he suggested. “There’s homework tonight.”

  I hurried to the back of the room and grabbed a green book off the table. I turned to my teacher and held it up.

  “Wrong one,” he said.

  I slapped it on the table and picked up a red one.

  “Nope.”

  “Will you just tell me what color it is?!” I cried, checking the time on my cell phone once more.

  “Blue. And it says ‘Calculus’ on it. You do know you’re taking calculus this year, right?”

  I wanted to strangle him. “I know how to read,” I snapped, and held up the book. I pointed to the title. “Who puts a title this small on a book?” and I shoved it in my bag.

  “I need to record your book number,” he said as I opened the classroom door.

  “Seriously? I’m gonna be late. Can’t we just do this tomorrow?”

  He answered my ques
tion with the homework assignment. “Pages eleven and twelve. Show me your work, or you don’t get credit.”

  “Okay.” I hesitated in the doorway for a millisecond before sprinting down the hall.

  I missed the bus. I watched it pull out of the parking lot just as I exited the building. I sputtered a string of curse words— including the “f” word, which I rarely ever say—as I plopped down on a wooden bench. I was in the middle of calling my mom when I promptly hung up. I realized I didn’t want my mom to pick me up. Nor my dad. I thought about Gracie, and then remembered that Gracie’s parents wouldn’t let her associate with me anymore. There was no one else. My younger brother wasn’t old enough to drive. He was old enough to be a complete jackass, but not old enough to drive.

  I hugged my book bag to my chest and stared ahead. I could walk the seven miles home. It would be good exercise, give me time to mull over my fantastic first day of school. I could hitchhike and hope against hope that a mass murderer would pick me up and help me disappear from the world forever. I could simply sit on this bench and see how long it would take my parents to find me. I wasn’t sure about that last one. They might leave me on the bench for days and days, and I’d never be able to recover from that.

  I watched “Midnight in a Perfect World” walk towards the faculty parking lot before catching sight of me. He paused mid-step, and decided to approach me. I tensed immediately.

  “You’re still here,” he said. His messenger bag was slung over his shoulder across his chest. He wore slacks and a collar shirt with a tie. Typical teacher wear except his clothes were fitted and stylish, and he sported the same red Converse All Stars he wore that day on the side of Highway 28.

  I nodded.

  “Did you miss the bus?” he asked.

  Obviously.

  I nodded again.

  He sighed and sat down beside me. I wasn’t expecting that and didn’t like it. It felt wrong.

  “I’m Mark Connelly,” he said, pulling his car keys from his bag.

  I smiled despite my agitation. I couldn’t help it. It was a smile that suggested a secret, and he noticed.

  “What?” he asked.

  I shook my head. “I’ve just been calling you different names today because I didn’t know your real name.”

  He smirked. “I’m afraid to ask.”

  “No, not anything bad or disrespectful,” I explained.

  “Glad to hear,” he replied. “So what have you been calling me?”

  I giggled and hugged my bag tighter to my chest. “It’s stupid.”

  “I bet it’s not. I bet it’s funny because you’re laughing,” he replied.

  I considered him for a moment. He stared at me with those stormy eyes, jangling his keys in his left hand.

  “‘Midnight in a Perfect World’ and ‘Converse All Stars’,” I said finally. And then I burst out laughing. I don’t know why. It wasn’t really funny, but something about it made me laugh. And he laughed, too. But I think he was laughing more as a reaction to my laughter and not his substitute names.

  I don’t know how long we sat there laughing, but something about that moment made me feel better. I knew this year would be nothing but shit, so I thought I had to seize any moment to feel good. I knew I would never feel happy. That was asking way too much.

  “I was wearing that shirt that day on Highway 28, wasn’t I?” Mr. Connelly asked.

  I nodded. “What does it mean? I’ve been curious about it.”

  “It’s a song, actually,” he replied. “A very favorite song of mine.”

  “What’s it like?”

  He stared off at a point just beyond my right ear and replied, “Perfect.”

  “Well, I guess that makes sense,” I said.

  “You should listen to it,” Mr. Connelly said. “You can listen to the whole song on Youtube.”

  I shook my head. “No can do on that one. I’m not allowed to get on the computer except to type papers.” I fidgeted with the zipper on my bag.

  “Oh.”

  “I’m not allowed to do much of anything,” I admitted. Cadence, do not dump on this poor guy. He may have yelled at you this morning, but that doesn’t mean he has to hear about your problems as punishment.

  “I see,” Mr. Connelly said. He didn’t press me. I’m glad because I would have been too tempted to tell him everything. Why I thought he would care, I didn’t know.

  “It’s just temporary,” I said, but I wasn’t convinced. In fact, I knew my dad planned to keep me off the Internet for the rest of my life. And never give me back driving privileges. And never allow me to date. And never let me do anything.

  Mr. Connelly furrowed his brows. “Cadence, I’m sorry for yelling at you this morning.”

