A/N: Welcome back! In case you don't know why you are here, it's because I have a new chapter for you, and I thought, what better time to post it than on a Wednesday night? (There are probably several, but I didn't want to keep you waiting.) Enjoy and review!

Want to know how I feel?

Imagine tearing out your own stomach, walking around with that pain for a few days, and then putting a band-aid on it and refusing to admit it hurts anymore. That's how I feel. And all because I lost a friend.

Even now, as I'm sitting across from him at the lunch table, I can't look at him. When I do, all I can think of is his lips on mine when I didn't want him to kiss me. I needed a friend who would understand. I was ready to tell him about the wreck–the things I've never told anyone, because he has secrets, too, so he knows how it feels–and then he betrayed my trust.

And suddenly I was in the passenger seat of a car hurtling toward a telephone pole and standing in an alley with an iron grip on my arm and facing a red-headed boy filled with secrets all at the same time. And I couldn't separate the images from each other.

It's still hard. It probably will be until I can sort everything out. I've always sacrificed myself to be part of someone else, and in the process I forgot who exactly I am.

"Not hungry?" Fitzroy asks, an eyebrow raised at my lunch tray. Normally it would be nearly empty by now, but I've barely touched it. Deep thought does that to a person, makes them forget how hungry they are.

Temporarily, that is.

My fingers close around my fork and I stab it into a piece of pineapple. "No, just too worried about the biology test today. I forgot to study," I explain, but only as I say it do I realize that's the truth; I haven't looked at my notes or study guide for days. And rumor has it that Barlow is giving a barking hard test to celebrate that after this, we'll be doing exclusively lab and project work for the rest of the quarter. My stomach does a nervous flip.

"You forgot? Good luck, then," Robert offers with a note of sincerity. "I've been neglecting my trig homework to try and cram more of that stuff into my brain, and I still don't think I'll get an A."

A snort draws my attention to Newkirk. "And by 'neglecting', he means making me do it for him."

Fitzroy points a spoon at him. "Don't forget that you're the one who made that bet in the first place. It's not my fault you're an uncoordinated idiot." He cracks an enormous grin.

Newkirk frowns and adjusts the cuffs on his green button-down. "That is a sore wound, Robert. You need not pour salt in it."

Across the table, Alek smirks but doesn't say anything. His complete silence has only reminded me of his presence through all of lunch.

Fitzroy fills his plastic spoon with over-cooked peas and launches them at Newkirk, who holds up both arms to shield his face.

As rebellion, Newkirk flicks back a single pea that had gotten caught in his sleeve. With guilty looks, they both then scan the wide canteen to see if any professors saw the act of lunchroom warfare.

"What happened, exactly?" I inquire.

Newkirk groans as Fitzroy jerks a thumb at him and answers: "This one didn't think I could best him at extreme table tennis. Let's just say he was dead wrong." The boy leans back just enough to look smug, but then changes his mind and rests his elbows on the table when he remembers that the benches don't have backs on them.

I frown. "So tell me what extreme table tennis is."

"Well," Robert begins, cracking his knuckles. "It's not just table tennis. You also need a big–"

A buzzing sound interrupts him, and before I can blink, the canteen is a flurry of the movement of students rushing to their next class. My reaction is delayed because I'm staring mournfully at my half-full lunch tray.

Fitzroy mouths "I'll tell you later" at me, and I nod, standing. The rest of my milk is chugged and the carton crushed onto my tray, and I pick it up with one hand and swing my backpack over my shoulder with the other. Then I go to join the line of students at the tray return.

My fingers tap impatiently on the strap of my bag. I can't be late to biology, not today. Even if I am a dab hand at the subject, relying on that instead of studying will only earn me a bad grade. So I'd rather not delay the inevitable. If this line would move faster, though, I might have a chance to scan my notes before class starts.

"I'll take care of your tray, Deryn," says a voice that reminds me of green eyes and faded sweaters.

I turn to him, caught between a curled lip and a racing heart. "What makes you think I need you to?" I demand, and have to bite back the acid that eats the edges of my words. He is not Andrew, and he is not Matt. He is Alek.

Or Ryan. Or... someone. Even if I don't know who he is, I know who he isn't.

Alek flinches at my words, and he huddles deeper into his sweater. Today's washed-out knit features a loose string on one of the wrists, and to avoid my gaze he focuses on twirling it between two fingers. "You look nervous," he mutters, and dares a glance at me.

I sigh, forcing my irritation to deflate. "Aye, because I am. It's this biology test," I admit.

Slowly, he nods, as if he is surprised that I'm talking to him. "I don't see why," he replies. "You're fantastic at biology."

I let out a disdainful snort. "I suppose. Biology usually makes so much sense. There isn't any abstract thinking; it's just there, and all the pieces fit together because evolution has taken three-point-six billion years to get it right."

He blinks. "That's a long time."

"You don't say," I reply with a roll of my eyes, and slide my other arm through the strap on my backpack, shifting so the weight of it is distributed more evenly on my shoulders.

We've wasted enough time that the tray return opens up in front of me, and so I dump my remaining food into a trash can and place the tray on the streaked metal surface. Alek drops the shell of his Lunchable in the waste bin and shoves his hands in the pockets of his khaki pants.

"So why are you nervous about this test, then?"

