Chapter One
I stared out of the window, looking at the trees as they passed by and the stormy grey sky. The surrounding landscape had changed a few minutes ago. We were no longer in the city but in a place a little more suburban. A little more rural than I liked.
A band of birds flew through the air. They made their way out of the storm-what I had hoped to avoid, but nothing this year had gone like I wanted it to. I watched the thick black mass of birds move further and further away from us until they were a black dot in the sky.
The sketchbook, a twenty-year-old brown leather notebook, sat patiently on my lap. I always kept it with me.
I didn’t know how long we had been on the road. It felt like an eternity, although it was probably only thirty minutes. Moving from Boston to Salem wasn’t a big move as far as location, but it was big for me. I was moving away from the place where I had grown up. The only place I had known. The place where all my friends were. I knew this move would be life-changing. For a split second, I wanted this move, a fresh start would be good, but that didn’t last long.
I pulled my phone from my bag and checked for messages. There was nothing. Not one text goodbye or safe travels or even a heartwarming meme. I sighed. I guess I was already forgotten about.
Suddenly, the sky darkened. The clouds seemed to cover the entire sky in a dark blanket. At first, the raindrops came down lightly in random spots on the windshield, but then the drops got heavier and steadier. Before long, the rain was pouring down like shower water.
This was definitely the worst time to move. Although we already had the movers bring the bulk things like the furniture and bedding, we would get soaked from moving all the bags and boxes that we had packed.
I looked down at my sketchbook. I had managed to outline the picture of a young girl around my age. With dark hair. So far, her face was blank, like the canvas behind her. I hadn’t sketched her features yet because they hadn’t come to mind. I remember dreaming of this girl, but I wasn’t quite sure of how exactly she looked. In my dream, what stood out to me was her hair and her clothes. She was Puritan. I didn’t know why, but something about her image spoke to me. Enough to where I had to draw a picture to get her out of my mind. That’s how it worked with me. Whenever I pictured an image, I had to draw it, or else it would haunt my dreams.
After a few minutes, the clouds darkened even more to where they now formed one large gray mast, and the thunder roared. Lightning struck in the distance. The rain began to fall harder. Droplets covered the windshield in heavy thuds.
Once the rain eased and the car stopped, my attention diverted to what was in front of me. The house looked very much like it belonged in Salem. It was an old New England Colonial two-story home. The sloped roof, chimney, carved shingles, and windows were against a flat face. It was set at the end of a long driveway.
I was tempted to jump out of the car and run back to Boston, but something inside of me refused to do that. I needed to show her that I could handle this. I needed to show her that I wasn’t as fragile as she thought. So, with slow, deliberate movement, I opened the door and stepped out on the driveway. I pulled the hood of my raincoat over my head and started up the wet driveway.
Snap.
I spun around and looked for the noise.
There was nothing behind me, so I heaved a sigh of relief. It was probably just a bird…or a squirrel.
Just as I turned back around, a head popped out from the bushes that lined the edge of the driveway. I jumped back and screamed before realizing what it was. A black cat. It wiggled out of the bushes. The cat meowed and crept over to me, slowly rubbing its back against my leg.
“See?” my older sister, Andrea, said. Her straight black hair was wet, and some of it stuck to her cheek. “Made a friend already.”
I tried to think of something sarcastic to say, but I still hadn’t caught my breath from being frightened. I reached down and petted the kitty on the head, swallowing a massive gulp of air. It purred underneath my touch. “Can we keep it?”
“Sure,” Andrea said. Her gaze went down to the sketchbook that was pressed against my chest. She smiled slightly. “Got something?”
I nodded.
Andrea has always been interested in my drawings. Even when we were younger. She was the oldest (by ten years), but she would still seem interested in what I would draw. I would draw pictures while she sat on the bed. She claimed that she didn’t understand how or why I did it. Why I needed to draw pictures.
When I was eight, she went off to college. When she would visit, I would try to teach her, but she couldn’t be helped. Her drawings were hideous. She had other talents though. Writing. Even though I would never admit it to her, she was my personal hero. She was inspiring. Andrea was able to be a full-time author, which not many people can afford to do. Plus, there weren’t many black women doing it either. Well, biracial, to be exact.
“What were you drawing?” she asked.
“I’ll show you later, okay?” I said.
Andrea nodded and yawned.
I looked up at the house.
There was a soft light coming from one of the upstair’s rooms.
