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Chapter 1: Puzzle With a Piece Missing

I stretch and shift,

These parts won't fit,

I can chop and change all I like,

Rearranging this won't make it right ...

I've always hated high school.

The hallways smell like sweat and perfume, and the gossiping cliques spread their sneers like wild fire. Lectures drag on until your lids droop. Football jocks, high on their pride, parade the school like it's their domain, and they pump their fists because they think everyone else cares. Then there's the designer shoes, bags and jeans that pollute your already crowded vision. I roll my eyes, but I know I'm just jealous. Those girls are so pretty, and I'm just…me.

I hate it. I hate it all.

Which may explain why I press my face into the desk. I don't feel like bestowing myself to the shallow hell of high school—not my blemished skin, not my bruised eyes, and not my scowl. Definitely not my scowl; it's the most unpleasant of all, that crumpled line. It further drowns my lifeless complexion and, so far, has scared off any curious gazes. I've decided that's a good thing; socializing is the last activity I feel tempted to do. In fact, if I had a list of things that I did want to do, then I wouldn't include it. That's a guarantee.

So I'll hide. On the first day of my junior year, I'll fade into the composite surface of my desk, and hardly an eye will bat. In one easy step, I'll slip into the chaos of nervous babbling and insecure hair flicking. Nobody will notice. Nobody will see, and nobody will care. Just like that, I'll be invisible.

"Williams, is that you?"

Well, almost invisible.

There's no need to peek. I already know Ceylon's looming over my slumped form, like the human version of the Eiffel Tower. He's tall. Like, really tall.

I'm trying to decide whether I'm pleased or dismayed to hear my best friend's voice; I thought my plan was to not socialize. Yet, either way, I feel Ceylon's hand nudge my shoulder. He's strong, thanks to all his years of football. The force nearly sends me tumbling off my chair, and I have to grip the desk's edges for support. With a frustrated sigh, I lift my head and meet his gaze. Here's another Ceylon-based fact: he's impatient as hell.

I hadn't seen him much over the summer because he was usually sipping Champaign in some foreign city; the Bridge family's intense obsession, other than football, is to travel. So throughout those smoldering days of summer heat, it was continuous that their driveway was vacant and their windows were black. His family was hardly ever home. And once they finally did come back, their eyes, especially Ceylon's, twinkled with enlightenment, as if the realms of Europe or Africa or wherever gifted them with a whole new philosophical outlook on life. But I'm not jealous. I feel like I should be, yet I'm not. Traveling isn't my thing. I prefer to stay home.

Through the classroom's glaring light, I squint up at Ceylon. His skin has dramatically darkened, which doesn't shock me. His hair, a fair shade of blonde, has bleached slightly from the sun's rays, and the wavy strands hang across his forehead in shiny wisps. Green and humorous, Ceylon's eyes glimmer down at me, like he's been anticipating this moment or he's still high off the adventures of Cuba. He looks older, too. Taking in account the faint stubble, I wonder distractedly if our summer hiatus was actually ten solid years. His goofy grin widens.

"And the beast awakens."

I snort. "Whatever."

"Did you miss me?" He watches as I lurch from the chair and swing my bag over my shoulder. My head bursts from the settle movement, and I wince at the pounding outcome. The bell chimed two minutes ago. I just didn't feel like moving. Or showing up.

"With my whole heart," I mumble.

Ceylon's hand slaps his built chest as he frowns. "Your sarcasm stings, Williams." He then props an eyebrow. "And you look like a corpse. Rough night?"

Suddenly uncomfortable, my gaze falters; I don't like explaining what I don't like to think about. It bugs me how I haven't slept (which, in my books, includes my eyes remaining sewn shut for more than four consecutive hours) in the last month. Ever since the autumn breeze arrived and weaved a few colored leaves within its gust, the nightmares emerged. And they won't leave me alone. Although the sinister images are growing more frequent, I prefer to pretend they're nonexistent. I prefer to pretend, for as long as it's possible, that I don't toss in an anxious sweat every night, and that I don't wake in a near scream. Like I'm not disturbed by my memories' twisted recollections, and that the memories don't torment me in the night. That I'm as ordinary as any other teenager around me.

"Sure, something like that."

Suspicious, Ceylon studies me for a moment. Although my gaze is far from his, I know he's staring into the purple skin under my eyes. I can't blame him. The drooping bags are puffy and a little hard to ignore. Then, after a shrug of his broad shoulders, Ceylon rubs his chin thoughtfully. "Nah, 'corpse' doesn't cut it. More like 'ravenous, blood-thirsty zombie.'"

"Gee, Ceylon, thanks. And you expect me to miss you."