"Because evolution had nothing to do with that woman's awful written exams."

"Oh, right," he agrees. "I'm sure you'll do fine, though."

I bite my lip and push through the doors of the canteen, shivering from the moment the cold air embraces me.

Alek hisses out a breath between his teeth, and we scurry to the sciences building in silence. The walk is short, thankfully, and as Alek wraps a sweater-covered hand around the door knob and pulls, warm air blasts my face and we rush inside.

Barlow's classroom is the first on the right, and the door is propped open to reveal the late-twenties professor sitting at her desk, legs crossed. She is the only female science professor at Leviathan, and one of very few women on campus at all. It never seems to bother her, though, and against my better judgment–that being the automatic dislike of teachers who assign homework on a daily basis–I admire her for it.

We barely make it to our seats before the bell rings, and I exchange a glance with Alek that says both "oh, well" and "good luck".

Without a word, Dr. Barlow collects the stack of tests from her desk and passes a few down each row of students. "Eyes on your own paper," she recites, as every teacher does while handing out a test. "Do your best–points will not be counted off for guessing–and put them on my desk when you're done."

I pull a pencil out of the zipper pocket on my backpack, check to see if it's sharpened, and stick the eraser into my mouth. The metal ferrule is already dotted with grooves from my chewing on it during the last Contemporary Issues test, and I hold the pencil between my teeth as I tap my fingers on the desk. The first question tries to stare me down.

List and describe the four stages of mitosis.

I almost laugh as I scribble down the answer.

No problem.

So, still want to know how I feel?

Imagine... well, imagine standing in the eye of a storm, in a moment of calm that is as fragile as it is deceptive. It's enjoying that moment of peace and refusing to admit that something terrible lurks on the other side. That's how I feel, bundled up in analogy about the weather.

I scrub a wet cloth over the surface of a coffee-marked table and try not to fall into another inner monologue, forcing myself to think of more pressing issues instead.

For instance, the new coffee maker, which I swear is trying to kill me. It came in yesterday, and the morning shift put it together. Now it sits, chrome and menacing, exactly where the old one used to be but twice the size. A glowing blue display brags that the temperature of the coffee inside is one-hundred sixty degrees Fahrenheit. Directly above, the brand is printed in bas-relief: Orion.

It's like it wants to make sure I know it is there. It doesn't even bother hiding in the shadows before it jumps out to spray me with scalding coffee or yell at me in stubborn beeps. I suck on the knuckles of my right hand, which are now profoundly sore and an angry red color.

"I'm never touching that thing again," I announce, and point a finger at the offending machine. Newkirk snorts and pats it on the side.

"Afraid of a little technology, Sharp?"

"Yes," I confirm. "Especially when it's trying to kill me."

He laughs and reaches behind his back to retie his dark brown apron, a cell phone appearing in one hand when he's finished. It's sleek and gray, like the coffee maker.

"New phone?" I ask.

"Yeah." He hits a few buttons, more than likely texting Rachel. "I've been saving up for this thing for the last month."

I grimace. "Don't break it."

He nods and places it gingerly back in his pocket. "I hope not. I'm getting one of those heavy-duty cases tomorrow. You know, like the ones that people get if they spend lots of time around violent toddlers. Won't be able to break it if I try."

"Quit, you'll curse it," I admonish with a grin. "Hey, do you have a partner for the biology labs yet?"

"Yeah. We picked those ages ago, remember?"

"Maybe your class did," I say with a frown, "but I don't think my class has chosen partners."

He shakes his head, and straightens a pile of napkins next to the cash register. "We keep the same partners all semester. So you're stuck with whoever you partnered with for the microscope lab."

I rinse out the rag and drop it into the sink, then lean on the counter after moving as far away from the evil coffee maker as possible. "Oh. Who was my partner for that?" I wonder aloud.

"Well, I don't know," Newkirk says.

"Rhetorical question." I roll my eyes. "Now let me think."

He laughs out loud. "Don't hurt yourself!"

I silence him with a well-aimed arm punch. "Shut up." Now his shoulders shake with silent laughter, but at least he's quiet. "Right," I realize with a pit in my stomach. "Alek was my lab partner."

"Cool. I didn't get to choose my partner because I was gone that day for a dentist appointment, of all things. Now I have to spend the rest of the semester at a lab table next to..." He shudders dramatically. "Robert Fitzroy."

I punch him in the shoulder again. Harder this time, but I can't help letting a little laugh escape. "You are such an idiot."

"Be careful what you say, or I will sick the coffee machine on you. I'm not afraid." His eyes shine with humor, and he can barely keep a straight face.

"Or you're too afraid," I point out. "Using a machine to fight your battles is hardly brave."

From under the cash register, he snatches a pair of reading glasses and places them on the tip of his nose. "Bravery is not the absence of fear, young Padawan, but the mastery of it."

"That's not even a Star Wars quote!"

"Everything is a Star Wars quote, Deryn. Everything." He waggles his eyebrows, which looks especially ridiculous with the reading glasses sitting beneath them.

I sigh and pluck the glasses off of his nose, tossing them back underneath the register. "I have a very bad feeling about this. You worry me, Eugene Newkirk." With a shake of my head, I push through the door to the back room to retrieve some homework from my backpack.

As they swing shut behind me, I hear Newkirk cry, "That was a Star Wars quote!"