I want to thank my first reviewers! It means so much to hear your thoughts and voices of interest. This is the first piece of writing that I've ever posted to my peers. Ironically, the only review with anything negative in it came from 'indestructible shelbs' who happens to be my cousin. Ain't that funny, there's blood for ya...but I love her anyways and she knows I'm only kidding.

Now then, I meant to give a title to the last chapter but I don't think I can do that because it is the first chapter. If I can, I'll try but for those of you who care, the last chapter was to be titled "I Can't Believe He Saw Us". I know, creative right?

Well here is the second installment in this story, I think I might change the summary to illustrate an idea that ties in with the title that might not benoticeable to the readers yet. This is not a one shot (hence the update) and I expect at least seven chapters, though I'm shooting for ten. :)

Discalimer: If I were our darling Meg I would use the money to buy my baby - a pomeranian - the 600 dollar bed I saw in Dog Fancy, buy my family a new house where my bedroom took up an entire floor, and continue writing the Mediator Series until the day I die. But I'm not and she gets all the credit for anything that seems vaguely familiar.

The next day I woke up still in my clothes, eyes crusty from crying. I still had that taste of crying. You know even if you cried twelve hours ago there's still a bubble in your chest, like a side effect that hasn't quite worn off. Well I certainly still had a bubble, and it was a big one. I felt exhausted from exerting so much emotion last night. My head was backed up from trying to sort through everything that had just happened in the past twenty-four hours.

My lip was sore where it had split. I ran my tongue over it and felt a deep slash, dragging past my lip line onto the peachy skin below. It was my reminder that my life was over. The cut would hurt, and if it ever healed, I could just split it open again.

I woke up to shouts from Jake, demanding I come downstairs in three minutes or else he was leaving without me. I didn't care. I stayed in bed, playing with the fringe on my skirt that I had slept in. It was wrinkled beyond repair. I could tell without looking that the rest of me must be a mess too, considering I'd fallen asleep without removing any makeup – or what was left of it – and my hair most likely resembled an Afro.

But I didn't care.

I felt so dazed. There was so much to think about, so much to confront. But I didn't want anything to do with any of it. My actions had placed a brick wall in front of me, ten feet thick and taller than I could ever hope to climb. There was no going forward. There was no reason too. I knew what was beyond that wall: a life without Jesse.

My mom came up to my room after Jake shouted his words of departure. She asked what was wrong. It made me want to cry again. Here was this wonderful women standing before me, completely genuinely concerned. She'd had her heart broken. She hadn't done anything wrong and God just decided to take her husband, her love, from her without notice.

And yet she was still living. What's more, she still loved. How did she do it? I wondered. How did she get up in the morning living this new life? How did she find the courage to love again? She was like Wonder Woman.

Her sincerity made my eyes want to cry, but there was nothing left. I'm serious. I had completely cried myself tearless. I tried my hardest to swallow the lump in my throat. It was stubborn, and to be honest, I didn't entirely want it to go away. I deserved that lump. I needed to be reminded of the terrible mistake I'd made.

"Nothing's wrong Mom," I whispered. I'm sure my tone was enough to make her think otherwise. I tried to smile, I really did. I just didn't have the energy…or the will.

"Really Mom, I just overslept," I pulled the covers up higher to hide the dress shirt I was still wearing, "Can you drive me to school?"

My Mom considered me for a moment. She scanned me up and down and her eyes took in a brief sweep of the room. "You're not sick are you?" she asked. I considered agreeing with her. I would much rather stay home and hide in bed today than go to school. Going to school meant seeing him.

Of course, staying home meant being home without Jesse – a harsh reminder of how lost I was to him. I don't think I could take that reality slap right now. Small doses: no use gulping the bottle down in two seconds. I would pull the band-aid off slowly - make it sting more.

That's what deserved.

So I shook my head, "No, I just need a shower and then we can go, okay?"

She nodded, seeming convinced that I'd just needed a few extra minutes of slumber this morning. I felt too ashamed with myself to tell her I could use about a hundred more. I thanked her and waited until she'd shut the door to get up.

Slowly and reluctantly I peeled the blankets off my body and sat up. I tried not to, but my eyes strayed to the window seat. The empty window seat. I tried to picture him sitting there. I really did. I wanted to make sure that visual wasn't lost, that my soul hadn't discarded it when I betrayed myself.

But I couldn't do it. I couldn't see him there. How many times had I stared at him as he sat reading or chastising me for my choice in footwear? Why did my memory suddenly go blank now? First I lose my ability to resist; now I lose my memory.

Great.

I somehow stumbled into the bathroom. My eyes betrayed me again by looking in the mirror. My reflection was so horrible now that I really didn't care. What did it matter how I looked? No one worthwhile was going to be looking at me anytime soon. At least, not the person I wanted to look at me.

Still, it was a little disheartening to see the near half hour of time I'd spent on yesterday's make-up application smeared across my face, adding dark shadows to my red and puffy eyes. I'd looked so different yesterday, standing in the bathroom at school, checking myself in the mirror before the speeches and assuring myself that I did indeed look better than Kelly (I did). I felt so pretty that day. I still had that feeling when I came home – until Jesse confronted me and made realize what I had done.

