A/N: I bet you thought I was dead. Well, I'm not. And even if I were, I would have resurrected myself so I could post this chapter. Because I'm dedicated like that (or something). So, even though you'll find this out while you're reading, this chapter is mostly background on Deryn, which I quite enjoy. And it reminds you of the upcoming fencing tournament. Yay! Please review!

After the fencing match, a number of things happened very quickly.

The first was how Alek's schedule changed the moment the fencing master heard he'd beaten the head of the team. He's been in the varsity class since, after lunch, so I am partnered with an American girl named Melissa now.

The change completely reworked his schedule, but I only know that because we have a lot of the same classes now. Algebra II, advanced biology, German. We haven't talked to each other a lot since, but he still comes in to Rigby's most evenings, right through the dinner hours. He mostly talks with Newkirk and Fitzroy, and is nothing more than cordial to me. I don't know how to feel about his cold, detached gaze. A squick of sadness would be acceptable, because we were friends, but it goes deeper than that, like a blow to the chest every time he looks right through me.

Secondly, though it wasn't directly related to the bout, my schoolwork and work schedule seemed to double. My life consists of school, work, homework, and not much else. Not to mention that with our first fencing tournament of the season this weekend, Mr. Wrathbone called mandatory weekend practices and optional after school ones. Everything aches.

And Matt tried to apologize, but I refused to talk to him for two days.

"Deryn, please just listen to me. You don't have to say anything back."

At the end of the second day, he caught my shoulder as I rushed from school to get to work on time. It's about a mile walk from the school to the coffee shop, and then just as far home, but I've preferred walking to driving since last year. We couldn't have afforded a car for me anyway.

I didn't push Matt's hand away, just turned around so I could look him in they eye. I said nothing.

"All of this was my fault. I shouldn't have insulted that kid. But nothing bad came from it, see? It was fate, because now he's on varsity and competes as second on the team. He's good, you know. We never would have found him out otherwise!"

I let out my breath in a hiss and started walking. Matt followed. "So you're not really apologizing. Just trying to convince me you did nothing wrong."

The barest hint of relief flashed across his face that I was talking to him again. In truth, I just wanted to speed this up so I could get to work. "That's not what I'm saying at all! I know what I said was wrong, and I've already apologized to Ryan. No hard feelings, he told me. You can ask him if you don't believe me."

Not sure how to respond, I just shrugged and shook my head. "I'm still not sure if I can forgive you."

His step faltered on the pavement, dark gray converse making a scuffing noise to fill the silence. "What more do I have to do, Deryn? Tell me what I can do to fix this–fix us."

"You really want to know?" I demanded, stopped a few feet ahead of him. "It was the way you looked when you said it–like you wantedto hurt him, and for no reason! And the whole time, when I was there, trying to get you to stop, you didn't listen to me. At all. I wasn't even there to you."

He blinked. "Oh. I'm sorry," Matt said, and I could hear the sincerity in his voice. "I didn't realize. That–I can fix that. Let me take you out to dinner after the tournament on Saturday, and I'll prove it to you."

"Matt, I–fine. Yes," I agreed, and his eyes lit up immediately. "But you're walking a thin line," I added, unnecessarily. He nodded gravely.

"See you later, Deryn."

I haven't been completely honest. Or, I suppose, entirely forthcoming. I can't hide that something happened to me. But I've been trying to avoid explaining exactly what happened. It's too difficult to think of more often than not.

It happened almost a year ago. My last school–the Glasgow public school, nothing special–was wrapping up for the year, and everyone was anxious for summer vacation. Myself included.

My boyfriend at the time, two years older and named Andrew, took me to a party out in the country a few weeks before school finished. By the time we left the old barn filled with wasted teenagers, it was around three in the morning and he was absolutely stoned. I half-carried him out because he could barely put one foot in front of the other.

The night was pitch black, clouds covering any stars, so the only light I could see by had leaked out the windows. The dry grass crackled under my feet. My mind was clear–I wasn't a fan of liquor, and Andrew'd had enough for the both of us. Still, he refused to surrender his keys. I was sure that, even though I didn't have my driver's license, it was safer that I drive. He disagreed. After a ten minute argument, I surrendered and climbed into the passenger seat.

For a time, he seemed fine. Though I clenched the armrests and my pulse hammered through my body, we stayed on the road until we were halfway back to the city. After that...

I've told all the counselors, the therapists, and the doctors that I don't remember much. Mostly, that's to get them to leave me alone. I don't want to talk about it, have to say any of it out loud. But I remember all of it. Every moment is lodged into my head as tight as the metal plate that replaces part of my skull.

The first sign was when he started speeding up. The speed limit hadn't changed, but the land on my left side blurred. His knuckles turned white on the steering wheel, and the engine roared with the added speed.

Maybe it wasn't really that loud. Maybe that was my fear, growing with each second. The brain has a funny way of warning of danger.

I'd told him to slow down, to stop, to please just let met drive, but it was like I wasn't even there. Seconds ran into minutes, and the thunder in my ears boomed louder than ever. It may have started raining by then. That is the one thing I can't recall with clarity.