The two of us weave through the desks. We've done this countless times that I hardly have to give it a second thought. Once we approach the door, he tosses me a cheesy smile. "With my whole heart."

The hallways are a beehive. Nobody bothers to move, but instead dawdles aimlessly as if they expect Moses to appear and part the bodies like they're a red sea. That'd be cool, but it doesn't happen. Sometimes it gets so irritatingly bad that I feel compelled to climb on top of everyone and wrestle through the turmoil that way. At least I wouldn't be late for class. But, in reality, Ceylon and I are obligated to shuffle and nudge our way through skin and bags, shoving our bodies forward and hoping we won't piss off too many idling peers. One time, Ceylon muttered "move" a little too loudly over the buzz and he got a real good sting. In other words, we were presented the nastiest scowl known to mankind. He barked in laughter, but I was thoroughly frightened; she was a bitchy bee.

As Ceylon and I squish through the crowd of noise and breath, we exchange our schedules. Before I examine his paper, I automatically assume our classes will be next to polar opposite, as they have been every year. Not once have we shared a class. But, to prove my doubt wrong, I realize our last block is identical: English 11. Beaming in triumph, we high-five one and another.

But the listed teacher is marked as "Unknown." That can't be a good sign.

"It looks like we have the new teacher," Ceylon says in my ear, "Word is he's a genuine weirdo."

I frown and throw him a side glance. "Oh yeah? And how do you know?"

"I'm surprised you haven't heard, Williams. It's his first day and the nut job's already popular with a rep. Total crackpot."

"Actually?" A tall girl with fiery waves attempts to needle her body in between Ceylon and me. We instantly slam our shoulders together to block her path, a rehearsed technique. With one glance at Ceylon's height, her plan suddenly backfires and she's veering for a new opening.

It works every time and happens a lot; like the new teacher, Ceylon's also earned a rep: he's the definition of all things athletic and sporty. Nobody messes with him. So kids take one look at me and think they can easily push by, but then they notice Ceylon and their courage is demolished. Instantly, they bolt the opposite direction. In my head, he's sort of like my own personal bodyguard. Though I shouldn't tell him this, or he'll actually take on the role jokingly. Before I can stop him, he'll slip on a pair of shades, master a robotic strut and start ordering people to "stand back" and "give me space."

"And get this: apparently, he talks to toys," Ceylon adds, his voice dripping in hilarity. "Like, stuffed animals. Gremlins and pixies. He pretends to boss them around. Kind of freaky, huh?"

"Uh…" I pause as we stumble through a gargantuan cluster of gothic kids before reaching our destination: room 113. "That's a combination of both weird and freaky."

Ceylon chuckles. "Yeah, just a bit. But hey," he elbows my arm, "at least class won't be boring, right? With every waking hour of lame literature, this dude should keep things fun." He lets out another teasing chuckle and leans close to my ear. "If we get on his good side, maybe we can help name his furry friends."

I roll my eyes, but it's not like I don't agree with Ceylon. If he really does chat up synthetic creatures, then it'll be difficult to take this guy seriously. Even then though, it's only been two years since I trapped all my figurines, story books, dolls and puppets in plastic garbage bags, and then stuffed the collections away within the secluded depths of my closet. Mind you, I used to speak to them whenever life sucked for a bit. The strategy helped. So, although this man is a combination of weird and freaky, I'm not far from that embarrassing habit myself.

But, you know, I'll never retreat back to it. As I seized the toys up in my closet, I was fueled with a hope that I'll never have to lay eyes on them again. After all, approximately two years ago, I grew up. And once I did, I decided that those objects of my early childhood needed to be stashed away and forgotten. If a book or doll held any significance to that easy and immature period of my life, then it had to vanish. I mean, it's simple: if the child I once was two years ago vanished, then so must her toys.

We stroll through room 113's entrance. Ceylon wanders from my side and howls some spirited remarks to a crowd of jocks across the room. But I, on the other hand, retreat to my ideal sitting location: the center desk. It's my ideal location because it's not so close to the front that you can stare up at the teacher's nose hairs, but not so far back that you need binoculars to see the board. Nothing excitingly extreme or noticeable, just…there. Hidden in the center of everything, plain and intact. Ultimately, that's what I've become over this past year: safe.

I plop myself down in the chair and place my bag on the desk next to mine, guarding it for Ceylon's benefit. Just as I was about to close my eyes and steal an ounce of rest, a luxury I've been deprived of, someone smacks my desk's surface. Jolted, I nearly leap out of my chair.

"Sarah!" Jamie exclaims, her sing song voice doing nothing for my murderous headache. Her wide eyes are full of excitement. They're huge, and remind me of two oversized almonds.