I started the shower and slid out of my clothes. I looked down at the outfit thrown on the floor. I'd spent an hour picking it out, trying to find the perfect top and most suitable skirt for the speeches. The amazing part was that I spent more time writing my speech than I did picking out the outfit. I had really wanted to win. I had really wanted to beat Kelly and be voted senior class president for next year.

Right now though, I really didn't care.

I stepped in to the shower and immediately turned the water temperature up. It was funny; I'd never had the water this warm before. I guess I was just a colder person now. That didn't surprise me. Only cold people could possibly do what I'd done.

I was in a state of sedation. The full shock of what I'd done was still swimming in the recesses of my mind, waiting to attack. I knew it was there, because I knew I wasn't feeling nearly as horrible as I should. By waking up and going about my morning routine, I was trying to hold on to normality as long as possible.

But normality would not last much longer.

When I was done washing the dirty residue off my body I stepped out and wrapped a towel around me. I stood in front of my mirror again. I forced myself to stare this time. I wanted to punish myself. I glared at the stupid girl in the mirror. The one with the repulsively split lip. The one without morals or responsibility. The one who was stupid enough to completely forsake her heart. The small, immature, naïve girl who forgot everything that was ever important to her.

I was that girl now. And there was no use denying it.

Mom drove me to school. I sat in the back seat and didn't say anything. I should try to keep up appearances. I didn't want her to know anything was wrong. But the energy of lying to her was too great for me to muster. She glanced back at me in the rearview mirror several times, but didn't speak.

I wondered vaguely if she noticed my lip. The cut I'd made last night was so big I'd put three coats of lipstick on to conceal it. It stung like a hornet when I'd applied it but I didn't feel like explaining to her the circumstances in which I acquired this injury. The rest of my face was very lightly dusted with bronzer. Today I'd also opted for a look more like my New York/Pre-Carmel self. Black eyeliner outlined my eyes heavily and I'd purposely smudged it for effect.

Of course the effect was lost with the clothes I had on: a beaded pink tank and a pair of white caprice. Shut up, it's the only thing I had left that was clean. The last thing I felt right now was cheery pinkness.

Mom pulled up in front of the school and stopped the car at the front gate. I'd have to walk around and get a tardy slip from the principle's office. I'd already missed morning assembly and half of first period. Too bad Sister Ernestine lost out on her chance to critique my make-up choice. I'm sure Goth eye style wasn't her favorite.

Oh well.

"Can I drop you here?" my Mom asked, turning around to look at me, "I'd walk up with you but I'm going to hit traffic."

I nodded, "Sure Mom, that's fine," I attempted a smile, achieved a grimace, and got out of the car. I slung my bag over one shoulder and shut the door a little louder than necessary.

"Suzie," my Mom asked, rolling down the passenger's side window so she could talk to me, "What's with the eyeliner? I thought you out grew that."

I scowled. When was eyeliner something you outgrew? Of course, that's not what she meant. She thought I'd outgrown that tuff girl, mad teenager look. Well, sorry Mom but sometimes things don't go your way and you just don't feel like wearing pastel Maybeline Eye Cream in Cheery Pink Polish OKAY?

I didn't say that out loud though. I just shrugged and waved as she drove off, a questioning look on her face. I watched the car dip down the driveway out of the school and make a left on the main road. Then I turned and looked up the mission in front of me.

The building suddenly looked dark and old. It looked boring and worthless. I didn't want to sit in a hot classroom for the rest of the day, pretending to pay attention as teachers drawled on and on about some useless subject. Why should I anyway? What right does the stupid government have to force me to endure something I don't like?

There were too many people in there. Too many faces, too many questions. Too many things I did not want to deal with right now. School was too normal for me now. Normal was gone. I was gone.

I did not feel like being imprisoned. Suddenly school felt too childish, too expected. I had no interest in going. I was a rebel. Those days in New York where I cut class were slowly coming back to me. The careless sense of rule breaking was being resurrected. Of course, this time I wasn't skipping school to help a ghost.

I was skipping school to run from my own ghosts.

Screw school.

I'm walking down Main Street. There are barely any cars on the road at all. Carmel is a very sleep daytime town. It's only eight thirty and people are already nestled in their workspaces, through with the morning commute and facing another hard day of employment.

I walk with my hands clamped around the straps of my backpack. I'm trying my best to be invisible. I don't what I'm hiding from. I've seen two cars go by in the past half hour. Only one slowed to offer a ride but I completely ignored it.

I was slowly growing hungry. I hadn't eaten breakfast. Main Street opened up into a small plaza with several clothing stores, a Petco, and a breakfast diner. I took my chances going inside and prayed I wouldn't run into a cop or someone who would report me for skipping school.

Inside the diner was dark with only the sunlight filtering through dirty windows. The floor was checkered and all the seats were this ugly retro red, like a sixties diner. I sat at the counter on a spinning stool. Dropping my backpack at my feet and resting my head in my hands I wondered vaguely how I would explain all this.

