AUTHOR'S CORNER

Whoa, whoa~ Things were pretty much intense during our previous chapter. I wonder what Henry's really up to. Mind you, folks, this ain't your usual Ghost Story. So, stay tuned for more details... as to why Henry has to haunt our dear Tansy through photographs. And how did she done that? I mean its not normal for a person to slip through a picture like that, right? So what you guys thought?

As I promise am giving you a good one— as I always said— one heck of a RIDE! But please pay attention to the details am about to present you, because those might lead you to our climatic scene. *WINKS* (^, ~)!

So gain, buckle up your seats and let me present you...

The next chapter... ENJOY!

He frowns at her father across the field. "They'll just find another excuse to keep you away from me." Daniel begins whistling, "Give it a rest, Romeo!" He jokes at Henry, but the latter doesn't seem to be amused. Isabelle looks over to see him packing snow into a ball. Daniel glances up, and their eyes meet. She's about to say something, but changes it as soon as she sees blood trickling down her friend's wrist from beneath his gloves.

"Oh goodness, Daniel! You're hand is bleeding!" she grimaced. Breaking away from Henry, she rushes to Daniel and stoops beside him in the snow. She takes the fist he cradles against his chest, asking, "How did you manage this?" "There was a sharp object in the snow. Maybe a shard of glass or whatever. It sliced right through my glove. Guess, it cut my hand." Henry comes over, takes hold of Daniel's arm, and helps him stand.

"Come on. Let me see it." with a look of mock-concern he informs, "It wasn't that bad. Its far from stomach; nothing to worry about." He cast a disapproving look over Isabelle. "Oh, Henry! Will you please be sensitive at times?!" She remarked, shaking her head. She observes a small gash lines the inside space between his forefinger and thumb; black blood oozing from it. But as she probes Daniel's warm flesh, I'm shocked to see the blood turn crimson.

"You should clean and disinfect this; it's deep," she tells him. "You might need a stitch or two." Henry's eyes narrow; casts them a straight intimidating look, then shrugs. "Hurry home, then. Take care of Daniel and get your chores done, Bell." He stomps off, headed for his house. Henry's jealous. I can sense it—Belle, can sense it either. And so is my future grandfather. Yet she is in denial of this newly found emotion. Confused and upset, Isabel watches him go.

I want her to defy Henry for acting as if he owns her. She knows she should, and a part of her wants to, but if she obeys him, they'll be together again sooner, and Isabel wants that most of all. "Let's go," she tells Daniel quietly. Daniel looks down at his hands and lifts the glove to inspect the wound. "That and the fact that I don't want to leave you alone with him."

Utterly shocked, Isabelle implied "Did you purposely—" she cut her words short. "Come on, Isabelle. You're not stupid. I know you knew exactly what is going on to our friend." Daniel apprised her. Isabelle, on the other hand gave him a timid look. When she don't answer, Daniel replied, "Go home. I'll be alright."

Before he can move any further, Isabelle calls out his attention by saying, "I can take care of myself." "You know how moody Henry can get," she murmurs. "That's nothing new. But he's harmless. And as for him saving you—I don't want to see your friendship with Henry end, but if that's the only reason you're worried about—" "Are you trying to convince yourself? or me?" said Daniel. And his words cuts through Isabelle like a dagger to her heart. My heart aswell. For I can practically feel her every emotions. When she opens her mouth to say something. "No, don't bother," Daniel says imploringly. "I know what you're gonna say anyway." He looks down then back at her, their eyes meet for a second, "I'll deal with whatever's bugging Henry. You just watch out for yourself. I don't like the way he looks at you."

"Tansy? Why are you up here so early? Are you okay?"

A spear of pain slices through my neck from sleeping crouched in the chair. Sitting up, I reach to rub my sore muscles and realize my fingertips are numb.

Mom calls my name again as she pounds on the door.

