Disclaimer: I've been noticing that in my reviews, people keep asking when Elsa and Jack will meet again. My only answer to that question is "soon". I'm making big plans for their reunion, but I want to make sure, before that point, that Elsa's evolution into Clara is fully developed and believable, and I want to emphasize how this change affects her relationships with the people she's closest to, as well as how it changes her relationship with herself. It will most likely take me a few more chapters to reach that point, and then the real fun begins, but I wanted to clarify that before continuing with the story.

Anywho, you're all lovely people. Keep reviewing and following, and give me ideas if you have them!

I arrive at school 20 minutes early, like I always do. Walking up to the front doors is the longest three minutes of my life…every morning. There's a group of older students who sit at the picnic tables in front of the school and catcall everyone who walks past, myself included. This morning, their calls include: "Hey brownie! Why don't you come over here and get to know us better?" and "Oh, here comes the Snow Queen!" I flinch a little at the last one, but just clutch my books tighter to my chest and keep my eyes on the ground and eventually reach the safe haven of the school building. I've been at this school for months now, and I still feel like an outsider.

Once inside the school, I head straight to my locker to deposit my homework there for the day. As I'm getting things straightened out, my mind wanders…right back to what the group yelled at me. They called me the Snow Queen. It's true that I've done a pretty good job of keeping people at an arm's distance, but I didn't think I was doing it well enough that the entire school would notice. Tooth and her friends are still the only people who really talk to me, but even they have been getting more and more distant throughout the time I've spent here. Oh, I see them at school and we talk, but eventually, after I shot down enough of their invitations to hang out, they stopped asking. Our friendship is based solely on the fact that we have to spend eight hours together Monday through Friday, and to be honest, I prefer it that way. I keep myself occupied with thoughts like this until the bell rings, summoning us to our first period classes. In my case, it's English with Ms. March.

As I take my seat in the middle of a row of desks, I sneak a glance at the whiteboard at the front of the classroom. There, written in large, loopy letters, is a name: Emily Dickinson.

"Emily Dickinson? Like the poet?" a bored voice from somewhere behind me asks.

Our teacher looks up from the book that she takes attendance in and gives the questioner a hard stare. The silence that suddenly invades the room is so complete, you'd think someone had just died. Ms. March is nothing if not intense – she loves English, and is almost terrifyingly passionate in its defense. "Yes, Eric, that's exactly who she is," she replies calmly.

He groans, accompanied with several more voices now. Tooth slips into the desk next to me while the others are still complaining and gives me a smile. I smile back and turn to Ms. March as she begins her presentation.

"Emily Dickinson, born in Amherst, Massachusetts in 1830, is considered to be one of the most important American poets of all time…"

I zone out. Poetry has never really done it for me. To be honest, no kind of writing really ever did it for me. It didn't need to. I had Jack and Anna and everyone else to go on adventures with; I didn't really have the desire to read extensively about everything. Since I've moved to Arendelle, I've started reading more, just because there really isn't much else to do, but I've stayed away from poetry. I'm not a huge fan of the flowery language and stuff.

I'm just starting to tune back in when I hear my name.

"Clara?"

"Yes?" I don't know what's going on, but I fix my eyes directly on Ms. March.

"Would you care to answer the question?"

There was a question? "Would you mind repeating it please?"

She smiles slightly and nods her head. "I was asking if anyone in the class had ever read any of Dickinson's poetry. Do you know any of her poems?"

Do I know any of Emily Dickinson's poems? That's basically like asking me if I know the density of the moon or the capital of New Zealand. "No, I don't. Sorry, Ms. March."

"Well that's good, that means you'll learn something new today," she says, before moving on to another student. I sigh. At least I didn't get in trouble for not paying attention.

After asking several more students, Ms. March gives us a pained expression, like we all personally wounded her by not knowing any of the works of Emily Dickinson. She turns back to her desk for a moment to snatch up a small, worn book, then takes up a dramatic stance in the front of the room and begins to recite:

"Hope is the thing with feathers –

That perches in the soul –

And sings the tune without the words –

And never stops – at all –

And sweetest – in the Gale – is heard –

And sore must be the storm –

That could abash the little Bird

That kept so many warm –

I've heard it in the chilliest land –

And on the strangest Sea –

Yet – never – in Extremity,

It asked a crumb – of me."

There's a small pause, and then she looks up from her book and we break out into spontaneous applause. Ms. March smiles widely and gives a very elaborate bow that causes her to nearly fall over, eliciting laughter from some students. I just give a slight smile. Clara doesn't laugh very often.

"Thank you. Thank you. Now, for your homework, I want you each to find one poem from Dickinson's works and prepare it for a public recitation, like I just did. If you want to reuse the poem I read, it's called "Hope" is the Thing with Feathers, and you can easily find it on the Internet. I highly suggest you do some extensive searching before settling on one, make sure that you're really made the rounds with her poetry, because there are plenty of hidden gems, just waiting for the right person to come along, read it, and give it personal meaning. Please have your poems chosen by our next class, at which point I will pair you with a partner to begin practicing saying them out loud. Any questions?"

Thousands of questions and concerns rush into my head, but I keep my mouth shut. I can feel panic rising in me like a tidal wave. I have to recite poetry in front of the class? In front of the class?!

When I get home that night, I immediately get on the computer to do some searching. "She just has so many poems," I say to myself out loud. "How am I supposed to choose one?"

"I took my power in my hand…Superiority to fate…" I mutter to myself as I scroll down a list of her works. I'm just about to give up when my eyes rest upon one title: I years had been from home. I click on it, and I just absorb the words.

I years had been from home,

And now, before the door,

I dared not open, lest a face

I never saw before

Stare vacant into mine

And ask my business there.

My business, - just a life I left,

Was such still dwelling there?

I fumbled at my nerve,

I scanned the windows near;

The silence like an ocean rolled,

And broke against my ear.

I laughed a wooden laugh

That I could fear a door,

Who danger and the dead had faced,

But never quaked before.

I fitted to the latch

My hand, with trembling care,

Lest back the awful door should spring,

And leave me standing there.

I moved my fingers off

As cautiously as glass,

And held my ears, and like a thief

Fled gasping from the house.

I haven't been away from home for years, technically, but it still feels like it's been ages. I feel wetness on my cheeks and I realize that I'm crying. What's wrong with you? It's just a poem. But it's not just a poem. Not to me. These words, written by a woman who has been dead nearly 150 years, speaks directly to one of my greatest fears: fear. If I got the chance to go home and see everyone, would I do it? Or would I be too afraid? I suppose that I answered that question already when Jack tried to talk to me on the phone all those months ago, and I hung up on him, rather than listen to what he had to say.

Elsa wouldn't be afraid of seeing the people she loves, I remind myself fiercely. Ah, but that's just it, isn't it? You aren't Elsa anymore. You're Clara. And there isn't anyone that Clara loves.