But that thought was interrupted and easily forgotten when a waitress came up and handed me a menu. She stood waiting as I skimmed over my meal options. I couldn't help but notice how young she was. She couldn't more than a year older than me, barely out of high school. Her uniform was sprinkled with random stains and her makeup was smudged from applying too quickly.

She looked tired and overworked. A quick glance over the counter confirmed my suspicions: she was pregnant. No doubt the guy was gone, her parents disgusted. The waitress job was probably all she could get and school was no longer an option with a baby on the way.

"You ready yet?" she asked after my staring became obvious. I had no right to stare. Women get pregnant everyday. Just not when they're under twenty-one and forced to work minimum wage. It was kind of funny I guess. I was skipping school because I wanted to; she was skipping because she had to.

"Yeah," I shook my head away from those thoughts and randomly picked a combo meal from the breakfast half of the menu, "I'll have the lumberjack special."

She nodded, scribbling my order on a pad of paper with a pen she pulled from her hair. "And to drink with that?"

"Umm, orange juice please," I answered stupidly. I had been shocked by her maternity appearance, but she did seem too happy with my Gothic one. She kept sending affronted glances at my eyes where the makeup was most obvious. I had forgotten what those glances looked like. Since I moved to Carmel, I had been trying to fit in. In New York I tried to stand out.

However, she proved to be very nonjudgmental. When my meal of five stacked pancakes was place before me several minutes later, the waitress sat down beside me. She started playing the sugar packets inside the bowl, building triangular houses with them. I tried to ignore her at first, but when she ran out of Splenda packets I offered the bowl on the other side of me.

"Thanks," she said, taking the sugar packets and adding additions to her architectural masterpiece. "So…skipping school?"

I thought about lying, but since I was willing to bet she was not fulfilling the required amount of education either - I told her the truth, "Yeah, just didn't feel like dealing with it today." I waited, playing with my fork and bits of pancake, wondering what long saga she might be dying to tell me.

In New York my mother and I used to joke about waitresses in empty diners. More often than not we'd find one that was bursting to talk about anything and everything. The type of people that just want to spill their life's story to complete strangers because they feel like it.

"I hear that," she said, abandoning the sugar sculptures and turning to look at me finally. Her eyes were red, like she'd been crying. The sight of her made my own eyes turn salty, but I refused to show any emotion. We sat there not saying much for a while. She seemed to be looking for conversation. The diner's window said it was open twenty-four hours and I sincerely hoped for her sake – and her baby's - that she had not been here since last night.

"So how'd you get out?" she asked, smiling slightly. She had nice teeth.

"What?" I was confused. I got out by leaving.

"Did you fake a note?" she elaborated, "Or disguise your voice and pretend you were your mother?"

I realized she wanted to know what excuse I'd used for getting out of school. Of course, I hadn't used one. I'd just turned around and walked out. When I thought about it I didn't have many options. It was too late to leave a note and there was no way I could disguise my voice to sound like my mother's high-pitched and happy tones.

"Umm…" I bit lip instinctively but the cut from last night throbbed at the slightest bit of contact and I released it. "I didn't really give an excuse. I just walked away." I suppose that part of my rebellion was overlooked. It has been a long time since I skipped school. In New York it was almost every other day.

"No kidding," she said with a low whistle. She went back to her sugar packets, rearranging them into a more rectangular building. After I had finished about half of my first pancake she turned to me again and said, "I could call them and pretend to be your mom."

I blinked. It seemed like too good a stroke of luck to find someone willing to get me out trouble. "Really?"

"Sure," she said smiling again. Without further explanation she got up and walked around the counter, grabbing a phone and pressing it between her shoulder and ear. "What's the number?" I told her and she waited silently as the phone rang her through to the front desk. "Your mother's name, last name, and your name."

I stared opened mouth. She kept starring at me expecting a quick answer. I managed to stutter out, "Uh…Helen Ackerman and Suze Simon."

She nodded, like this was something she did everyday. When the person on the other line picked up she spoke with a voice much more mature and crisp than she'd used earlier. "Yes hello this is Helen Ackerman. My daughter, sweet thing, Suze Simon is unable to come to school today. She has a fever and I don't want her passing on any colds. Please tell her principal, Father Dominic. Thank you."

She stayed online a few moments longer, nodding and making slight murmurs of agreement. When she hung up she smiled at me and I thanked her. That was one less thing I had to worry about.

"How did you Father Dominic was the principal?" I asked, realizing I hadn't told her that bit. I was still awed at her demeanor while posing as my mother. No one – not even in New York – could act that well.

"I used to go to the mission," she told me, writing up my bill, "I didn't spend too much time there." She glanced down at her swelling stomach, "Guess I should have spent more."

When I was finished picking at what was left of my pancakes I paid my bill at the register and left her a good tip – much more than fifteen percent – tucked under a pile of sugar packets.

Review please, its a small price to pay - much less than fifteen percent:)