I had an odd dream tonight. I was dancing; complicated steps with a whole lot of leaps and pirouettes. Anyway, I was dancing in front of a lot of mirrors, and there was a man watching me. In fact, there was a man, another man, and a girl. But I soon realized that they weren't watching me, they were dancing with me. In my dream I didn't like that. I wanted to dance alone, to be within myself. And I kept getting more and more frustrated that they weren't leaving. Didn't they get tired? Didn't they want to stop? It was an empty, dark, musky room, filled with a scent I didn't recognize. I heard clapping and cheering—it was mystifying me; there was no audience. I started dancing faster, trying to out-dance them, I suppose. But they matched pace with me, until I was so tired that I wanted to collapse. But there was a little voice in my head begging me to not give up. I didn't want to listen to the voice; I wanted to stop dancing. I was so tired. But I picked up my feet and danced even faster. I somehow knew that someday I would stop going faster, stop trying to beat the unbeatable. At that instant the doors flew open and light shown upon my sweaty, harassed face. There was a figure at the door, and it came to me—it embraced me. I felt safe and secure, I felt happy.

So happy…and then I awoke. I shook my head, frowning at the open curtains of my bedroom window. I had left them open the night before—stupid. It was my first day of school. A new school. Wasn't everything just peachy-keen? I rolled out of bed until my feet hit the floor, and started pulling on my jeans, trying to forget about the dream. I pulled on my yellow t-shirt—my lucky t-shirt—and a gray Paris hoodie. I jumped downstairs, grabbed my beige bag off of its hook in the coatroom, and walked into the kitchen to find a pile of dirty breakfast dishes waiting graciously in the sink. I sighed. Dad. He never washed dishes in the morning. I implored him to, but he always said he was busy. So I grabbed the bottle of soap off the counter, squirted it onto the nearest plate. I methodically scrubbed it, keeping my mind on the movement of the dishrag on china instead of what evidently needed to be faced. Dad had gotten me a car. Well, it was more of a hand-me-down. My cousin Patrick had had this car, but saved up money diligently to by something a little more…fancy. He had a beat up Corvette, but he was building up the parts. So I got his old Toyota. It was grey and had old white-walled tires—only God knows why those were there; his grandfather?—which I was planning on getting rid of as soon as I rolled those pretty tires over a bed of nails. Dad worked at a tool shop; maybe I could steal some nails. Idle thoughts, idle thoughts. Before I knew it, I had finished the dishes. I checked my watch: it was 6:45. Time to leave. Lovely. I sighed, shoved my hands into a paper towel, and tossed the soiled napkin into the waste basket. I locked the house door, and ran to my car. It was starting to drizzle. I passed a lot of tourists on the way to Fork's High School. No wonder; I lived—literally—in the Twilight zone. Ever since Stephenie Meyer created that wonderful, mystical book, people had been flocking to Forks, Washington, for as long as I could remember. The movie came out two years ago; maybe with the New Moon movie coming out, they'd flock somewhere else. Like Italy. It's supposed to be beautiful this time of year. Of course I wasn't in deep resentment of the Twilight fans, if the setting of it was in Florida, I'd come there, too. It had been cool to see a bunch of reporters and stuff come to the school, and take pictures, and Dad had been ecstatic about the property values going up; people were moving here. I found a decent parking spot, shut off the engine, and checked my watch. 7:17. I had at least 15 more minutes. I sat in my car, turned the engine back on, and pushed a CD into the slot. Three Days Grace filled the car—September followed them up. I listen to varieties. I used to like country, too. But not anymore. Not since—I heard a squealing of tires. I looked sharply to my right, and saw Mitchell Grover's car skidding. It had rained last night, and it had frozen over. We'd thought that the salt machines had gotten every inch of this parking lot. Apparently not. I fumbled with my seat belt buckle, trying to shut off my car engine in time. I had gotten the door open about a fraction of an inch when I felt the jarring impact. My head struck the glass window, and I saw no more. It was cold…

"Honey?" I heard my father's voice. That was strange. What was dad doing at school? It wasn't career day, was it? Ouch. I blinked, and opened my eyes. My father was standing over me, his shock of salt-n-pepper hair standing on end, his grey-green eyes alarmed. I tried to sit up. Dad's arm pushed me back down.

"Just stay down for now, okay? I don't know if you should get up; Dr. Chaplin will be here any minute." Dr. Chaplin? What was this? Oh…okay. Maybe I should stay down. All of a sudden a giggle bubbled to my lips. Dad looked even more concerned. With all those "stay down" things I felt like I should be petted on the head and be told "good girl". The mental image was what had brought on the giggle. The doctor came in, in time to see my leaving smile. He grinned back at me.

"Mr. Lingley, your daughter is absolutely fine. Just a small bruise. She got lucky. That kind of impact should've…" they got into talking technically. I didn't pay attention. I was too absorbed in putting on my shoes. And looking at the wall. The sun was shining in, shockingly. I guess the rain decided to let up for once. I checked my watch. It was 8:45. Joy. I could still go back to school. I wondered if Mitchell Grover was alright. Not that I knew him well, or anything, it was just that I had talked to him briefly over the summer, and some of his friends. Those people were all I knew. I had lived in upstate Washington, with Mum. My parents had split when I was ten. I'm sixteen. Wait a minute. The sun was shining directly into the window; there was nothing obscuring it's path. Then what was leaving a shadow…? I blinked quickly, and the shadow disappeared. Hm. Maybe Dr. Chaplin was faulty. I'm imagining things now. Wonderful. I kept looking, trying to see it again. It didn't appear. Yup. I was going crazy. I stood up, stretched, and shoved my hands into my hoodie. My head throbbed a little; I could feel a bruise starting to form. I need to stop going off on random tangents. Here I go again…

"Honey?" my dad asked, looking at me. I might have been talking to myself again. I used to do that, actually. My drama teacher said that it was healthy.

"Yeah, dad?"

"Do you feel up to going back to school, or staying home?" Hm. Should I skip? Yay or nay? I suppose…nay.

"I can go back to school. I wouldn't want to miss my first day!" I replied cheerily. Shockingly, Dr. Chaplin totally bought my cheery act. Dad? Not so much. He laughed and rumpled my hair.

"Alright, honey, I'll drive you back. I sent your car to the mechanics. It has a dent in one of the doors and a window was smashed." He told me, as we walked out of the door. A few minutes later, I was sitting in my physics class. My eyes were on the teacher, my ears on the lesson, and my heart thudding painfully. I was trying to ignore all the stares my classmates kept giving me. It wasn't easy. But, in my mind, I was still dancing.