"I'm fine, Mom. Just a sec." I open the drawer on the round table and slip Henry's journal and the crystal inside. The photo of Papa Dan under the mulberry tree slips from my lap when I stand. My heart pounds as I bend to pick it up. In it, Henry's timepiece no longer lies on the ground at my grandfather's feet. I reach inside my pajama pants pocket and pull out the watch, trying to convince myself that I imagined seeing it in the photo before. No other explanation makes sense. Not much of anything makes sense anymore. Quickly I place the photograph and the watch in the table drawer, too.

Mom's worried face greets me when I open the door. "You scared me to death. I went to your room and saw your bed hadn't been slept in. I called and called for you."

"I was processing film. I sat down to look at some of the photos and must have fallen asleep." Hearing the chatter of birds outside, I yawn and ask, "What time is it?"

"Ten o'clock."

"In the morning?"

"What did you think?" Mom frowns. "With that dark plastic over the windows I guess you can't tell night from day!"

No matter how hard I try to push it aside, last night's dream crowds my mind as I make batter and heat up the griddle; deep down, I don't really believe it was a dream, but I don't know what else to call it. Despite feeling so unsettled, I manage to put breakfast on the table. But three bites into my stack of pancakes, I notice the strawberries are dark gray.

Funny because the fruit doesn't look rotten, just colorless.

Stabbing a strawberry with my fork, I lift it up in front of Mom. "Do these look funny to you?"

She shoots me a baffled frown and shrugs. "No. They look as good as they taste."

"You don't think they're a little dark?"

"They're a pretty shade of red, if you ask me. I bet you could sell a picture of these pancakes to Aunt Jemima. It would make a beautiful ad." Mom picks a strawberry from the bowl and pops it into her mouth.

My stomach protests as I stare at the piece of fruit. I lower the fork to my plate and squint at the six or seven other gray strawberries topping my pancakes.

"What's the matter? Aren't you hungry?" Mom asks.

"I've sort of lost my appetite," I tell her. Along with my mind.

I stood up. But before I head to school, I glimpse a tiny white scar on his right hand in the space between his forefinger and thumb, the same place where Daniel cut his hand. I grasp his wrist gently and ask, "What happened here?" His gaze lifts slowly to mine, and I feel as if a rain shower of needles is cascading over my skin. Barely able to breathe, I ask Mom, "Has he always had this?"

"The scar? I don't know." She sips her coffee. "I'm not sure I've ever noticed it before. Why?"

I shrug. "I was just wondering." But deep inside, I perfectly knew how did he sustain that scar from years back...

At Cedar Canyon High...

Mom dropped me off a few minutes ago, and I noticed that every person in the school parking lot wore black, gray, and white. "Someone must have died," I said, looking back at Mom and thinking how pretty her skin looked against the emerald green of her blouse.

She frowned and asked, "What makes you think that?"

Panic knocked the air from my lungs when I realized the color in everyone's clothing had faded; everyone's except Mom's, that is. At least that's how it looked to me. Then Bethyl Ann tapped on the van window, and I could breathe again. She wore a hot pink T-shirt with the words Shakespeare Is My Homeboy on the front. A pale yellow barrette held back one side of her stringy brown hair.

We enter the classroom just in time to find the teacher hugging Alison and gushing, "I was just so proud of you when I heard you spent the summer volunteering at the hospital in Amarillo."

Huh~ right, if you only knew her true colors. I noted to myself thinking of Alison's photo-bombing image. I said photo-bombing because she isn't really my target for taking the shot. I was aiming at the artsy side-street mural where Alison and her thug-life boyfriend hitting cigarette in an alley nearby. If I remember correctly, I still have that photo along with the textbook in my backpack. I wonder how would the teacher respond once she finds out...

Beside me, Stinky coughs and the teacher glances up. Silence falls over the room, like someone unplugged a blaring television. At least twenty pairs of eyes aim our way. I quietly slip into my seat. Pushing my thoughts back from Alison. I don't want anyone's attention, especially at such a moment where I think deeply.

Scents of perfume and chalk, sweat and stale cigarette smoke mingle in the stuffy air of my first-period class. Bethyl Ann is bent over a notebook scribbling madly. She glances up. "Sorry. No time to talk. I had an epiphany for my story a second ago." She lowers her head and starts writing again. I look around, I thought to myself 'Why everyone's extra rowdy?' 'How can they act as if nothing's different? Can't they see that the world is washing out around them?' My sense of detachment intensifies.