She stands in a dramatic pose in front of my desk, her tiny fingers spread extensively across the surface. Jamie's hair, a slightly darker shade than her eyes, is a wild mass of spiraling curls. The tendrils just reach her petit shoulders, and they surround her face like a shrub. Because her skin's soft and pale, the curls' dark hue compliments her complexion. And judging from Jamie's smile, which stretches miraculously across her heart-shaped face, she's ecstatic to see me. Despite we watched Jesus Christ Superstar together last night. Again.

I smile up at my other best friend, who happens to despise anything to do with sports and, instead of the Eifel Tower, resembles an elf. An adorable, enthused elf. "Hey, Jamie!"

"Don't tell me," Ceylon's reappears by my side, "She saw your schedule and switched in."

At the sight of Ceylon, Jamie's radiating enthusiasm is replaced by a sheet of perplexity. "You look awfully a lot like a Hawaiian man." She cocks her head. "What happened to your skin?"

"It's called a tan, Jamie, a tan. Some people get them because it makes them look sexy."

She snorts, giving Ceylon a bit of a once over. "I'm sure that's what you were going for."

I chuckle and Ceylon sighs, already irritated. "Thanks."

"That wasn't a compliment," she clarifies, "but you're welcome."

Returning to her excitement, Jamie explains how she heard from a little gossip that room 113 held the new bizarre English teacher. She switched blocks in a heartbeat, no hesitations necessary.

"I also heard that he's hot," she adds with a grin. Jamie has a bit of a reputation for crushing on teachers. "My mind's telling me to obey the law, but my eyes are telling me to pursue." She leans in real close to my face, all jittery and theatrical. "I hope the lunatic's even funkier than what I've heard and even cuter than I imagine."

Jamie's enticed by anything weird. And illegal.

I'm about to instruct the hopeful schoolgirl to destroy her anticipation. I mean, this man talks to toys. In my point of view, he probably has a comb over. And a thick lisp. It may be a piece of cake to classify Jamie as an odd ball, but she deserves someone appealing and, well, sane. Even if she likes them otherwise. However, just as the advice was about to soar from my mouth, the back door swings open.

We all turn, awaiting the grand entrance of the infamous teacher. However, instead of a stranger, we're met with a familiar face. An unpleasant familiar face.

"Oh great," Jamie grumbles, sinking into the chair next to mine, "it's Roz."

Her real name is Mrs. Carter but Jamie had started calling her that on account that she resembles the big slug from Monsters Inc. In the eighth grade she'd said it once, but it had been overheard by another classmate who said it to another, then another. It was like a chain reaction. Obviously, the name stuck, though surprisingly enough Roz hasn't got wind of her nickname just yet. Probably due to the fact she's almost legally deaf. We have no actual proof of this, but if you'd spent the past three years in her English class then you'd come to that conclusion as well. That's easily agreeable.

She makes her way to the front in slow, sluggish strides, her lips pressed together so thinly that you wouldn't think that she had any. My disappointment takes me off guard; I was expecting—almost hoping—for the weirdo teacher. This will be the fourth year in a row I'm stuck in Roz's class.

Jamie elbows me in the side, "Look on the bright side, Sar. At least this way we get to play 'Get to Know You.'"

This does make me feel a little better. It's a tradition, even before we reached high school, that students in Carter's class get to play 'Get to Know You' on the first day. Mrs. Carter will ask you your name, what your hobbies are, and what you did over the summer. After it's noticed that she hardly pays attention to a word anyone says, everyone will start making up fake hobbies and will say something ridiculous about what they did over the summer. I've witnessed myself how creative some kids can get, and it's hysterical because she never bats an eye. The class will sneakily make fun of her calm reactions and she'll just stare blankly into abyss. Jamie, Ceylon, and I have been playing it since the eighth grade. We crack up every time.

"We will be playing a little game called 'Get to Know You,'" she drones, sitting cross-legged at the desk in front of the room. "We will go from front to back."

It starts, and the atmosphere lifts with an eager enthusiasm. Kids say the stupidest things, followed by a series of snickers, and Roz hardly twitches. Sometimes I wonder if she's covertly sleeping with her eyes open.

When it's Jamie's turn, she recites her words as if she were up for an Oscar. "My name is Jamie Madison. My hobbies include satanic worship and collecting horse pornography..." She winks at me just before adding "And over the summer I snuck cocaine from Cuba into the United States."

After that last bit she shoots Ceylon a challenging look. He returns it with a smirk.

"My name is Ceylon Bridge. My hobbies are kissing every mirror I walk past and cannibalism. Over the summer I finally got the sex change I've always dreamed of."