“Shitty realtor,” Andrea commented and then started up the driveway.
I followed behind her. I thought it odd that the realtor would have forgotten to turn the lights off to the house, but I guess it could happen. I wouldn’t have wanted to pay for that electric bill though.
Even with another outburst looming, I couldn’t help but notice how pretty Andrea was. We looked nothing alike. Except for maybe the straight black hair, but even that was slightly different. My hair was curlier.
“Wait,” I said to her, stopping her. Andrea looked back at me. Even her brown eyes were lighter than mine. Her brown skin too.
“What?” she asked, staring at me.
I glanced at the light. Except it was gone. Andrea followed my gaze. We waited a few more seconds to see if the light turned back on. It didn’t. Andrea turned back around to face me. I swallowed hard.
What was that about? Was someone up there? If not, then how did it turn off? Neither of us wanted to say it aloud.
But we were thinking it.
Andrea pursed her lips together. I could tell she was a little nervous. She swiveled back around and marched silently through the yard. I followed her. Unfortunately, the fall meant that the days were getting shorter. The ground was wetter. The air was colder. The nights were darker.
We walked up the porch steps, and I waited as Andrea dug the keys out of her pocket. But before she could get the keys, the door suddenly creaked and opened slightly as if a draft were pushing it.
“Uh…” Andrea was speechless.
“Maybe that was the realtor too,” I remarked.
Andrea shot me a look.
***
Several boxes later, we had the attic filled with our things. Our brand-new cat seemed to have made himself at home. Or her. I couldn’t tell yet. It was already curled on top of one of the boxes, sleeping. After the last box, the downpour started again. We decided to explore.
“Home sweet home,” Andrea said dramatically, outstretching her arms as if she was showing off a prize.
I rolled my eyes and walked to the door that was to the left of the living room that led into the kitchen. I stopped and looked around. It was like I had stepped back into the 17th century. The kitchen was small. There weren’t many cabinets but plenty of shelves. There was an enormous window on one side and a rectangular wooden table in the middle. A fireplace. Luckily, the kitchen included modern things like a stove, a sink, and a refrigerator. I raised an eyebrow at the sight of white plates already set out. If it hadn’t been for the dust that was gathered on top, I would have thought someone was already living here.
“They must have forgotten some things,” Andrea said, walking to the refrigerator. She opened it and immediately shrieked at whatever was inside.
“What is it?” I asked, walking up behind her to peer inside. I almost gagged at the rotten smell. Covering the leftover food were piles of bugs, dead and alive.
“Ew,” Andrea groaned as one of the live bugs dropped onto the floor. She stomped on it, and I could hear the crunch underneath her feet. I shuddered. Hatred for bugs was one thing we had in common.
I walked away from the refrigerator and over to the big window that overlooked the backyard. The backyard was a decent size and surrounded by a wooden fence. An old wooden swing hung in between two giant oak trees.
I turned back with a sarcastic comment about how Andrea must have paid a fortune for this run-down house, but Andrea had disappeared. Suddenly, cool air seemed to fall over me, and I rubbed my hands over my arms to warm myself up. This house was freezing.
“Andrea?” I called out to her.
“Upstairs,” I could hear Andrea’s muffled voice from out of the kitchen.
A strange feeling suddenly came over me, and I didn’t feel so comfortable being alone anymore in the kitchen. I hurried out and up the stairs to where the bedrooms were. I found Andrea in the largest one.
“This house is so modern,” I said sarcastically. “Everything looks right out of the 1700s.”
Andrea gave me a look. “That’s because it is. Older even.”
“What?” I asked.
Andrea sighed. “This was one of the original homes of the town. Restored, of course.”
“Restored, my ass,” I muttered.
Andrea shot me a look. “Language!” I bit my lip to keep from smiling. “Some of the furniture is original as well.”
“And you rented this place?” I asked her.
“Uh, yeah,” Andrea said as a matter of fact. “It’s historic.”
“It’s crappy,” I said to her.
“Just think about the history. Can you imagine what could have happened here?” Andrea asked with a glimmer in her eye. That only meant one thing. She was inspired. No use trying to stop her, but I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t at least complain about it.
“Yeah, I can,” I said, nodding. “They probably hung women in the backyard. I bet we can find their bones if we dig deep enough.”
“Really, Maya?” Andrea asked, giving me a look. “Stop being dramatic. We’ll only be here a few months. We’ll find a permanent place once I finish the book,” Andrea walked out of the bedroom. “Go pick your bedroom. This one is mine.”
