Author's Note: Many thanks for the lovely reviews! My apologies that I didn't get around to answering them, but know that I read each and every review. Your feedback - as well as the story being favorited or set on alert - makes me happy. And this happy author now provides you with another chapter. :) Enjoy reading!

– chapter thirteen –

Gravity

I left school that afternoon later than usual. After I spent an endless hour with one Cole Black in detention. Alone. Well, there was a teacher keeping his eyes on us, but he didn't stop Cole harassing me with glances and gestures and little notes sent via paper planes. I was ready to curl up in my room and never come out again.

Surprisingly, R.C. was waiting for me outside. She was looking at me expectantly, though her expression displayed guilt too. "I want to apologize," she said without preamble when I reached her.

Blinking in confusion, I asked, "What for?"

"For meddling with your problem. I wanted to help, but… if anything, I only made it worse." She not only looked guilty, she sounded it.

I felt pity for her. "Thanks, R.C.," I told her. "I know you meant no harm, only well. It's okay."

She shook her head. "Thanks, but still. It was my plan that backfired," she persisted.

"But I went through with it," I argued. "I could have ignored it, but I didn't. So it's not your fault." Seeing her open her mouth, preparing for a comeback, I quickly suggested, "But if you really insist on being responsible for the situation, how about we say it's both our faults? A problem shared is a problem halved."

She smiled slightly in response before saying, "That's very noble of you, Chloe, very noble." I returned the smile.

In that moment the current bane of my existence stepped outside: Cole. As if the last hour hadn't been enough to spend in his company, he now made a direct beeline for me, not caring that I stood with a stranger, an adult no less. But today seemed to be full of surprises. "Well, well, well, if this isn't Arcee herself," he drawled. My eyes swiveled back and forth between them; he knew her?

"Black," R.C. returned monotonous. Without further preamble, she pressed a helmet into my hands, saying, "Let's go, Chloe. We have a tight schedule for today's tutor lesson."

Cole didn't hinder us climbing onto the motorcycle, but before we could head off, he said, "Don't think you'll get her. She's with me."

"Only in your dreams, Black," R.C. shot back. "Stay away from her."

I gaped at her, astounded; I'd never before heard R.C. speak this coldly to anyone. And then we were off. But no matter how fast R.C. shot down the street – me clinging to her for dear life – I couldn't forget that ominous smile Cole had sported at the very end when she told him to let me be.

When we arrived at home, I began, "How—?"

"Did I know that you had detention? Annabelle told me, so I decided to fetch you," she replied.

I shook my head and handed her back the helmet. "That's not what I meant," I said. "You seemed to know Cole Black already. Where from?"

She regarded me for a moment without speaking, then she slowly but firmly said, "The answer is – you will excuse me – none of your business." I had expected something like that reply, but it was still disappointing. I sighed but accepted that R.C. didn't want to tell me more. "Now come on," she added much softer and friendlier in tone. "There are irregular verbs waiting to be studied."

…

The next days to weeks it was always the same: After our failed plan to get rid of him, Cole tried to steal kisses from me, not caring that the public display of PTA could land us in another detention. It also seemed that Louisa watching – with a murderous expression in her eyes of course – only served to make it more exciting for him. Annabelle and I kept meeting with R.C. and Mia to plan counter-attacks, but after the last disastrous failure, I was hesitant to try something else this adventurous. After all, I didn't want to end up being kissed again by Cole.

But even with battle plans in place to elude him, he managed to corner me one day in-between classes. "You know," he began, quietly and without his usual player-tone, actually sounding serious, "you should come with me. I know of a place just perfect for you, for us. You'd never again have to be alone." He leaned closer until his lips were at my ear. He literally breathed his next words. "You would be regarded with the respect you deserve."

His words touched something inside me, but they also scared me. How did he know what I desired? Before I could say something in reply, though, the principal doing rounds through the halls spied Cole and me in the corner. He quickly marched over and peeled Cole off me. "What in God's name are you doing, Mr. Black?" he snarled. When Cole just sneered at him, he demanded, "Answer me!"