I struggle to trap my laughter inside. Ceylon blows Jamie a kiss and she rolls her eyes, but I can tell from the tug at her lips that she's tempted to giggle. Each year my best friends challenge each other with who can create the funniest biography, and although I find them equally funny, I sense there was a silent agreement that Ceylon is the champion of this round.

Despite my hatred for school, this game has always been fun. Once it begins, no one pays attention to who your friends are, or if you like parties, or what you eat. Any intimate details about your status are forgotten during the game, and I appreciate that more than anything.

When it's my turn Ceylon gives me a nudge.

"My name is Sarah Williams," I announce, brushing the hair out of my eyes. "My hobbies are nude sword fighting and underground cat fighting arenas. Over the summer I—"

A brief flash of movement near the front of the room catches my eye. I would've crammed my mouth shut sooner had I not already finished my sentence. The words escape my mouth.

"—participated in my first alien abduction."

The man leaning in the doorway flashes me a devilish grin and I feel the heat rush to my cheeks. He had appeared just as I was finishing up my introduction, so there's a slight possibility he's convinced I believe in aliens. Great. And stranger than that, his face is one I'm sure I've seen before.

"Ah, Mr. Jones," greets the Slug, looking somewhat happy. "I was just keeping your class warm for you. Are you all set to teach?"

Icy shivers prickle up my spine; his eyes haven't left mine. For some reason, I feel like he recognizes me as well.

"Yes, certainly," he replies, his gaze flowing toward the woman who glares vacantly at him. His voice is odd, somewhere between an Alabama drawl and an English accent. All eyes are glued to him as he glides in, each stride unnervingly graceful. The man exchanges a brief farewell with Roz before she exists. I guess the weird teacher is ours after all.

Jamie throws me a side glance and silently mouths, "Oh my God." And I can tell why. This man is tall and slim with reddish auburn hair. I feel silly for imagining a greasy comb over before, seeing in no way does it resemble so. His skin shockingly pale, especially in contrast to the golden sun-kissed bodies that litter the classroom. There's this proper, almost royal, manner to him, mainly in the sharp slope of his cheekbones and the curve of his nose; his face structure is stunningly dramatic. Like a thin, white duke, I mentally whisper, watching as he settles comfortably into his desk. No, a king.

Why did I think that?

"Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen," he greets, getting up to write his name on the board. "My name is Mr. Jones. I've just moved here from Blackburn, Lancashire. My hobbies include reading classic literature and putting up with teenagers who think they are deities."

He returns to his desk, but instead of propping himself in the chair, he chooses the front edge of the desk. This way he can directly stare at the entire class, his penetrating gaze soaking in our dumbfounded expressions. I bet he enjoys that. He looks like the kind of man who loves intimidating children when he's bored.

Mr. Jones' long legs are clothed in black slacks and he wears a casual button down with the first few buttons undone. It's a refreshing sight since the majority of male teachers in this school boast stained gym shorts or furry vests.

"Over the summer I received my citizenship and purchased a '69 Chevy Impala in red," he continues. His eyes flicker over to mine before saying, "Fortunately, I was not abducted by aliens like poor Miss Williams was."

I exchange a confused look with Ceylon. How did he—

Just as though he understands my thoughts, he fluently adds, "I read the seating arrangement. I assure you I am not a mind reader."

The class laughs. It seems so far that the rumors about him are...well, just that: rumors. I don't see stuffed animals, nor any crazy babbling. As far as I know, he appears normal enough. I decide to laugh along with the others.

"There is no seating plan, Mr. Jones," Jamie states rather suddenly. The class grows mute and the teacher's attention suddenly focuses on her like a fixed target.

"I beg your pardon?"

"We chose our seating," she quips. Jamie isn't really the type to let errors go unnoticed. Or to have her questions go unanswered. "How did you know Sarah's last name?"

As the class stares, there's a stiff moment of uninterrupted silence. I'm intrigued by his knowledge of who I am, more so by the fact he would lie about how he knew.

The corner of his mouth quirks upward.

"She introduced herself earlier while Mrs. Carter was babysitting you all for me," he replies with a smooth elegance. His answer seems to satisfy just about everyone in the class. Everyone, of course, except Jamie, Ceylon, and I. Something feels off.

When he turns to the board to start writing some more, I peek at Jamie. Her eyes haven't left Mr. Jones at all, and there's a sort of curiosity on her face, the kind of look she gets when she's indulged in a mystery novel. I can tell Jamie's gears are churning.

It's funny, because when I shift my attention back to the front, I can swear I hear two words murmur from Mr. Jones' lips, each one collectively silken.

"Clever girl."