==Enter name.

Your name is John Egbert.

And, to be fair, it hadn't been your fault at all.

Hadn't been your fault that you couldn't stand those silly award ceremonies. Hadn't been your fault that the orator was soooo boring you had to pretend you had to use the bathroom just to get out of there. Hadn't been your fault when you just rolled your eyes at your mom when she asked if you needed her to come along (because geeeeez, who has bathroom buddies in eighth grade?). hadn't been your fault that you didn't think much of it at all when you felt like you were being followed. Hadn't been your fault when your science teacher came up to you that you didn't listen to that nagging suspicion in the back of your head that hey, maybe you're in danger or something.

No, of course not. Nothing had been-or ever will be-your fault.


It was really cool, your friends had said, that you got to travel across the country for an award ceremony. The idea in itself, of course, is something any thirteen-year-old might find exciting.

But to be frank, you're really only looking forward to the plane ride. Never been out of state before, so it isn't like you ever needed to go on one (it seemed like your mom never quite liked travelling).

Unfortunately a certain friend doesn't share your same enthusiasm.

"God, I feel sick-John, where's the brown bag?"

Under the seat, apparently, when you go searching for it and hand it over to Casey.

Casey is small, short, and really, really, really pretty-to the point that it makes you think that maybe it's an unnatural beauty. Like she isn't human. (But, really, now, how silly is that?) She also has a really weird habit of bringing a whole pack of water bottles with her, and the strangest part is that she actually drank all of it. If you hadn't known any better, you would've thought she drinks more than she eats! All odd habits aside, though, she's a great friend, and, oh wow, you really hope she isn't going to throw up because that would be kind of really gross.

You must've let it show on your face, too, because you're soon glared down by a pair of tired but frustrated amber eyes.

"Don't give me that look. You know how I am with airplanes," she mutters through her hand, face turning a bit greener.

"Actually," you grin at her, "I kind of don't, since I've never been on one before, let alone with you."

Casey mumbles something along the lines of "smartass," and "you jerk," and then shoves you so that you nearly fall off the edge of your seat. "Hey-!"

"Settle down, you two."

Oh, right. Mom. She'd been sitting next to you, her expression amused at the exchange between the two children, but it's clear that she's also concerned for Casey's well-being. "Are you all right, dear?"

Casey nods weakly, falling completely silent, like if she'd started talking again, she'd throw up. Somehow, you don't doubt that, but it makes you wonder why she bothered to come in the first place (what had she been expecting you to do-drive across the country?), but she'd insisted on tagging along, and to be honest, you don't mind her company.

"Don't tease her so much," your mother whispers, nudging you gently. You nod. "She's doing it for your benefit, after all."

"Yeah, yeah, I know!" Geez, how much are you going to be scolded? You roll your eyes and stare out the little window, admiring the view. Some weird part of you wants to be out there, in the open sky. Like, literally. You wish you could fly. Sure, you were already thirteen and still thinking that, but screw the police, you do what you want.

After you finally feel a little stupid for staring out the window for so long, you shift your gaze back to Casey, who looks pale and green at the same time, and then Mom, who had dozed off; you shuffle your feet anxiously. ADHD can't be kicking in yet, can it? You'd taken your medicine an hour before the flight.

But the antsy feeling doesn't go away, and your eyes finally move to your science teacher, Mrs. Dulac, who is sitting a few rows up front. Her frayed pink tweed jacket stands out like a neon sign among the rest of the passengers-she'd always had the most terrible sense of fashion, and an even more terrible sense of, well, being human. (How she's the head of the science department baffles you. And you're pretty sure that it's because she's department head that she has to tag along, to represent the school and all.) Like, sure, maybe you always seem like the troublemaker-you prefer the term "prankster"-of the class, but you aren't a bad kid. Oh, but no, Mrs. Dulac would have none of that. John was pretty sure she'd given him more detentions than all of the teachers he'd ever had give them, and that was saying a lot, since he'd switched in out of seven schools.

You blame it on her bad sense of humor. Can't tell a joke unless it hits her in the face with a water balloon. (Funny thing, though, since it's happened before, and with all credit due to yours truly.)

Alarmingly, she turns around and gives you the most deadly look, all steely and threatening and all. Oh, God. You swallow, wanting to stare at something else, but somehow you can't and the most cold feeling makes its way to your stomach like you'd just downed an entire glass of ice-cold water. Your hair stands on end-should you be anticipating something? But what? As mean as old Mrs. Dulac can be, she's still a teacher, and she can't hurt you.

You lick your lips, which had gone completely dry. Right?

No one answers you, of course, and then the thought dissolves almost completely when the plane shudders dangerously, catching you unawares. Mrs. Dulac turns away from you, but relief doesn't settle in on you yet; you can just imagine her writing you up for "rude and excessive eye contact, as well being part of existence."

"Ladies and gentlemen," the fight attendant's voice comes from the intercom all calm and the like (though it's a bit louder than usual, which seems natural from all of the startled noises the passengers are making), "please remain seated. We are experiencing some turbulence, but it should not last for very long. Keep your seatbelts on until the lights dictate otherwise."

Casey looks worse than ever now, but her eyes dart about as if she were looking for something...

(And somehow, Mom was still asleep.)

You grip the arms of your seat nervously, closing your eyes. You sure hope you aren't going to crash or something; that would kind of be really bad. You suck in your breath between your teeth, wincing when the cold feeling in your stomach returns, except it isn't bad or anything, just weird... Really weird. And by the time you open your eyes again, Casey's shaking you by your shoulder, looking sick but also concerned.

"Hey-you all right there?" her voice comes out a little choked, and you have a hard time figuring out whether it's because she's scared or whether she's just holding down her vomit. Probably both. "The plane's landed already."

You nod silently, a bit dazed. Your earlier anxiety is gone now, replaced by a numbing sort of lethargy.

"Oh, okay."

And then you try your best not to listen to the gruesome sounds Casey makes when she empties whatever crappy airplane food that'd been inside her stomach and into the paper bag.

Now that the plane ride's over, the rest of your trip has been relatively uneventful. Yeah, you feel a little drained for some unknown reason, walking around lightheaded and all. But it's not so bad, you think. Kind of.

Other people, though, seem to be a lot more enthusiastic by this development; Casey's skin has turned back to its normal shade so that she doesn't look like she's smudged green powder all over her face. In fact, she almost looks absolutely normal now, as if she'd never been sick in the first place, but she just won't stop drinking water.

"Aren't you going to need to use the bathroom sometime soon, with the amount of water you're downing?" you inquire, sauntering over to her with your suitcase in tow. "We're gonna be on a bus for the next twenty minutes to get to the hotel, so..."

She gives you a look as if that had been a stupid question, and then answers with a short, "No," before starting to drink again.

"Come on, kids," Mom calls from up front, standing at the line waiting for the next bus. "Stop dilly-dallying!"

You tighten your grip on your bags, picking up your pace. "Uh-huh, I'm comin'!"

But you wish you were able to notice the way Mrs. Dulac had been eyeing you this entire time you've been off the plane, like she's waiting for you to do something wrong and get you for good.

Not that you're sure what that something is, though. Not for a while.