A hand on my wrist caught my attention; it was Annabelle. "Come on, let's go," she quietly said and pulled me away from the scene.

Before we rounded a corner, however, I saw Mr. Latch stand close-by, watching. His eyes weren't on Cole, though – they followed me. And as soon as he saw that I had noticed him, he sent me a smile that made my flesh creep.

Mr. Latch was another… mystery. As unusual as his first lesson had started, as unusual he continued teaching. The topics became more and more obscure. Most memorably – in the negative way – was when he lectured on Hitler during World War II. I would have understood if Mr. Latch had told us about the crimes Hitler did with murdering millions of innocent people. I would have agreed with an assessment of the like that whilst a murderer, Hitler had been a charismatic personality that managed to ensnare the Germans' minds. But I was totally baffled when our teacher told us about how great the deeds of Hitler had been.

"The Jews were weak," he lectured, catching my eyes especially and holding them the entire time. "They couldn't defend themselves. So they earned being killed. Weakness needs to be erased. Only the strong can survive." He took care to emphasize his words with measured gestures.

I wanted to look away, wanted to see what my classmates thought of his lecture, but found that I was unable to move. Him holding my eyes had me enthralled; it sounded as if his words had a deeper meaning meant for me. If so, I didn't catch it, no matter how long I thought about it. All I noticed was that his lecture left me feeling chilly all over. But I also finally heard the enthusiasm in his voice that I had missed the entire time. However, I wondered how any school could allow Mr. Latch to teach if he held such a frightening view. I immediately got an answer too; as if being able to read my mind, Mr. Latch sent me a glare that clearly told something very bad would happen if I so much as breathed a word about it.

On top of the trouble I faced at school, the situation at home had cascaded downward ever since the New Year's Eve party at the Lennox's place. Not only were Mom's mood swings increasing in frequency and force (she regularly lashed out at Dad for being overprotective, which was often followed by an immediate and heavy emotional attack with lots of tears and lamenting as soon as she laid eyes on me), but the (already very old) car at our disposal while on Diego Garcia decided to break down once a week, twice if it could manage. Unfortunately, the first incident happened when Mom drove the car to work. Thankfully nothing happened to her, apart from the shock. That there was at least a remedy for the mechanical problem eased the situation a little bit; Johnston helped out whenever he could, and I took the chance to learn more about the inner workings of a car engine while assisting him whenever I had the time.

"See this motor? That's an engine with overhead valve controlling, carburetor and breaker contact," he explained patiently one day. Taking out the air filter housing and building it apart, he showed me the fragile inner components. A thorough check proved that nothing was wrong with them – "Sometimes, manky air filters can cause heat accumulation which kills an engine." – so we proceeded to check the carburetor which was now accessible after the air filter housing had been removed.

"Let's see… oh, thank God it's a timing chain…" Johnston mumbled while bent over the motor.

"I take it there isn't always a timing chain?"

"No. A motor could also have a timing belt. You'd hear that already though. It sounds like a tire pump. If the belt breaks, the motor dies, but that obviously didn't happen here." He reached out and detached a few items from whatever.

Pointing at the piece he was holding up for closer inspection, I asked, "What are you doing right now?"

"That's the distributor cap, and it goes with this one, the rotor." He showed me. "I made sure both pieces and the ignition distributor are functioning."

I frowned. "But why?"

Putting the pieces aside and looking at me, he explained, "Process of elimination. I make sure that the usual reasons for why a motor could have died don't apply to our current case. That also makes it easier for the future."

"Because knowing what looked perfectly all right and what barely held up last time narrows it down for when the car breaks down again?" I concluded.