I scoffed. Of course, she would pick the biggest one and the one with the best view.
I looked around the room. A thin layer of dust covered the floor, and spiderwebs were in the corner. I shuddered again, and just like the kitchen, the room went cold. I didn’t know how to explain it or what it was that I was exactly feeling, but I didn’t like the place. Hopefully, Andrea would hurry and write her book.
Chapter Two
I was in the back right corner of the art studio, sitting against the wall. I was eating a granola bar that I had packed in my bag before leaving the house. I wanted more food but didn’t want to leave the room.
I had done this every lunch period since I went to my new school, and I was always alone. I was completely okay with being alone. This was my silent protest against the move, but I wasn’t suffering. I wanted to be completely invisible to the entire student body. That way, no one bothered me.
But today, there was a knock on the door.
“Maya?”
Unfortunately, I was not invisible to my art teacher, Mr. Westfield. His tall shadow looked over me.
“Why aren’t you in the cafeteria, Miss Caggiano?”
I stood up from the floor and grabbed my bag. “I don’t like Taco Tuesdays.”
Mr. Westfield gave me a look. Despite his ordinarily stern expression, I could tell he was secretly amused. I hadn’t been here that long, but Mr. Westfield was my favorite teacher so far. It wasn’t because he was the art teacher or because he was young. It was because he was nice to me. Besides some questions about what I learned at my previous high school in Boston, the other teachers basically ignored me. Mr. Westfield didn’t. None of my previous art teachers liked my depressing emo sketches. He did. “Go eat something.”
“Why? I’m not hungry.”
“Well, I’m obligated to see that you get your lunch provided to you,” As he spoke, Mr. Westfield adjusted the orange bow tie around his neck. It was day one of Halloween Month. Not surprisingly, Halloween was a big deal around here in Salem. Figures.
We walked out of the art room and away from the other classrooms. I looked back longingly as the door to the art room drifted further and further away from view. I could only guess where Mr. Westfield was taking me. The noise was too loud for me. I could already feel the stares on my back. And I knew exactly what everyone would be thinking about me.
I sighed. “I’m tired of people staring at me.”
The reason people stared at me was because of my sister. She was a famous horror author, so I hadn’t really needed to make too much of an introduction. Most people here already knew who I was.
But Mr. Westfield didn’t see that as a problem. “Ah,” he said, stopping. He looked at me. “Maybe if you got to know some of the other students, they wouldn’t stare so much.” I gave him a look back. “Why don’t I forget I saw you and you head toward the cafeteria?”
That was code for “I won’t tell the principal for the umpteenth time how you’ve been skipping everything except my class if you would just suck it up and go eat in the cafeteria.”
I raised an eyebrow at him. He gave me an encouraging smile.
We started down the hallway to the cafeteria.
“How long have you been here now, Maya?”
“Two weeks,” I said.
“Three weeks,” he corrected me. “And you haven’t made a friend yet.”
I didn’t see why that was any of his business. Was that such a bad thing? I had friends at my old school back in Boston.
“I get it, Miss Caggiano. I lost my mother when I was young too.”
Awkward silence.
I bit the inside of my jaw. Somehow, his situation was no worse or better than mine.
He sighed as we started walking again. “I can see your potential, Maya. Your work is good. You can get into Pratt if you work harder.”
Then he started lecturing me about how I’m responsible for my future and how I could be the next great artist if I work hard enough. I nodded, but I was only half listening. Now I was thinking about my parents.
We reached the cafeteria.
The entire lunchroom was packed. High school students, ranging from fidgety freshmen to seasoned seniors, turned to look at us. I held my head high and tried to avoid the stares.
“If you need to talk, you know where to find me, Maya,” Mr. Westfield said quietly beside me.
I had never been the new girl before, so I wasn’t sure what to do. I didn’t really have a welcoming smile and wasn’t into being fake. I walked over to the lunch line and grabbed a brown paper sack full of food. The edges of the paper sack cut my thumb a little, and a tiny sliver of blood appeared.
I swore under my breath. The paper cut stung, but at least I was near a stack of napkins. They sat next to the utensils bin, but a guy in front of me was blocking it.
“Excuse me,” I said. The guy turned around. He was cute in a ‘don’t really have to try way.’ His dark brown hair was messy, and he wore a wrinkled t-shirt. It’s like he just rolled out of bed. Hot. I motioned to my bleeding finger. “Can you hand me a napkin, please?”