Fighting back my anxiety, I zip my backpack and get onto my feet as quick as possible, as the bell for the second period rings scandalously. I kept glancing across the room, hoping to find someone in color besides Bethyl Ann. Until I slam, face-first, into someone's broad back shoulders, when I head towards the door. And guess who it is... (O , O)

The bewildering — Tate Hudson. He truly needs an intro by now...

The books I've been carrying falls from my hands and smacks the floor between our feet. No wonder Tate is so charismatic that even books fall hard on him! AHAHAHA... (^^, ") ... Nah~ back to the scene.

"Whoa~!" Tate exclaims with a chuckle, turning to face me. He backs up and searches my eyes. "You in a hurry to get somewhere?"

I stare up into his face, so like Henry's. Look at me like he does, I think. Give me a reason to want to stay here, to hang onto my sanity. But I see a hesitance in Tate's eyes that I've never seen in Henry's. And I realize at once that, for some reason, Tate is as unsure of me as I am of him, as afraid to get too close.

Whereas Henry looks at Belle with a glint of deep obsession in his eyes.

"I'm sorry," I say, and stoop at the same time he does to grab the book. All I can think about is the crystal, the envelope of photographs in my backpack, an empty stall in the girls' restroom three doors down. I am in a hurry, Tate. I'm in a hurry to get to Bell's world. I need answers.

I can almost feel Henry's fingertips digging into the flesh of my arm and see the intense blue shine of his eyes. Should I be running away from him instead? Is he causing everything here at school to fade? Trying to frighten me away from here? Trying to draw me back to him? If so, it's working. But if I go, what else will fade when I return? If I return. What if Henry won't let me?

I look up into Tate's eyes again. They're blue, not gray. Vivid and bright. A lifeline. I don't look away.

"What's wrong?" he asks. I guess he sensed something off about me.

"Nothing," I lie, but I can't stop trembling.

He lifts my book from the floor and hands it to me. We both stand. Tate's gaze flicks away, then back to me, wary. "You seem—I don't know. Tired or something."

When I don't respond, Tate laughs a little. "All those creaks in the Peterson house kept you up, huh?" When I still don't respond, he adds, "I heard that a lot of their old stuff is still stored out there."

"Yeah, they left some things," I answer, still trying to calm down.

He tilts his head. "You find anything interesting?"

Thinking of Henry's treasures, I shrug. "Just an old velvet chair and a table I put in my darkroom."

"You have your own darkroom?"

I nod. "In the turret."

"Sweet." He hesitates, then says, "I was wondering…you want to have lunch with me today?"

I DO want to go to lunch with Tate, almost more than anything. Almost. I'm more anxious to talk to Bethyl Ann, to tell her what's been happening to me ever since I moved here. Now that I've made the decision to confide in her, unloading the two-ton weight I've been carrying around on my own for so long feels too urgent to postpone, like I'll get crushed if I put it off even one more day. "I have something I have to do at lunch," I say.

Tate's eyes shift past me. "Okay. No big deal." I see him shutting down, shutting me out. He calls to a guy down the hall to "wait up!" then turns to me and say, "See ya later," and takes off like he can't get away from me fast enough! Like he always does. As if he's tryin to avoid contracting a contagious plague from me.

Stupid, Tansy! Stupid, stupid, STUPID! Why didn't I say I'd like to go to lunch with him another time? Thank him for asking? Something to let him know I wasn't just brushing him off? I watch Tate weave through the people in the hallway, wishing I had the nerve to catch up to him, to explain, to walk with him to our English class. But I can't bring myself to do it. So as kids rush by me in the hall, I stand alone, wanting more than anything to duck into the restroom, close myself in a stall, and take a trip into Henry's world on the crystal's luminous beam.