"Exactly." Turning back to the problem at hand, he attacked the motor with a box wrench. Unfortunately, it involved a lot of leaking oil, causing Johnston's hands to get really dirty. He didn't seem to mind though and happily continued teaching me. "The ignition distributor itself seems just fine… But see this here? The breaker contact doesn't move anymore. Now if I loosen it a bit…" Brandishing another tool like a weapon – a feeler gauge, as I'd learned a couple of days ago – he attacked the malefactor and made short process with the stubborn piece of metal. Afterward, he pieced the ignition distributor back together. "Okay, so let's see if the engine will run again."

I followed him to the driver's side, curious. Using a towel to keep the oil on his hands from smearing everywhere, Johnston turned the ignition key, and surprisingly, the engine started up again. He grinned at me which I returned with a confusing frown. "What exactly did you do?"

"I recalibrated the breaker contact, then put back the rotor and distributor cap. Normally, you'd have to set the right ignition point, but I don't have the stroboscope with me right now. We'll just have to take the car on a test drive. But before…" He got out and went back to the still open motor. I followed him.

Johnston pulled at the gas cable a few times and I inquired why. The way he roughly handled the component couldn't be good for the engine I thought. He only laughed when I told him that. "I'm not breaking it, don't worry. The cable is much sturdier than it appears. But pulling it is a good method of testing if the problem is solved. Just listen to how the engine bells without the air filters. Just like deer."

"Aha," I made, still not really convinced. Brushing the thought off, I asked, "So… can we drive the car now without fearing that it breaks down again?"

He hemmed and hawed a little while I helped him put back the air filter housing. "This is a very old car, Chloe. It should work for the moment, but I can't guarantee anything. It can break down tomorrow because there's another mistake with it, or it can drive without another problem from now on until forever. Anything can happen, but you don't have to be afraid just because. You should be fine for the time being."

"The motor might just die again tomorrow, in the middle of the road," I concluded matter-of-factly.

"Afraid so."

I sighed, but there was nothing really we could do about it. Dad had already filed an application for a new car, but with the military bureaucracy involved, it took some time longer to get an approval. According to Dad, if we were really lucky, a new car could be shipped here in about three months. If not… well, let's not go there. Positive thinking was the key. But until we got the new car, we would have to make do with the one we already had.

"Thanks for helping," I said to Johnston.

"You're welcome. Just give me a call if it happened again."

"Thanks. Will do."

…

January slowly turned into February, and before I knew it, Valentine's Day came around. I already dreaded what Cole would do if he got his hands on me. And my fears weren't unfounded.

It was in the morning, before the first class started. Upon arrival at school, I went straight to my locker to get rid of the heavier books I didn't need until after lunch. Usually, my locker was just a grayish door among many more lining the hall toward the cafeteria. However, that day it was especially recognizable thanks to a white envelope with a large pink heart. In which's middle my name stood. I nearly decided not to open the locker, instead carrying the books around all day, but I was a lazy girl that didn't want to lug around more than absolutely necessary. So I wrenched open the door – and was nearly buried by what seemed to be dozens of red roses. That wasn't the worst yet though.

The worst was a radio stashed within my locker starting to play love ballads. Cheesy love ballads.

For several moments, I stood rooted to the spot, trying to decide whether smashing the locker door shut would do any good. Before I found an answer, though, I grew aware of the students assembling around myself, laughing.

"Roberts has a lover!" someone then shouted and woke me out of my stupor.

While a few guys started chanting "Roberts has a lover!" – which quickly gained followers the more students arrived at the scene – I closed my locker and fled. I supposed carrying around heavy books was the lesser of two evils.

I didn't get far, however, when the vice principal stopped my flight, standing in my way like a bodyguard. "Is that a radio in your locker, Miss Roberts?" he asked.

"Um…" I glanced back the way I came; luck had it that with the vice principal's appearance, my fellow students sought refuge in escape. At least I would no longer have an audience, were I required to get rid of the disturber of silence. Beforehand, though, I could try to reason. "It's not mine," I told Mr. Donald. "I'd never put it in my locker and set it to play when I open the locker door."

