Page 22 of Burn

It’s been four days since the incident with Aaron in the bathroom, since Navaeh walked in on us. I wanted to tell someone that day, but who would believe me? I have no one to talk to or give me advice.

The hallways are deserted, everyone is already in class, and I’m again late. I stand between two sets of doors. To the left are stairs to the second floor. The office is just inside the second door, to the right. I worry at my bottom lip, shifting back and forth. When my eyes flick to the floor under me, I see how the water droplets drip off me and pool on the ground.

Maybe I should go home and get dry clothes.

Mr. Peters, our principal, walks past the door ahead of me, heading to the office. When he spots me loitering, he stops and slowly turns to look at me, a peculiar look on his face. He steps toward the door, opens it, and gestures for me to enter.

“Miss Donnelly,” he says in a stern but friendly tone. “Running a little behind this morning?”

I nod silently.

“Ah, hah,” he continues, “Didn’t want to use that umbrella in your hand I take it.”

I look toward the umbrella, then back to him. I don’t have it in me to explain, so I shrug.

“A woman of many words. Come on. Let’s see if we can find you something dry.”

I pry my feet free from their current rooted spot and slowly step through the door into the school’s main lobby. I don’t mean to do it, but I flinch when he gently puts a hand on my shoulder. He pulls his hand away, and his expression shifts into one of concern.

“Okay, okay,” he sounds softer. “Come on.”

I follow him toward the office. This morning, I decided school had to be better than home, but now I think I must have been out of my mind. I’ve played sick for four days. I’ve fake coughed so much that I’ve created this nasty barking cough that sounds like it emanates from deep in my chest. I’ve done it so much that my chest actually hurts. It was working. My mother allowed me to bundle up on the couch and sip soup, watching shitty daytime television likeWheel of FortuneandThe Price is Right.

However, last night, something shifted in my mother. She paced the kitchen, slamming cupboards and muttering under her breath. When I asked if she was okay, she shot me a bone-chilling look, bared her teeth, and shook her head before grabbing a cloth and scrubbing a spot on the table so hard and for so long that when I woke up this morning, I checked if there was a wear spot. There wasn’t.

This morning, my mother was singing and dancing in the kitchen and twirling around, flipping pancakes high in the air, with flour and batter everywhere. When she looked at me, she hollered out—in a manic, shrill voice,“You’re not gonna cry, are you? No. No. No. We are happy. Happy. Happy!”I decided that I was magically all better.

Twenty minutes later, I walked out the front door with an old, dilapidated umbrella and a backpack. I left early, figuring I would get to school and into class well before the bell to avoid seeing anyone in the halls. I wasn’t anticipating the dread thatwould sink into my veins with each step I took toward the property.

She didn’t even wish me a happy birthday.

When Mr. Peters and I enter the office, I’m lost in my thoughts, sinking into a dark cloud of self-pity. The secretary looks up from her desk and smiles, “Hello, Morgan, Mr. Peters. Running late, hmm?”

I nod, turning to approach the desk. Mr. Peters has other ideas.

“Morgan, would you please step into my office for a moment?”

My stomach drops. It drops so violently that I feel it in my toes. The secretary offers me a sad smile before returning to whatever she’s working on. I allow Mr. Peters to usher me into his office. When he closes the door behind us and signals for me to sit, my pulse skyrockets, and I break out in a cold sweat. I scan the room: one door in, one door out. I shift my attention to my principal. He looks to be in his late forties. He’s tall and in decent shape; he can control me physically if he wants to. My mind flashes back to the bathroom, to Aaron’s hand clamped down over my mouth, the way his hand pressed into my nose, nearly restricting my airflow altogether.

I drag my bag into my lap and place it in front of my chest, hugging it tight as my mind goes into overdrive. My hands tremble, and my chest feels like a vice wrapped tightly around it, restricting my ability to take a breath. At the same time, the edges of my vision blur and darken and start to spin. I wheeze and gasp, trying to pull in enough oxygen, but it’s useless.

Oh, my god. I’m going to die here.

A piece of me died that day, but the rest will expire here on the spot.

I’m so fucking stupid. I put myself in this situation again.

Registering the strong, warm hands wrapped around my shoulders takes me a moment. I look up, and Mr. Peters is crouched before me, worry evident in his expression. He sounds far away, talking through tin cans when he speaks.

“Morgan, breathe. Count to ten on your inhale.”

I’m going to throw up.

My bag is pulled out of my lap, and my hands scramble without it to anchor me. His hand moves onto my back and gently urges me forward.

“Put your head between your knees. Come on, Morgan,” he says.

What is he going to do to me?

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