And here I am spending the Lunch Period with Bethyl Ann instead of having a romantic candlelit —oopps, its still lunch time, I know— lunch with Tate Hudson! SIGH, how pity. (Y_Y)

Anyway, she and I are sitting on the stadium bleachers eating our sack lunches while Hamlet pants at our feet. The dog waits patiently for our crumbs to fall, its tail wagging freely back and forth. I drop a few on purpose while mentally rehearsing the best way to tell Bethyl Ann that I have the feverish reverie for a guy who's been dead for more than seventy years. And I dunno why I'm so antsy over him. She'll probably just spout off dialogue from a Shakespeare play that won't make any sense at all.

I pull a bag of chips from the sack and pass one to her. "Um...Bethyl Ann—"

"Call me Stinky. Everyone does."

"I'm not going to call you that. It's a horrible name!"

"You think Bethyl Ann is any better?"

She has a point. "Okay. Beth, then." So I tell her my story. Everything. From the day we first came, to when I find the Journal, Crystal and Pocket Watch. I told her EVERYTHING that has driving me nuts since last night.

She didn't say a word, though. I am expect her to be SHOCK AF and veer away. But there she just sits, lost in her own thoughts, looking blankly at me. When I get no reaction, I said "Well?"

She reply back, "Well?" as if she'd just repeat my word. Watching Bethyl Ann closely to gauge her reaction, I say, "It's like I go back into the past and I become another person who was my age a long time ago..." And there the reaction I've been trying so badly to pull out from her!

She stares at me with her mouth open, and just when I begin to think she's gone mute, she says, "Oh. My. Freakin'. Gosh. Henry Peterson is possessing you?"

"Not exactly. Henry's not the person I become." For the next few minutes, I've explained to her the details of how I got there, who I am with, the photograph, the scenery. Everything that has engulfed me in that particular picture, while she nibbles and gasps...

I also explain about the Nightingale's midnight serenade, How the past world is becoming more vibrant while this world is dimming. The longer I spent time there... and how I feel as if I'm living through Henry's girlfriend while I'm there.

I also told her my intentions to go back to the scene should the it occur once again.

But then, why do I feel terrified? Idk why am so convinced that next visit would end differently than my prior ones? Wouldn't I come back just as easily as before? I'm not sure what triggers. "Holy schmoley." Bethyl Ann sits back against my headboard, blinking rapidly. "Does mental illness run in your family?" Her words drain the blood from my face. She must notice my reaction, because she nudges me and says, "Oh, geez. No offense. But if you want me to help you figure this out—"

"No, you're right." I try to swallow the lump that lodges in my throat like a pebble. "I'm losing it. I think I might be a schizophrenic." My voice cracks the word in two.

"Maybe," Bethyl Ann says in a matter-of-fact way, as if schizophrenia is no more serious than the common cold. "But we should rule out all the other possibilities before we lock you away." She grins.

Bethyl Ann's expression changes to one of alarm, like she's afraid I'm going to spaz out. "Oh, darn." She scrambles to the edge of the bed. "I didn't know how upset you were—I'll get your mother."

"No!" I catch her arm. "I'm afraid she'll take me to some doctor who'll stuff pills down my throat until I turn into a zombie." Sniffing, I let go of her arm.

She studies my face, scoots back, and murmurs, "I understand. I didn't mean to make light of things. I just want to look at all the puzzle pieces. How else are we going to see this clearly and understand what's going on?"

Something akin to hope seeps into my heart. "By puzzle pieces, you mean rational explanations, right?"

She beams. "Exactly."

"In my case, there aren't any."

"You think I'm making this up for attention or something?" an aggravating tone consumes my voice.

"No. I I totally believe you." Bethyl Ann nudges me, and I look at her out of the corner of my eye. She plants a fist on her hip, making her bony elbow stick out like the point on a triangle. "Do I look like a close-minded naysayer to you? I do believe you. You might have a ghost or any monstrous creature on your hands. I've watched Ghost Whisperer. I've seen Psychic Detectives."

"So what?" I say, refusing to look at her straight on.

"So I know what I'm talking about. Things happen all the time that we can't explain logically now but that someone will figure out later. This might be one of those."