"Then who do you reckon should have done it? When you have the only key for your locker?"

He had a point. However… "Isn't there an emergency key or something in the office? Maybe someone stole it?"

Mr. Donald raised an eyebrow. "The emergency key is where it always has been since it was placed there. Now, if you don't mind, Miss Roberts, kindly get rid of the radio."

I had no other choice but to comply with the order. It proved impossible to follow, though. The radio simply couldn't be moved, let alone be taken out. I also was unable to shut it off; none of the buttons reacted. All the while Mr. Donald stood behind me, growing impatient at my unsuccessful attempts. "Miss Roberts," he said after a while warningly.

Suddenly, something inside me snapped. Rounding on him, I said, "It's not my radio, sir. I didn't put it there, nor do I have an idea how to make it stop. Do you really think I enjoy staying here and listen to all those cheesy love ballads?"

He narrowed his eyes on me. "I don't care who put it there. This is your locker, so you are responsible for getting rid of it. And watch your tone or it's detention. Now silence that radio."

I was fuming with hatred. It felt as if the entire world had complotted against me. Couldn't at least Mr. Donald show a little understanding? But no, there he stood, watching me with impassive eyes. Like a drone. I wished he ran on batteries which I could easily remove to shut him off.

And then it clicked. Batteries. That damn radio probably ran on batteries!

I reached into my locker again and felt around the offending piece of machinery until I found the battery casing. I removed it and the batteries inside, and finally, the wretched love ballads came to an end. Silence had never been more peaceful. I closed the locker. When I turned back to Mr. Donald to – politely of course – request permission to head to my first class, I noticed Cole stand at the end of the hallway. He smiled eerily at me. I frowned darkly, but turned on the spot when Mr. Donald let me go. I would get a pass at Cole later I thought.

The 'later' came earlier than hoped.

I met Annabelle at our usual lunch table. She was just finishing up with a few math equations. "Hey," she greeted, a little absent-mindedly, but did a double take when looking at me. "What happened?"

I let my bag drop on the floor and sat down with an irritated sigh. "Cole hid a radio in my locker. It wouldn't stop playing after it started. And the vice principal thought it was all my idea."

"Oh dear."

It was nice to hear her show the compassion Mr. Donald had lacked, but I wondered about the tone. When I met her eyes, she discreetly gestured behind me. Turning around, I saw Cole sauntering my way, his expression clearly speaking of what he intended to do once he stood next to me. I inhaled deeply, made a resolve, quickly stood and determinedly marched up to meet him halfway. Before he could utter a single word, I barked, "Thanks for nothing, moron. I'll have you know that your Valentine present made me sick rather than bring joy. Can't you just leave me alone?"

He smirked. "Now where would be the fun in that?" he asked quietly and reached for me, intending for a kiss.

I slapped him across his face. Hard. "Leave. Me. Alone," I hissed, noting with satisfaction that I had caught him by surprise.

Annabelle appeared next to me, holding me back before I could scratch his eyes out or inflict other bodily harm on him, muttering incomprehensively under her breath. I thought I caught her saying "Slag," once.

Well, for me that day ended with a detention (the principal had witnessed the scene in the cafeteria) – and, thank God, a week where Cole let me be. He returned to harassing me quickly after that, though, making me miss the seven days full of peace and quiet.

If you didn't count the accident…

It happened after lunch just a couple of days after Valentine's Day, during double physics.

"All right, people, everything's set up so we can start," Mr. O'Connell announced, clapping his hands in enthusiasm. He had us do an experiment with magnets. During the first ten minutes, he had shown us the assembly plan on how to build the electric circuit, then we had gotten another ten minutes to come forward to get the necessary components in accordance to the plan on the blackboard. I was pretty fast with building my circuit and was ready to go while others still discussed with their neighbors where to put which component. Mr. O'Connell walked around and helped until everyone was ready.

From the central switch at the teacher's desk he then switched on the power. The magnets throughout the classroom charged and we could begin with our assignment.