“Sure,” the guy said, grabbing a few napkins from the stack. He smiled at me, and I almost melted.
“Looks like you need a Band-Aid,” said a girl behind me, and I turned. She had brown hair cut short like a boy’s and black glasses without any lenses. She wore a button-down shirt with suspenders.
“Yeah,” I said as a matter of fact.
“What’s up?” the boy asked. The way they looked at each other. They were friends, or at least they knew each other well enough.
“Casey and Oscar found a table near the back,” she said to him, reaching into her pocket.
“Okay, cool,” the guy said, running his hand through his hair, leaving it even messier than before.
“You should come sit with us,” the girl said, handing me a clear bandage. “We noticed you’re new.”
I snorted. “Yeah…obvious, huh?”
“It’s fine,” the girl said and reached out her hand for me to shake. I stared at her, not because I didn’t want to shake her hand, but because one hand held a paper bag and the other was bleeding. The girl suddenly pulled her hand away and blushed. “Right. Sorry.”
“It’s okay,” I said to her. “I’m Maya, by the way.”
“Taren,” she said.
I looked back at the guy, and he smiled again. “Nick.”
She motioned for me to follow her. “Come on.”
I followed her. Nick was close behind. Taren steered me towards the back of the cafeteria at a table where another guy and a girl were sitting.
“Everyone, this is Maya. Maya, this is Casey.” Taren pointed to the girl wearing a pretty powder blue dress. She had long blonde hair, a full round face, and wide eyes.
“Hi!” Casey said, smiling.
“And this is Oscar.” Taren motioned to the Hispanic guy with curly black hair.
“Sup,” he said, nodding his head and stuffing the rest of his sandwich into his mouth.
I sat down next to Nick. Taren took a seat across from us next to Oscar.
“So your sister is really Andrea Caggiano?” Casey asked enthusiastically.
“Calm down, Case,” Taren said to her. “I don’t think meeting a crazed fan will put her mind at ease.”
Casey gasped in mock embarrassment. “I’m not a crazed fan.” Casey grinned nonetheless. “I just love your sister’s books.”
“Thanks,” I said to her. Casey’s smile widened, and she leaned over Oscar, sticking her tongue out at Taren. Oscar reached down and kissed Casey on the side of her face.
I raised an eyebrow. “You’re together?”
Casey leaned back and nodded. “Yep, since the 8th grade.”
Taren rolled her eyes but smiled. “Lovebirds.”
“Hey, that used to be us,” Nick said, laughing at Taren.
“Us?” I interrupted. I could have sworn by how Taren was dressed that she wasn’t particularly into guys. “I thought…”
“That I was gay?” Taren blurted out. I blushed from embarrassment, but Taren chuckled. “I am.” Taren glanced at Nick and gave him a warm smile. He smiled back. There was something genuine between the two of them.
I was confused, but before responding, students around us fell silent.
“Can I have your attention, everyone?” a voice asked.
“Will she just let this shit go?” Taren mumbled, rolling her eyes.
I turned around to see a dark-haired girl standing in the middle of the cafeteria.
“I’m Debbie Mathers, as most of you know,” she continued in her valley girl voice. “And it’s almost time for the annual Pumpkin Festival. I will be collecting raffle tickets later to raise money for the event, and I will be collecting canned goods for the homeless. May the Lord bless you.”
Students around us started to clap. It surprised me how captivated this girl seemed to have the audience.
Taren turned around and made a gagging sound.
“Hey,” Nick muttered. “She’s not that bad.”
Taren acted as if she was choking herself. I laughed.
“Come on, Taren,” Casey said. “She’s entertaining, to say the least.”
“It’s just what the town needs. More religious freaks. So cliche,” Taren said.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, religious freaks are the reason for the Salem Witch Trials,” Taren said. “If it weren’t for them, this town wouldn’t be infamous.”
“Wait, I thought being infamous was a good thing,” Oscar said with a sly grin.
“Yeah, whatever,” Taren muttered, but the way that Taren stared at Debbie. There was more to the story.
I watched as Debbie turned to walk away, bumping into a girl with velvety chocolate skin and braided hair that fell to her hips. To say she stood out was something, considering I was a Black/Italian girl sitting with a lesbian and a Hispanic. I wrinkled my nose as I realized that this school wasn’t nearly as diverse as the ones in Boston were. The four of us were the only ones I could see in the cafeteria that were visibly different.