"Go on," I say cautiously, afraid to hope that she's not just trying to keep me from unraveling at her feet like a spool of thread.

"Throughout history smart-alecky know-it-alls have pooh-poohed things they didn't understand. In the scheme of things, it wasn't that long ago that the pope threatened Galileo with torture if he didn't say that he'd been wrong about the earth circling the sun." She sniffs and lifts her chin. "I am not a smart-alecky pooh-pooher."

Hope spreads through me like sunshine after a rainstorm. Leave it to Bethyl Ann to find a way to combine science with the supernatural and sort of make sense doing it. I'm so relieved by her attitude that I could hug her. It feels good to have the secret out, to be able to talk about it with someone who doesn't automatically think I'm whacked out.

Facing Bethyl Ann, I smile so wide my cheeks hurt. "You don't know how awful it's been, having to keep this to myself. I'm so afraid I'm going crazy. That's the most likely explanation, isn't it? I mean, the nightingale…I did some research and you were right. They aren't in North America."

She looks smug. "You doubted moi? The smartest almost-fourteen-year-old in the county?"

Sometimes I do forget about the fact that she is a 14 year old genius who made it to the Senior level in Cedar Canyon High.

"I'm so grateful to have you." I sincerely do. These couple of days I feel so restless and burn out because of the so many things that going on with my life. But now, it all disintegrates, thanks to Beth—and her, err, other-worldly knowledge about ghost stuff?— I felt unfettered.

"So, change topic. How about Tate Hudson? What's he like? Could you blow his image?"

"Tate Hudson!" Bethyl Ann's voice booms like a sports announcer. "Football god! Worshipped by the masses!" She scratches Hamlet's head then, in a scoffing tone, says, "He used to be really full of himself. Him and his Tate-a-licious blue eyes."

Smiling at her description of Tate's eyes, I say, "Used to be? What changed? His mom leaving?"

"I'm not supposed to gossip, but if you already know—"

"I heard the pharmacist and Mary Jane talking about it."

Words rush out of Bethyl Ann as fast as air from a punctured balloon. "It was right before school let out last year," she says eagerly. "That's when Tate got all quiet and moody. His older brother, Evan, was away at college and he didn't come home for the summer, so Tate was left alone with his dad."

"Why'd his mother move out of town?"

"Who knows? Mom says Mrs. Hudson has city blood."

"I can relate," I murmur.

"Tate's dad is a farmer. I can't see him living in a city." I toss Hamlet a crust of bread. "I don't think Tate likes me."

"At first, I thought he's a dumbass. You know, hating a person's gut he's yet to know?

"Yond Tate has a lean and hungry look. He thinks too much; such men are dangerous, Tansy Piper."

For some reason, her dramatics make me laugh despite my misery. "Speaking of…there's another reason I feel weird about Tate. He was friendly; then he wasn't; now he's friendly again. And he blames that on a bad mood? Sometimes I think he's being nice to me for a reason."

"When this happened?" she inquire.

"We'd bumped to each other at the bridge yesterday."

"Duh. He's a guy. Aren't they always nice to girls for a reason? They want to—you know." Wiggling her brows

"Besides that," I say.

"Maybe he just likes you." She notified. "At least his taste is getting better. If that's the case, you're a big improvement over the prior object of his affection."

"Who?"

"Shanna"

(O_O) OH! So that's why Shanna's been salty around me? Too much revelation in such a two day span of week. I'm not sure I can handle this.

I toss Hamlet a crust of bread. "I don't think Tate likes me."

"So, Tate and Shanna, huh?" That's not something I wanted to hear. Although am not sure yet, I think I already have a thing for Tate after our brief encounter at the Salad Bar. That only escalates after another encounter at the bridge; where we finally became friends. "Why did they break up?"

"He probably got sick of her being so mean. Shanna cheated on Tate every time he turned his back."

Recalling how dreadful it felt to be betrayed by Hailey, I sympathize with Tate, even if he was stupid enough to hook up with someone like Shanna! The thought simply infuriates me. I don't know why...