I must have gotten a pair of quite strong magnets because after only five minutes in on the experiment, I noticed a soft tingle throughout my body. I stopped writing mid-word and stared at what I had noted down so far without seeing anything. Concentrating, I soon remembered I knew this feeling from the two hours scan in the MRT a while back. And now that I was aware of the magnetic field, the tingle grew stronger.

I picked up the pen again and finished writing, then sat back and thought of what to do now. The tingles were different to back in the MRT, but far from being unpleasant. Maybe because the magnetic field wasn't as strong as in the scanner, the sensation was more pleasant, but I couldn't be sure. Would that change if I strengthened the magnetic field?

There was only one way to find out. Carefully rearranging a few components, I rerouted more power to the magnets, and reacting immediately, the field became stronger. The tingles grew more pronounced and I sat back, letting the heightened sensation wash over me. I had forgotten all about my experimental assignment, instead relishing in the impact the field had on me. But what was the reason that I was affected in the first place?

Deciding that the magnets weren't yet running on full power, I worked on another rerouting, then sat back and just felt again.

It was an incredible sensation. The field the magnets created engulfed me and sent soft flashes through my body that set my insides on fire – but not a burning one, a good one. I felt elated and special and could just grin at my discovery, but had to refrain to not rat myself out. With scientific curiosity and interest I followed the flashes' route through my body; it seemed it affected the nervous system the most.

My thoughts drifted toward ideas of how to recreate this experiment at home so that I could take it even further, but then I realized I didn't have even half of the necessary technical components at my disposal. Gritting my teeth at the disappointment, I went back to work, only to get another strike of idea: If I finished my assignment in record time, then I would have time left to experiment with the field's strength and its impact on my nervous system.

No sooner thought than done, and I had another twenty or so minutes left until the bell rang for end of class. So I once again rerouted the power when Mr. O'Connell wasn't looking and enjoyed the sensations the stronger magnetic field caused.

The boy across the aisle noticed and asked in a hiss, "What are you doing? That's not the assignment."

I glanced over and shrugged. "I'm done with the assignment so I'm experimenting on my own a bit."

He frowned. "By… doing whatever you're doing?"

"Sure? What else should I do?" I shot back.

He ogled at me like I'd lost my mind. "That's the last class for today. Just hand in your notes and go home. Anyone would rather be somewhere else doing something fun."

"Well," I replied, "I'm not anyone else." And turning back to my current reroute of power, I ended the discussion. Out of the corner of my eyes I noticed him incredulously shake his head at me before he went back to his own experiment.

I had strengthened the field about five more times when the explosion happened. There had been a slight fizzle beforehand, but I had just thought it was the result the field had on my hearing. That it was a warning that the magnets were being overheated and no longer able to process the amount of power I had running through them never even crossed my mind.

The explosion happened when the boy I had talked to a few minutes ago had gotten up to take his protocol to the teacher. And – thank God – the energy the explosion set free shot back toward me for the most part. The boy in front of me still got knocked forward and banged his head against the table, but aside from a small headache, he shouldn't have any lasting negative effects.

I, however, was thrown back against the back of my chair, making it topple over, having me crash onto the hard floor. The air was whooshed out of my lungs, and for a moment, I grew dizzy and saw stars dance in front of my eyes. I tried to blink them away and eventually was able to discern the worried look of Mr. O'Connell when he crouched over me.

"Chloe? Are you all right?" he urgently asked, touching my cheeks and forehead.

I felt clammy and a bit cold, the tingling that had been my companion for about half an hour completely gone. "I think so…" I slowly said and groaned. The back of my head where I had crashed onto the floor hurt terribly, but when I lifted my hand to touch it, I felt relieved that there was no blood. Though, I felt a violent headache coming my way.

Mr. O'Connell looked slightly relieved. "I should call the ambulance and have you checked through in the hospital," he declared.

Then Dad would know immediately. "No," I replied, struggling to sit up, feeling somewhat faint. "That's not necessary. I'm fine."