The girl froze and lowered her eyes. Debbie seemed to tense at the sight of her and pushed past her slightly as she walked out of the cafeteria. Not very Christian like if I do say so myself. The girl sat at an empty table near the corner of the cafeteria.
“Remember last year’s Pumpkin Festival?” Oscar asked out of the blue.
I turned back around to see the others glance at him nervously.
“Creepy as hell,” Nick said. “Can’t forget it.”
“What happened?”
Casey pointed her fork at the dark-skinned girl. “That’s Jocelyn Wooding. Debbie hates her.”
“Why?”
“There are rumors about Jocelyn,” she said. “Strange ones.”
“Like what?”
“Last year, Debbie ran for Pumpkin Queen. She had her pictures plastered all over the place. She even had this big billboard thing that she managed to get hung up in the town square,” Taren said. “The billboard caught on fire one day.”
“Okay…and?”
Taren shook her head as if she wasn’t finished with the story. “Debbie got burned that same day. Got a big burn scar on the back of her shoulder.”
I furrowed my eyebrows together in confusion because I still wasn’t getting it.
“They think Jocelyn did it. Everyone said they saw her staring at the billboard that day like she was in some sort of trance,” Nick said.
“And earlier this year, a bunch of girls say they heard Jocelyn chanting in the bathroom,” Casey finished.
I raised an eyebrow at them. “What are you saying?”
“They think Jocelyn is a bruja,” Oscar said.
“But she’s not,” Taren replied.
Although I took Spanish during my freshmen and sophomore year back in Boston, I didn’t need to be an expert to know what Oscar was saying.
A rumored witch in Salem, Massachusetts. Of course.
Chapter Three
Back in Boston, I had a life. I had best friends. I even had somewhat of a boyfriend. Although I wasn’t popular in school, people knew me because of my sister. She had made it big, and I was the little sister to a celebrity. I didn’t mind. I always was a troublemaker, so teachers took it a little easy on me because of her. They let me get away with anything when my parents died.
I’d always assumed that my parents would be around forever, but the accident happened at the end of my sophomore year.
May 15 will forever go down in history. I was in the principal’s office at the time. One of the custodians had caught me putting graffiti on the bathroom wall. Not that it wasn’t unusual, but people weren’t usually caught in the act of doing it. I just so happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time and had skipped class too.
I couldn’t help myself. I loved to draw. Ever since I was a kid, the only thing I ever wanted to be was an artist. I wanted my work to be shown everywhere, even if that meant the bathroom walls.
I had been sitting in the principal’s office, waiting for my parents to come pick me up. I was told I’d be suspended for the rest of the school year, which I didn’t mind. Of course, my parents would kill me, but at least I had made a statement. Punishment is always well worth it when you make a statement. Good trouble. Plus, I only went to school for art class, and it just so happened that my art teacher was out on maternity leave, so I really didn’t have a purpose there anyway.
I’d been sitting there for what felt like hours. It was second period when I had been caught, and it was close to fifth period when Andrea rushed into the office. I hadn’t seen her in months. She didn’t live with us and was always on book tours. It’s not like we were close anymore anyway. Once she became famous, we rarely saw one another except for Christmas and Thanksgiving.
But there she was with the principal close behind her.
That’s when she insisted that I come with her. For a second, I thought she had used her celebrity status to get me out of trouble, but it wasn’t that. The principal had a sad look on his face, and I knew there was something more.
It wasn’t until we went to the car that Andrea told me what had happened. A drunk driver had killed our parents, who had been on their way to pick me up from school to start my suspension…
That was when my panic attacks began. My therapist said it was normal and to be expected. Also, it was partly caused by my feeling of guilt. If I hadn’t been painting the stupid bathroom wall, then I would have never gotten in trouble. I would have never gotten sent to the principal’s office, and my parents would have never been called. It was my fault they were dead. Over the summer, the therapist made me feel somewhat less at fault, but it was my fault.
I was different after that. I was the type of girl who was wearing all black with spiky collars and crazy-streaked hair. But it was getting to be too much effort to be that girl, plus my parents always hated it. They wished I looked more like Andrea. Neat. Preppy. Intelligent. Used artistic skills in less destructive habits. I owed it to them to change, so I did. No more black clothes. I threw away the spiky collars. I let the pink streaks grow out of my hair. I still wasn’t Andrea neat, but I didn’t dress like an emo anymore. Now I usually wear jeans, a t-shirt, and a pair of converse.