"Rumor has it she even had s-e-x with his fellow football member." Ignoring any further details regarding Tate and Shanna's past —to be honest, I have nothing to do with them. For some reason, I got reminded of Colin and Hailey. UGH! I think I lost my appetite already— I quickly move to another topic before she could break any information about their past fling.

"So I guess Alison is no different, since they're always together?" I concluded.

"No, Alison's okay." Bethyl Ann's gaze shifts away as she claps the crumbs away from her hands.

Curious over her abrupt silence, I say, "I saw her doing Cigarettes with a thug on an obscure side of the street." I didn't mention about the photographed I accidentally took.

She looks up. "Alison?"

"Yeah. Like what is she doing with a good-for-nothing guy? I mean, she looks too-good-to-be-true to me—"

"Don't think Alison and Shanna are the same, 'cause they're not!" Bethyl Ann says defensively. "Alison can be trust-worthy."

"OH~! Okay. I'm sorry." I scowl at her. "I don't get why you're so defensive of her, but I won't say anything negative about perfect Alison again."

She was about to say something, but her eyes suddenly widened when she jerked her head left. "

"Great. Look who's coming," she mumbles. "The ever-brooding Cassius himself!"

"Cassius who?" I turn to my right and see Tate approaching the bleachers where Beth and I were seated.

Standing up, She waves at him, and calls, "Welcome, Cassius!"

"Hey, Stinky." He pauses in front of us. "My name's Tate, by the way."

I sigh heavily. "And hers is Beth."

Looking sheepish, Tate shoves his hands into his pockets. "I thought it was Bethyl Ann."

"Then why did you call her Stinky?"

Bethyl Ann grins. "Yes, do tell, Cassius. Why did you?"

"Habit, I guess. I'm sorry," he mumbles. "I didn't mean anything by it."

"No worries, Cassius. And neither do I. Mean anything by calling you Cassius, that is." Bethyl Ann looks smug.

Tate glances at me, then down at his shoes. He gently kicks the edge of the bleachers, and when he looks up again, our eyes meet and hold.

Bethyl Ann claps her hands together. "Well…that's my cue to exit stage right."

Anxiety strikes through me at the thought of her leaving me alone with Tate. I feel bad about turning down his lunch invitation. If Bethyl Ann leaves, I'll feel obligated to explain myself. "Uh...you don't have to go," I blurt out.

"Au contraire, Violetta Piper," she says. "A cue is a cue."

Tate's brow furrows as he watches her and Hamlet walk away. At the center of the tennis court, Bethyl Ann stops and tosses her empty plastic soda bottle for the dog to retrieve. I give her my full attention so I won't have to look at Tate.

After a dozen silent seconds, I say, "I guess it's my turn to apologize to you now. I didn't mean to blow you off about lunch. I needed to talk to Bethyl Ann about something important, that's all."

"No biggie." Tate reaches down to the ground, picks up a pebble, rears back his arm, and tosses it over the top of the bleachers. "I came over here to ask if maybe you wanted to go do something after school. We could go get a coffee or something."

"Cedar Canyon has a Starbucks?" I tease. "I must've missed it."

He laughs. "No Starbucks, but there is a place downtown. Just a couple of walks away from schoo—"

"Ah. The Dairy Queen!"

"Funny." Smirking at me, he continues, "You need someone to show you around. Just because this isn't San Francisco doesn't mean we don't have some cool places out here,"

"I didn't mean to make fun of Cedar Canyon."

"Sure you did." He grins. "Well? Do you want to go?"

Moments had passed, and I found myself walking with Tate, side by side. It feels very much like yesterday when we both walked over the bridge together and shared a little chat about our lives and why we moved here. I stare at him for a sneak period. He looks so much like Henry! My heart spikes when I look into his eyes. Still, I'm not completely comfortable with Tate's sudden friendliness; if he has ulterior motives, I should probably find out what they are before I start liking him any more than I already do! OH, NO...! (O/O)

Tate glances across at me. "So you and Stink—" My glare cuts his sentence short.

"You and Bethyl Ann are good friends, huh?"

Feeling defensive, I snap, "Is that a problem?"