He gave me an incredulous look. "I've never seen anyone paler than you, Chloe. I'm not a doctor, but I know when I see someone not feeling well, and you definitely belong into that category. Now, if you don't want to be driven to the hospital, I'll call your father to get you. He can then decide whether or not you need a thorough check-up."

Sighing, I took his hand to help me get up. The dizziness was stronger when standing – or rather trying to stand – so I quickly sat down again on the chair Mr. O'Connell pushed toward me. With a warning glance in my direction to stay put and not pull any more stunts, followed by an address to the rest of the class ("Everyone, please return to your tasks at hand. This class isn't over yet."), he walked out to make the phone call. Well, Dad would find out sooner than later anyway, so why make this any more complicated than it already was?

Mr. O'Connell returned some minutes later. He told me my father was notified and on his way before he turned his attention to my classmates, overseeing them completing their assignments, collecting their protocols once they were done and then releasing them from the clutches of education for today. Luckily, everyone save two boys had already finished and left the room when Dad eventually turned up. Knowing me being easily embarrassed by overprotection, Dad was wise enough and held back with comments until we were alone. He therefore only gave me a quick first check-over to make sure I was halfway all right before grabbing my stuff and accompanying me to the car. Thank God, I could walk there by myself. Dad hovered close to catch me in case I did fall, but that never happened. That would have been mortally embarrassing.

Dad wouldn't be Dad, though, if he didn't make sure I was a hundred percent all right. We therefore, naturally, drove to the hospital rather than home. Before I could express my annoyance with that, however, I felt gratitude soar through me at Dad's wise foresight; the headache I had felt earlier coming my way? Well, it hit me right there and then. Extremely hard. I groaned and grimaced, grabbed my head and leaned forward.

"Headache?" Dad asked. I nodded. He took a hand off the steering wheel and felt my forehead. "Be glad it's not fever," he said after a moment. "The way your teacher described the explosion… I'm surprised you didn't lose consciousness."

"Gee, thanks, Dad," I brought out, trying to joke but failing completely.

He laughed, slightly ruefully. "You know what I mean." His hand moved from my forehead to stroke over my head, gently massaging my scalp as it went. "Try the pressure points at the temples, that usually helps soften the headache."

Because I didn't have anything else to do and wanted to get rid of the headache again, I followed his advice. The massage did help – not much, but at least a bit.

Once at the hospital, Dad of course went through every routine check known to mankind for head injuries. I was half-expecting him to tell me I was having a concussion. Nothing of that sort happened though. Instead, my headache eased a little in intensity.

I was in the middle of a head scan in the MRT (thankfully without having to be fully inserted into the tube this time) when a tingle grew in my left thigh, quickly becoming aggressive to the point of pain. I itched to scratch to get rid of it, but I remembered Dad explicitly stating to lie still, even if it was only my head that was being scanned. Well, the tingle continued intensifying until it felt like a hole was being burned through my leg right there and then. The pain was gone as soon as Dad announced we were done and I could move again, however. I quickly sat up and grabbed at my thigh, but it was no longer necessary to scratch.

Taken by surprise by my sudden movement, Dad exclaimed, "Whoa, there, Chloe, slowly." He hurried to my side. "With that headache of yours, you shouldn't rush."

And that was when I noticed my head no longer hurt. At all. I told Dad that the headache was gone, and he gave me a long pondering glance before walking me to his office and placing me on the bed there, despite my insistence that I was fine. He then took out the most basic utensils of a doctor and started a general but thorough check – including auscultation. I endured that for about five minutes before starting to argue it was unnecessary. Dad didn't listen and continued with his examination.

"Dad, I'm fine," I said another ten minutes later, for what felt to be the hundredth time ever since leaving the MRT.