Finally, I'd had enough. If he wasn't hearing me, I would make him. Grabbing his arm, I yelled for him to slow down. Andrew had turned bloodshot eyes on me, shoved my hand off his arm, and followed it with a vicious slap. My cheek burned, and it took me too long to realize we'd drifted far to the right, into the opposing lane and past. I screamed and grabbed hold of the wheel, trying to bring us back before a car came.

By then, it had started to rain. I don't remember when it started, but in that moment the drops were thick on the windshield and the headlights swam.

He jerked the wheel from my hand, and with sickening speed the car lost traction and then we were skidding along the road. I must have screamed, but by then the pressure in my ears was so loud that all sound disappeared.

A flash of lightning illuminated our surroundings like bright daylight, and I saw the telephone pole through Andrew's window. I thought, for the slightest of seconds, that maybe we would miss it, that we weren't hurtling straight for it, but the impact erased all doubt.

The sound of crunching metal must have been loud. It may have even drowned out the peal of thunder. But before I had time to register the crash, pain exploded at the back of my head and I was gone.

My memory is fuzzy from there. I was half-conscious for the arrival of the ambulance, and I was in and out between surgeries. I've seen pictures of what was left of the car, and to this day I cannot understand how I survived.

It wrapped around the pole on the driver's side, crushing Andrew on impact. I'm told he died instantly.

Seven broken bones and four reconstructive surgeries later, I was finally fully awake again. To replace the shattered part of my skull, the surgeons had had to shave off all my hair. The look on my mother's face as she explained what happened is what made me tell her I didn't remember it. She looked like the broken one, not me. I couldn't bear to put her through any more than she'd already been through.

I was in physical therapy most of the summer, and I didn't attend regular school for all of first semester this year. My hair grows fast, but it's still only shoulder-length and I'm barely able to pull it into a low ponytail. Even then, bits are constantly falling out because it doesn't reach all the way to the back of my head. I would pull it up higher, but then my scar would be plainly visible. I don't want to have to explain the three-inch, angry line that rests just above my hairline. I would have to tell them how I was hit in the back of the head by whatever was in the backseat of that car, moving almost ninety miles an hour.

The rest of my scars are easier to explain away. I can say a dog bit my arm, or that my leg got caught on barbed wire. Then they stop asking questions.

Nowadays, I don't much like cars. When my leg isn't hurting–it aches some days, right around my knee–and my destination isn't too far away, I walk when I could get a ride.

Farther down on my list than even cars are the moments when I am being completely ignored and it matters that I be listened to. Moments like the in the canteen, when Matt and Alek almost came to blows. Right then, all I could think of was Andrew, and I froze. Suddenly, I was back in that car and infuriatingly helpless, speeding toward something terrible.

That's why it bothered me so much. Maybe I am overreacting, and Matt is nothing like Andrew, but I can't get rid of the lingering fear that rakes its claws across my chest and burns in my skull. I'll give him another chance because I need to let go.

I blow some hair out of my face and bend over my work again. We've reached the slow part of the evening–not even Alek has come in–so I took it upon myself to begin rewriting the menu on the massive chalkboard. It's big enough that it sprawls across two tables and still hangs off the edges, which will make it more of a bugger to get back on the wall than it was to get off, but I'll be happy so long as it doesn't look so hideous. I've already given it a thorough cleaning, so the black surface shines and my chalk slides along it smoothly.

Newkirk has been watching over my shoulder for a few minutes, but I've chosen to ignore him until now because he hasn't said anything. "So are you going into art as a profession?"

"No," I sigh, glancing at my notes to see how much a chai tea latte costs. "It's more of a hobby."

"Deryn," Newkirk says, "'hobby' is another word for something people like to do, but they are mediocre at at best. So this–" he points from me to the chalkboard "–is not a hobby."

I look up at him, and he shrugs. "I'm going to be a pilot," I tell him. "There isn't much room for whatever this is in flight school. So I call it a hobby."

"A pilot?" he asks. "That's cool, and I guess it makes sense. Blisters, I wish I was so sure what I was going to do with my life. Wasn't there a time when you wanted to be something else?"

Picking chalk dust out from beneath my fingernails, I take my time in answering. "I guess so. I mean–I've always loved the idea of being in the air, but I suppose I once entertained the idea of being an artist as famous as Da Vinci or Van Gogh. I was eight at the time, and most girls were still dreaming of having a herd of unicorns and being a ballerina."

Newkirk gives a fake gasp. "You mean–you never wanted to be a fairy princess?"

I laugh. "Don't be ridiculous. Every girl wants to be a princess. There just aren't enough princes to go around, so we have to settle for something else. And being a pilot—that's not really settling much."

The hinge on the gate that separates the counter from the rest of the shop squeaks as Newkirk passes through. I watch him for a moment. "So, do you have any clue what you want to do when you get out of school?"

He pauses. "No. I could manage some sports team, maybe. I'm not too bad at managing for the fencing team. And it's kind of fun some days," he says, but I can tell he doesn't really mean it. "Are you ready for the meet tomorrow, by the way?"

I swallow hard. The fencing tournament. Right. "Yeah. And I think this sword fighting business is good for me," I say, and shrug. "If I get stuck in a tower someday with a spell cast on me by an evil witch, I won't need a prince to come save me."

A/N: Do you see what I did there? I felt pretty cool for doing that. But, you know. Hey! Don't forget to review! (It's not like I love reviews more than chocolate or anything.)