"I was just asking." He smiles. OH-MY-GAWD! I almost got killed in that instant with his killer smile! HOW RUDE! Who gave him the permission to shoot me with his cute-sy dimples, huh? WHOOO!! Mind you, if we were not walking, this sidewalk could be my funeral!

But once again, the thought about Tate and Shanna's fleeting romance, registered on my mind. And an unfamiliar sensation took over my emotion...

"What?" I cross my arms; irritatingly, aware that I'm overreacting for some unknown reason. Even though it's not Tate's fault that I might be psychologically disturbed, I can't keep from lashing out at him. And I really don't know why.

"I didn't say anything," Tate mutters.

"Beth is the only person who's been nice to me since I've been here."

His brows lift.

"Go ahead. Say what you're thinking."

"It's nothing."

"Just say it then." I challenged him.

He shrugs. "Well, some people think you're kind of hard to approach."

The statement hits me like a splash of cold water in the face. "Some people like who? Straight-A Alison Summers and Beer-for-Breakfast Shanna? Or possibly Rooster Boy?"

He burst into laughter.

His words sputter out of him. "You pretty much summed up Alison and Shanna. Who's Rooster Boy, btw?"

"The crackhead comedian who sits next to you in homeroom?"

"Jon Jenks?" He laughs again. "Why'd you call him that?"

"He struts around like a rooster, but he's really just a scrawny chicken." Tate snickers and drives while I stare out the window and fume. "I guess you think it's easy moving to a new school. What was I supposed to do? Show up on the first day and introduce myself to everyone? Shake their hands?"

"I'm sorry. Don't be mad." He chokes back another laugh.

"Maybe I have been hard to get close to, but that didn't stop Beth."

Tate sobers and says, "I don't have anything against Bethyl Ann, but you've got to admit that she's weird."

"She's only thirteen. Everyone needs to give her a break. Have you ever thought how it would feel to be that age again and so smart that they stuck you in high school with a bunch of jerks who treat you like crap?"

He squints straight ahead out the window, and after a few seconds says, "I guess you're right. I'm sorry."

"Quit saying that, will you?!" I think about all of Hailey's pathetic attempts to apologize in frantic phone calls and I got agitated.

Apparently, Tate's no different than her or the other assholes in this town. "I don't feel like going anymore," I tell Tate. "I'll just go back. The lunch period is almost over anyway."

"Tansy—" He curses quietly.

"Look, if you don't wanna go back yet, don't tag along okay?"

Tate shakes his head and exhales a noisy breath. "O-okay, Okay!" "Aryt. I'll... I'll walk with you."

And we quietly head back to school.

Later that afternoon...

I've spoiled it! I've spoiled my almost date with Tate! I know I've lost my cool in front of him. HOW CAN I BE SUCH A FOOL! (O^O )

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! Have you lost your mind, Tansy?!

Why so stupid?! AAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHH! You've ruin your chances with Tate. And its twice this day!

Why, myself, WHY?! I whined to myself. I skipped once again the afternoon classes, trying to avoid Tate. After I've thrown fits at him, I didn't know if I still have the face to show up. JUST WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME! Can somebody say? I'm begging you! (T_T)

I went ahead to the girl's comfort room to cool my nerves down, and splash some waters. After that incident, I wonder if Tate would still dare to ask me out. "Just when things are starting to get better between us. Here I am blowing everything up." I complain to myself.

The restroom smells like ammonia. I gulp in huge breaths of the pungent scent. I glance at the CR's mirror, and took a splash of tap water. Trying to swoop the day away at the lavatory. A bell sounds, the abrupt noise startling me like a thunderclap. I avert my attention from the mirror for only a second and, when I look back, my own green eyes stare back at me, red-rimmed and swollen. Then, in just a split second, I see two images merging, slowly obtruding the other —my image, my original self.

I was motionless. M-my eyes…they're brown now, not usual hazel-green. And they're larger, too; lashes became thicker. I recognize at once, to whom the reflection belongs to, "Belle?" I whisper. But how could it possibly be? I blink at my strange reflection in the mirror —sure it wasn't my face I am looking at right now. It is Belle's. Suddenly, fear courses through me?

