Whispers.

Whispers spread through the school. Whispers speaking of something, no, someone, I realised. Whispers about students were not uncommon at the start of the school year, but these were different. Not a student, no, it was something else. What, I couldn't be sure.

Then I heard someone mutter "English 3".

English 3. That was my English classroom. At lunch, I asked Jack if he knew anything about it.

"Nope," he said, prodding the lump of meat they called 'lunch' at our school. "Maybe it's a new teacher. She could be young or something," he said, flashing his teeth at me.

This seemed like the most logical explanation. Last year there was a student teacher teaching Science. But she had left when rumours got around that she was in a relationship with one of the students. To tell the truth, it wasn't that surprising to most of us. St. Austin's College isn't exactly the best school in the UK. I had been going there for four years, ever since my dad and I moved here from America. It was a hard move, everything was so different here. But then I met Jack. He took me into his gang, I became one of them. After that, life was easier. They didn't bother with homework, so neither did I. They skipped class, so did I. They didn't try, so neither did I.

I'm not saying that this was how I wanted to be. It's just that in a world of peer pressure, it was so much easier just to let yourself be swept along. Fighting against it was like fighting a strong current. You may do it for a while, but the water will be cold around your body. You will be alone, fighting with no one by your side. Eventually, you give up, and sink into the murky depths. You forget who you are. If your friends like a certain type of music, so do you. If your friends hate school, so do you. If your friends lose their individuality, so do you. It's just the way things are.

I thought it was the way things would always be.

Until I walked into English 3.

By now, most of us were expecting a young, student teacher. What we saw shocked us.

She wasn't young, she wasn't old. She looked about in her mid-thirties, although she could have been older. Her wavy, sandy coloured hair was pulled off her face by a strip of bright pink cloth. She was wearing an old fashioned white blouse and a long, trailing, multicoloured skirt. She was about average height, about our height. Dozens of multicoloured bangles rattled on her arms, and a bright red choker with an emerald set in the middle of it was wrapped around her neck.

All in all, she was unlike anything we had ever seen before.

Instinctively we took our seats. I sat with the rest of the gang at the back of the room, the popular girls and tough guys always sit at the back. The quieter kids sit at the front, nearer the teachers desk. But now, I was almost regretting sitting further back. This new teacher was like an alien life form, a splash of colour in our dull world. She was grinning broadly at our class, something no teacher has ever done.

"Okay, well, I'm Miss Caraway, and I'll be taking you for English this year," she said. "now, I want to get to know each of you personally, so I'm going to call out each of your names and I want you to raise your hand, okay?" she said. "Katie Ashton?"

"Here," Katie said, raising her hand.

"Ignatius Borlock?"

I winced. I hate my name. Apparently my mother gave it to me. She and my dad weren't married, so when I was born she dumped me with him and ran off with his friend. Usually, I just shorten it to Iggy, or Ig.

I half heartedly raised my hand. "Here. And it's just Ig," I said. She was looking at me in a funny way, the smile gone from her face. Then she gave a small shake and looked down at the register again.

"Okay then, Ig it is. Amy Cassidy?" she said, her smile returning.

I tuned out, and stared into space. Well, I pretended to be staring into space, really I was staring at the back of Eva's head.

Eva Smith. She wasn't popular, she was quiet. She wasn't a nerd, her grades were average, it was just that she wasn't as confident as the more popular girls.

I had a major crush on her.

I scanned the back of her head, her long, golden hair fell in small waves down her back. She didn't wear much make-up, wasn't fussy with her hair. She didn't buy one-size-too-small school shirts to make them clingy, or hitch her skirt up too high. She wasn't like most of the others. And, for some reason I found that attractive.

Nobody knew. Because I knew that if they knew they would tell her, or tease me mercilessly. No, it was better just to admire her secretly, and hope that one day she would be mine.

I was broken out of my daydream by Miss Caraway's voice.

"Right, you can start this assignment in class, but I want you to finish it for homework," she said, starting to write something on the board. When she stepped away, I read it.

Anything at all.

I frowned, puzzled. Usually teachers gave us the start to essays, examples of how to write them, and how we should finish them. There was rarely any creativity involved. So this was something completely different.

She grinned at us. "Anything. From about yourself, to the planets, to politics, to the door that was painted a different colour today than yesterday - anything. Make up a story, write a poem, be creative. Let me get to know you through your writing," she said, sitting down on her desk.

We stared. We stared at her, we stared at each other. Finally, the normal chatter began, which increased to full out rowdiness. During this all, she just sat there, even started a conversation with one of the younger students, instead of telling us to shut up and get on with our work like the other teachers usually would.

When the bell went, we filed out of class in the normal manner - pushing, shoving and that sort of thing.

But, although I tried to act normal throughout the day, I felt like someone had hit me with a truck. I think we all felt it.

She was something different.

Something original.

We were in shock.

It couldn't be him.

She shuffled through her papers, trying to find a way to keep herself busy. He lived in America, she had moved to England eighteen years ago. It wasn't him. It couldn't be.

Besides, as far as she knew, he didn't have a son. He couldn't have… could he? Was he married? Did he have a family?

She shook herself. She was through living in the past. His second name was a coincidence, nothing more.

She distracted herself by going through documents. She picked up a pen to sign one of them. She could never really let go of the past, not as long as she kept her name. She hadn't changed it for almost twenty years now. But she liked it, it was who she was, it was her.

In a flourish, she signed it:

Stargirl Caraway