***
After being escorted around the building by Taren, who was my designated “guide,” I stopped by my locker.
As Taren gave me tips for surviving Salem High School, Debbie, the Jesus lover from the cafeteria, walked up to us. She smiled at me. I noticed how pretty she was. She had bright blue eyes, and her hair had movie star-level volume. She looked perfect. Ugh.
“Hi!” she said to me, holding a textbook against her chest. “You’re new, right, Maya?”
“Yeah,” I said, surprised that she knew my name.
“Debbie.” She pointed to Taren. “Are you helping her?”
“Yeah?” Taren said.
Debbie gasped and placed a hand on her heart. “Oh no.” She looked back at me. “I would be happy to help you around. We have amazing student clubs. I would love to see you-”
“Back off, Debbie,” Taren said. “Why would you want to be around someone like her anyway? You know what kind of books her sister writes, right?”
Debbie narrowed her eyes at Taren and clenched her jaw. I guess Debbie didn’t appreciate horror.
“Exactly,” Taren said. “She’s good.”
“Is she though?” Debbie asked. “I just want to ensure we expose her to the right things in school. Not the wrong ones.”
They glared at each other. I was feeling very awkward being between the two of them.
“Am I a ‘wrong’ one, Debbie?” Taren asked.
Debbie snorted. She pulled out a pamphlet and handed it to me. “I wanted to give you this. We meet once a week on Thursdays. Hope you come see us sometime.”
“Oh,” I said as I read the pamphlet. The religion club. “Uh, thanks.”
She looked at Taren and wrinkled her nose. “God bless you.”
We watched as Debbie walked away to join a group of girls and guys who looked equally clean cut and perfect.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Taren said. She scoffed and rolled her eyes. “I hate her.”
I laughed. Taren took the pamphlet from my hand.
“This is bullshit. That’s no religion club. Just a club where Debbie pushes her inconsistent Christian lifestyle,” Taren said, balling up the pamphlet in her hand. She threw it, hoping it landed in the trashcan across the hall from us. Instead, it landed on the floor near the trashcan just as Jocelyn walked past.
Jocelyn stopped and looked at us. She gave us a small smile. I looked at Taren to see that she was smiling back. Jocelyn picked up the balled-up pamphlet and opened it a little. She bit back a smile and then threw the pamphlet in the trash. She walked off.
I looked back at Taren to see huge rosy patches had flooded her face. So her and Jocelyn were…
“Let’s go,” Taren muttered, embarrassed that I had caught her.
***
Taren and I were on our way to history class when my chest began to tighten. I could feel my breath shorten. I started to grow dizzy, and I stopped.
“You okay?” Taren asked, watching me with concerned eyes.
“I’m fine,” I said, struggling to act like everything was okay when clearly it wasn’t.
And just like that. I was on the floor, struggling to breathe. The hall was closing in around me, and I backed myself into the lockers. I held my head down and tried to catch my breath. For a second, I thought I was alone. I began to hear voices all around me, and I came back.
Taren was crouched to my left, and Mr. Westfield was on the right.
I closed my eyes, and the pounding in my head started.
“Hey,” Mr. Westfield said. “You had a panic attack.”
I opened my eyes and hurried to get up. Shit. That did not just happen in front of everyone.
“Whoa,” Mr. Westfield said, steadying me as I stood up. “Easy.” He was being really annoying. I didn’t need his help. He was drawing more attention to me than I wanted.
I squinted. “I’m fine.” His talking, which sounded much louder than it probably was, worsened my headache.
“Alright, to the clinic,” Mr. Westfield said, placing one hand on my arm to keep me from falling. I moved away from him. Mr. Westfield was my favorite teacher, but I didn’t need his help again.
“You want me to come?” Taren asked.
“Maya will be fine,” Mr. Westfield said. “Go ahead to class.”
“But…”
Mr. Westfield cut her off. “I got it.”
Taren rolled her eyes and walked down the hallway toward the history class. I looked at Mr. Westfield, who was waiting for me. Apparently, there was no getting him out of helping me to the nurse.
“You don’t have to help me,” I stated. “I can get there myself.”
Mr. Westfield sighed. “You and your sister are just like alike, huh?”
“What?”
“Nothing,” he mumbled under his breath.
If my head wasn’t pounding, I would have been more curious as to how he knew me and my sister were as stubborn as can be.
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Charity Williams 