'H-how come?!' I shout in disbelief. Then, a second bell sounds. And everything, —my own reflection— comes back to normal. The mirror showing my true form. My unfiltered reflection stares back at me from the mirror.

I check out the time from my smartphone, and get stunned upon realizing that I've already spent an entire forty-five-minute class period in here. And then, I heard a sound of laughter on the other side of the door, I quickly grab my backpack and dart into a stall, unwilling to let anyone see me panting. I sit on the toilet tank, placing my feet on the lid.

A gust of noise blows into the restroom, voices I don't recognize bitching about a homework assignment. A stall door slams. Water rushes from a tap. Another gust. A toilet flushes. More voices mix in with the others. One with a husky, haughty edge that's familiar, probably from all the cigarettes she smokes while drinking her morning beer:

"For Pete's sake! What is his problem?" Shanna growl as the door thuds shut. Then the smell of menthol and sulfur. I scoot quietly backward until I'm pressed against the wall.

"I feel bad for him." Alison sighs. "Maybe he's still messed up over his mom."

"He was always pissed at her. You know that."

"Who isn't pissed at their mother sometimes? Most mothers don't leave."

"Now that you mention it, he did quit calling me about the time she left."

Cigarette smoke filters through the crack between the stall door and the divider. I hold my breath and try not to cough as I peek out.

"You're going to get caught again and sent to detention." This voice has a soft lilt, full of care and concern. Straight-A Alison.

"Big freaking deal," Shanna says. "You won't snitch on me, will you?"

"Have I ever?"

"You want one?"

"Not here."

"You are so middle school sometimes. You worry too much. As if half the school staff doesn't sneak smokes in the teachers' lounge." More water in the sink. "He quit the team. I heard Coach Dryer is furious. Tate won't even tell him why."

Tate quit football? So that's why he has time to spare with me (O_O). Not even once, it occurred to me that he must be missing practice.

Alison and Shanna lean against the sinks. A smoldering cigarette lies next to the faucet. Shanna picks it up. "I am so into him, but he doesn't even care anymore. God, how could I be so stupid? I broke up with Derek for him. This summer Tate couldn't stay away from me, but ever since school started, I haven't heard one word from him."

"Shhh." Alison jerks her head toward the door. "Someone might come in."

"I don't care. Everybody knows Tate dumped me..."

WHAT~?! (o , O) Tate dumped Shanna?! HAHAHAHA I don't feel sorry for her! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

"...They all think he's acting weird, too." she continues on. "He hardly hangout with anyone. Until this noon, during lunch period, someone saw him walking with that weird California chick!"

Hey, is she referring to me? ( _ )

She pause in puffing cigarette. And got so distracted by her own image as she applies even more mascara to her already clotted lashes. "...I heard she's one of those West Coast whack jobs who only eat green stuff." "So, why would Tate give her the time of day?"

Because I'm far better than you? I remarked to myself, ofcourse. But the words wanted to yell out.

But before I could come out and ready to dug my fingernails to Shanna's glossy-Tresemme-treated-hair, the door opens and a news came from a student informing Alison...

"Alison! Hurry up, to the Bulletin Board?!" said the informant, I didn't get to see her face though. "Someone's posted your picture taking cig with Doyle in the side-street!"

"WHAT~!" I heard Alison screamed out loud.

Before I could come out from the stall and rush to the Bulletin Board with them; I heard a faint call from behind me.

It was Henry...

"Belle,..."

"Henry?" But how—

The scene slinks slowly from the restroom to a place which I recognize at once as the bridge at the Great Canyon... where Henry awaits me.

I look around. My clothes are no longer mine; but a spaghetti strapped dress. Purplish white in color with a violet ribbon at the back serving as a belt.

Behind me there was a guy standing. I squint because he's standing against the 1'oclock sun.

Yet I know his voice pretty well. It's him. My heart is pounding when I heard him call...

"Bell…you're here!" He crosses to the entrance of the bridge to meet me, hugs me quickly, then steps back and takes both my hands in his.