He kept placing the stethoscope all over me, listening, probing… for what, I had no idea. Eventually, finally, he put it down and regarded me with an unreadable expression. Then he sighed. "The things you're doing, hon…"

I rolled my eyes. "It was just a little explosion, Dad…"

"I actually meant the 'itch' you reported."

I held up my hands in defense. "Hey, not my fault. But if it got rid of the headache, fine with me." He gave me a doubtful look, so I added, "Dad, I'm totally fine. There's nothing to worry about. See?" I jumped off the bed and danced and twisted through the room. "No problem at all." To be honest, I was a bit scared by that rapid recovery, but don't look a gift horse in the mouth, right?

Dad rubbed his face tiredly. "I heard that sentence often enough when people overestimate their abilities, Chloe," he mumbled. A bit louder, he added, "Look, honey, you fell onto your back. Hard. You knocked your head on concrete. There must be something – anything – wrong with you. You just don't get up and wham, are all right again."

"Jeez, Dad, thanks. Glad to know you want me to be hurt," I half-joked. Admittedly, it did hurt a lot that he wasn't happy that I was fine.

"That's not how I meant it, hon," he hurried to say. "I'm just saying it's… unnatural."

I sighed and went back to where he sat. "Dad," I implored in a serious tone, "I did feel dizzy – right after. It's gone. And you know about the headache I had. But that, too, is gone. I'm all right. Please stop worrying. I will tell you when I get dizzy again or develop another headache, okay?" Since he didn't react verbally for a while, I added, "Please?"

Sighing in defeat, he relented. "All right. But promise to be more careful next time, Chloe, will you?"

"Of course. Honor bright!" I held up my hands to show that I didn't have fingers crossed behind my back.

He nodded. "Good." Standing and walking over to his desk, he disposed of the stethoscope. "Grab your bag and let's heed home."

We drove in silence. On the one hand, I was glad Dad wasn't bringing up the topic again, like Mom surely would have done it. But on the other hand, it was kind of… weird. I tried gauging Dad's thoughts, but his expression was still blank, totally unreadable for me. It made me feel bad, especially knowing he wanted only the best for me.

When he parked the car in front of the house, he didn't get out right away. He even held me back. After a moment, he said, "Let's… not tell your mother. She's stressed enough as it is, okay?"

Fine with me. "'kay."

So we went about our afternoon and evening routine like usual. I was in my room, doing homework, while Dad took care of the household. Mom prepared dinner.

It was a bit difficult to make light conversation, but Mom being oblivious found enough to inquire and talk about. Most of the time, though, she told us what the baby had been doing, kicking her here or there, doing what felt to be somersaults, and so on and so forth. As interesting as the topic was, I felt the headache returning and decided to retreat before Dad or Mom noticed something. I didn't want to risk it. So I got up from the table, put my plate and cutlery aside, and headed upstairs. "I've still got some studying to do tonight," I said as an excuse, "so I better get moving."

Mom smiled. "Good to hear you're focusing on your studies so much, hon. Don't stay up too late, though."

"I won't," I said and left them alone.

After closing my bedroom door behind me, I let out a sigh of relief and slowly sank onto the bed. My thoughts recapped the day's events while I absent-mindedly peeled off my shoes and socks. With some more struggles I then got out of my shirt and trousers. But as soon as I stepped out of the latter, I halted, staring at my hip. There, at the conjunction where my left leg and pelvis were joined, halfway hidden by my panties, was a rather long sort of sliver of metal embedded into my skin, pointing nearly vertically down my leg. The trousers fell onto the floor when my hands started to shake. Carefully I reached out and ran a finger over the sliver. It felt like metal, but I could feel my touch.

Blanking everything else out, I was instantly alert and hurried to my desk. Rummaging through my drawer, I pulled out a mirror and switched on the table lamp to get a better look. To my relief, the sliver on my hip was the only one I found on my body when I thoroughly gave myself a look over.

On the downside, when I curiously and slightly scared ran another finger over the sliver's edges, I noticed it was not only firmly embedded into my skin – it seemed to have replaced part of my skin.