Hello readers! And if you read my last story, welcome back! So yeah, I got my new story up pretty fast. Proud of me? Considering how suckish I can be at updating. Before I forget, a few main points you should understand before reading:

-Darcy and Clare are only 2 years apart

-Julia did not happen

-K.C. and Jenna thing did not happen

I might add a few more of those in, but right now that's all that came to mind. This story will not be AS heart-wrenching as my old one, although it will have it's depressing parts. Please, feel free to give me any constructive criticism you feel necessary; I always love it. And as for my old readers, I love you once again, and here's a million dollars! In my head, of course.

Dislclaimer (yuck)- I do not own Degrassi. Or Clare. Or Eli. Well I do own Eli, but only in my dreams

Everyone stares.

I guess I can't blame them, really. Staring is a natural instinct when something you've heard about constantly, but never actually seen, finally comes within view.

But it's the way they look at me that's so unsettling. As though something about me is supposed to be different. Are my footsteps any shorter? Is my hair done differently? My features are shifted into new ways of perceiving, as if my physical aspects are meant to change just as much as my inside.

I try to ignore the constant double takes to the back of my head. Just keep walking. The narrow hallway that seems like it will go on forever must have an end. Somewhere where I can take a moment to stop and think, "I made it."

Somewhere where people won't be watching my every move.

Jenna Middleton darts her eyes away from me the moment I glance over at her. She nonchalantly brushes her hair forward to hide her face, letting me know that the little amount of friendship we once had is gone.

Like I actually care. No one in this school, no one in this boring town, will ever be worth anything.

The people who are just happen to be the ones we lose.

The first day of school is, as usual, filled with chaos. The continuous back and forth motions of confused freshmen who don't know if room C202 is to the left or right of B105, melodramatic sophomores, who unfortunately share the same classes as me, embracing each other as if they didn't talk on Oovoo for over three hours last night. Juniors brag about getting their license and seniors complain about being stuck in high school and not away at college where they should be.

And then there's me. Somewhere in the mist of it all, I fit into the complicated collage that represents the world of high school. I'm not quite sure where I'm supposed to "fit". Usually I'd be off with Alli Bhandari and Dave Turner, comparing our classes and cheering every time we found one that we had in common.

But things are different now. I can't just walk up to Alli or Dave, or anyone for that matter, and talk to them like I did every day of my regular life. Because my life isn't regular anymore. I'm not regular anymore.

I crush through the hallway until I finally reach homeroom. The classroom, when I open the door and walk in, is generally deserted. Most people are still reuniting with old friends, and the only people who are here are the ones who have nobody to reunite with. The people like me.

I scurry over to my seat as Mrs. Laner anxiously shuffles through a huge pile of papers, not even acknowledging my presence. The sound of squealing and chattering is evident even with the door completely shut. I watch silently as students pass by the door, laughing and talking with smiles glued to their faces.

I sigh, tapping the desk as a distraction from the painful realization. This is the classroom she used to have. The classroom where she got asked out on her first date, the classroom where her and her friends had random dance competitions, the classroom where she got detention for back talking the teacher.

I bet they put me here on purpose.

The bell signaling homeroom goes off and everyone hurries into class. Soon each seat is filled, and the once quiet sanctuary is now an animal zoo. People are standing in the middle of the room and throwing things at each other. Girls try to fix up their make-up while the guys kick at one another from under the desks. All the noise makes my head spin and I cross my arms against the desk, placing my head in between them. Everything goes dark, and the sounds are slightly muffled, although I can still feel vibrations shaking my entire body.

Mrs. Laner is calling out student's names to hand them their schedules. I have a few moments to linger and relax; she's only on C. Katy Carsie walks towards the front of the room and some guy smacks, what I'm guessing, is her ass. She giggles and stops moving just long enough to give him a flirty shove back. Even surrounded by darkness, I can't help but roll my eyes at people's stupidity.

"Clare Edwards."

I jolt up at the familiar sound of my name. Most people are too involved in their own activities to recognize me, but a few students stop and pause to throw me a fascinated glance.

I snag the small piece of paper away from Mrs. Laner the moment I reach her. Just when I'm about to turn around, she grabs my arm gently and looks me straight in the eye.

I've seen that look on her face a thousand times. Sympathy, pity, sorrow.

God, I want to punch her.

"Clare," she glances over at the other students, then back at me, "I just want to say how truly sorry I am for your loss. It's so awful."

The need to slap her hand away is almost overwhelming. My blood begins boiling.

"Thank you," I croak out, and step back just so she's forced to let go of me.

"If you need to talk," she goes on, as if she knows how much this conversation is torturing me, "Tell me and I will automatically let you go down to the guidance counselor's office, okay?"

"Thanks," my voice has gone bitter, "But I don't really think talking will change that much."