  I was shocked and didn’t know what to say. I’d never had a teacher apologize to me before. I didn’t think they were allowed to.

  “It’s okay,” I mumbled.

  “Actually, no, it’s not,” Mr. Connelly replied. “It was wrong. And I understood why you wore that jumpsuit. Another reason I shouldn’t have yelled at you.”

  I thought for a moment. “I shouldn’t have argued. I should have done what you asked.”

  Mr. Connelly shrugged.

  “They wanted me to run to the bathroom and cry,” I said softly. “And I didn’t want to give them what they wanted. That’s why I wore it.”

  “I know.”

  I turned my face away. I thought about my parents who were so angry with me, had not forgiven me for my “big mistake.” That’s what they called it: the “big mistake.” I couldn’t draw sympathy from anyone for my pain and loneliness. It was pain for losing my best friend, losing the trust of my parents, losing my “good girl” standing at school. I didn’t realize how much I missed it—that I preferred to be regarded as a naïve virgin than what everyone was calling me now: a whore. I needed someone to feel sorry for me, and I knew Mr. Connelly did. I was greedy for sympathy and decided to make him feel guilty.

  “You did.”

  “I’m sorry?” Mr. Connelly asked.

  “You made me run to the bathroom and cry,” I said, hiding my face. And then I jumped up from the bench and started walking.

  I was embarrassed. Maybe that was a bad idea. It seemed far better in my head—saying those words out loud—but the reality was something entirely different.

  “Cadence,” I heard from behind. I cringed and picked up my pace. “Cadence, wait!”

  I kept walking as fast as I could, chin tucked protectively, eyes glued to the ground. I wouldn’t go back to school tomorrow. I could never return and face another day of bullying. I could never face him. I would run away. I’d pack a bag tonight, tear the house apart until I found the car keys Dad hid, and leave town. Just drive. Drive until I hit the ocean. Then drive the car into the ocean.

  “I’m sorry I made you cry!” Mr. Connelly said, jumping in front of me and forcing me to a halt.

  I looked up at him, eyes swimming with angry tears.

  “I feel terrible for it,” he said gently.

  “I’m not like one of those girls!” I cried, feeling the first tear sneak from the corner of my eye and slide down my cheek to betray my next statement. “I’m not, like, emotional all the time!”

  Mr. Connelly nodded.

  “I’m just having a bad thirteen months!” I sobbed. The tears were leaking now, and I blotted them with the backs of my hands. “And you didn’t help! You could have been nicer, you know? You could have just let me be! What they did was cruel, and I was just trying to make the best of it!”

  I watched as Mr. Connelly struggled with what to say and do. He almost looked like he wanted to reach out and hug me then remembered he was a male teacher and I was a teenage, female student. He opened his mouth then closed it. It was awkward watching him squirm in discomfort, and it made me cry harder.

  “May I please go?” I blubbered. I didn’t have a tissue. God, I hated crying! There was nothing pretty about it, and I was not going to stand there
and let my gorgeous math teacher see snot running from my nose.

  “How will you get home?” he asked, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and handing it to me.

  “What the hell. . .?” But I took the handkerchief because I was desperate to blow my nose. I turned my face and blew as quietly as I could. “What is this? Eighteen-ninety?” I asked, turning to face him.

  He chuckled. “I’m old school.”

  I balled the cloth in my hand. There was no way I was giving it back to him.

  “Old school, huh?”

  Mr. Connelly nodded.

  I shrugged. “Do you want this thing back?” I held up my fist, the cloth tucked securely and out of sight.

  Mr. Connelly shook his head. “Not just yet.”

  I didn’t know what that meant, or maybe he expected me to wash it first. I would definitely wash it first.

  “What do you say we start fresh tomorrow?” Mr. Connelly asked.

  I grunted.

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means we’ll see,” I replied.

  “Fair enough. Now, how will you get home?”

  “I’ll walk. I live two minutes from home,” I lied.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, Mr. Connelly. It’s fine.”

  He nodded and opened his mouth to say something, but then thought twice and closed it.

  It took me close to two hours to walk home, and I cussed the entire way. Seriously. I’d never said “fuck” so much in my life. And it felt so good. Fuck Crestview High. Fuck my parents. Fuck the jumpsuit. Fuck that judge who could have let me off since it was my first and only offense. Fuck Gracie for being a little bitch. Fuck Oliver for being my brother. Fuck Mr. Connelly? Hmm, no. He gave me his handkerchief, so I let him slide.

  I was drenched with sweat and out of breath when I finally walked through the front door of our house. Oliver was sprawled out on the couch in the living room watching an old Simpsons episode.

  “Where’ve you been?” he asked, eyes glued to the TV screen. “I didn’t see you on the bus.”

  I ignored him and walked to the kitchen, grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge, and downed the entire drink in a matter of seconds. Then I went straight to my bedroom and collapsed on my bed. So much for my plans to pack a bag and leave town. I didn’t have the energy to fold one shirt let alone drive for hours across multiple states.