Mrs. Laner looks away uncomfortably before regaining her posture. Her face is nervous, uneasy, and I can tell that she's not quite sure how to respond. "It just might," she speaks slowly, as though we're speaking two different languages and I can't decipher the words, let alone the meaning, of what she's trying to say, "Talking can do a lot, you know."

Her words make me chuckle. Once again, another person has joined the parade of people who claim that talking can save the world.

Does talking fix anything?

Does talking change the fact that my sister is dead?

For a moment I think about spitting the words at her, watching as her face shifts between a million expressions of embarrassment and guilt. It's not worth it, I decide eventually. She'll just go into more detail, telling me how letting the pain out, setting it free, will give me a sense of autonomy I've never contained before.

"Whatever," I mumble after a few seconds.

I sit back down at my desk and open the envelope. My classes are listed neatly among the paper, set straight down in a vertical line. Honors English, Spanish III, Algebra II.

Creative Writing. The class I literally cried over. The class that I swore if I got into, I'd jump up from the desk and scream with all my might. Last year I probably would have, too, then settled back down in my seat and blush like an idiot, still not able to resist smiling in pure joy.

Now I can't even be excited. The words look like nothing but ink on a piece of paper, setting me up for the next nine and a half months of my life. I fold the envelope up and place it down.

Looking up at the clock, I sigh in utter frustration. Each passing minute feels like an hour.

I refuse to pay attention to anything other than that damn clock. Not the group of girls cracking up in a circle behind me, or the two guys who go up and start teasing them, or the random boy wearing all black, coloring his nails with sharpie. I just focus on the clock and think of nothing else.

Mrs. Laner stands up. "Go," she smiles, "Have a good first day. Don't get lost."

Everyone crumples up by the door at once. I feel someone's body mass pressing against my side, but I don't even bother to turn and see who it is. Eventually I'm set free from the crowd and bolt towards my new locker.

Opening the locker door, I shove what little amount of material I have inside of it.

"Hey."

Looking up would be a waste of time. I already know who it is.

"How are you doing?" Alli puts a reassuring hand on my shoulder and squeezes gently. I pull back and pretend like I'm attentive on organizing everything in my locker.

Alli groans and slams the door shut.

Glaring, I try to repeat the combination again, but I can't remember the numbers anymore.

Alli crosses her arms against her chest and taps a high heel against the floor, watching me intently. "Are you going to talk or what?"

I finally gain up enough courage to look at her. She's wearing the typical Alli outfit, with the typical Alli hair-do, and the typical Alli make-up. Everything about her is the same.

Why was I expecting something to be different, anyway?

"Don't really feel like talking." I give up on trying to open my locker and just gaze down at my hand, which is still clutching the lock itself.

A silence follows us then, and I can feel her willing up something to say, something that will change the painful barrier between us. "Okay, let's not talk then," she pulls at my arm, "Let's just walk to class. What's your first period?"

I rip away from her touch and rub my arm as if it hurts. Alli watched my motions, her eyes twisting into a mixture of hurt and confusion. Part of me wants to lurch forward at her, ease the hardening pain smothering over her make-up. I tell myself no, it's better this way. Sometimes the right thing just has to hurt.

"Are you sure?" Her voice squeaks with a deep emotion, and the creases on her forehead become visible.

"I'm fine," I almost scream, "Just leave me alone, okay?"

I flinch. Somewhere in the back of my mind, those words are echoing in a train of rhythmic patterns, only being sung with a different voice than my own.

I'm fine. I'm fine. I'm fine. I've heard that one phrase a thousand times, in a thousand different places, for as a thousand different excuses. And it sounds weird coming from me, like the words were originally created to be said through Darcy's lips. I feel like a thief, stealing her thunder, and instantly want to take it all back.

Alli bites her lip. "Okay," she says quietly, "Whatever you want."

She looks up to face my eyes one more time. "I was just trying to be a good friend, okay? You seem like you need one."

"I don't need anyone," I hiss, and slam my palm against the locker for proof.

Alli spins on her heels and walks away, melting into the crowd of people busying their way through life. An everlasting ache develops in the pit of my stomach as I watch her fade out of sight, and I try with all my strength to push it down. But it won't go away. So I turn around with the same amount of determination and head for first period, wherever that may be.

I still feel people's eyes lingering on me during the entire walk to class. Those whispering voices that are meant to stay shared between a small group of friends seem to explode into the mind of ever person who passes by. I scrunch down lower and refuse to look at any of them. How can I deal with this for a whole year?

But that's not even the worst part. No, not even close. The worst part is the fact that while everyone knows exactly who I am, eighty percent of them don't even know my name.

I'm not Clare Edwards anymore.

I'm nothing.

Just The Girl Who's Sister Killed Herself

Like it? Hate it? Better than my old story (writing wise, I mean) Let me know in your reviews. They are my drug, afterall =)

Update goal for next chapter: By next Friday

-Jenna =)