Chapter 1

In the three years I have spent at East Lakefield High School, I never knew the tile floor

of the language hall girls bathroom could be so unforgivingly cold. I also never thought Id be

learning this trivial fact, let alone experiencing it 13 minutes before school was supposed to end

on an April Tuesday. But here I am, with my scrunched up body pressed against the hard tile and

my lungs trying to suppress my sobs so they wont alert the two other girls in the bathroom to the

fact that there is a freakish girl spewing snot and tears from her face in the handicap stall.

Five hours earlier

I marched into Mrs. Clarks office, ready to be congratulated on finally achieving the title

of first in my class--Valedictorian. Grades from Term 3 had just been posted, so the class ranks

wouldve been updated. I was ready to hear her cries of congratulation while confetti magically

fell from her office ceiling when she told me that I made it to first after all.

Good morning, Lucy, how are you today? Mrs. Clark greeted me, her soft blue eyes

peeking out from behind her glasses.

F-f-fine, rushed out of my mouth as I swung into the chair in front of her desk.

So regarding your class rank, She began.

My folded hands tightened and I shifted further to the edge of my seat, almost falling off.

It hasnt changed. Sorry honey, but youre still number two.

My shoulders sank and sweet Mrs. Clark tried to give me a reassuring half-smile. She

had probably grown tired of my making-an-appointment-to-check-my-class-rank-and-see-if-I-

had-made-it-to-first-the-day-after-the-term-ends routine, but she always tried to console me with

The Grin.
 But The Grin doesnt help. It doesnt let me parade around my house, exciting my

parents with the news of being the amazing first in my class. They could then go brag to their

friends about me, claiming how much smarter I am than their measly children. I dont even

know whos actually first. At least if I had that slight tidbit of information, I could loathe the

person down to second as I take over their throne.

Now Lucy, I know youre disappointed, but Im afraid your class rank is not the greatest

of your problems right now.

I didnt blink. I didnt even respond. I just waited for her explanation.

You see, your problem is with your Honors Junior English class. Your grades in that

class have consistently been A-minuses this whole year--which of course are excellent grades,

but I know how important your class rank is to you. So, I spoke with Ms. Meyers and she

explained to me that the problem isnt your writing--your writing is nearly perfect--its with your

participation.

Oh that word. Out of the thousands of words in the English language, participation

was the worst. Somehow, participation had come to be defined as how much you ramble on and

on in class. Apparently, my participation through the power of listening wasnt good enough for

Ms. Meyers, earning me an oh so beautiful 0 for my participation grade every term. For Gods

sake, not speaking doesnt mean Im not paying attention! My mind was probably the most alert

out of the twenty-one others in that class.

She is even concerned about your ability to handle AP English next year. Apparently

that class involves a lot of class discussion. Mrs. Clark furrowed her brow at me and I sank

further into my chair. But My ears perked up. After explaining your, um, situation, Ms.

Meyers has made a very generous offer and promised me that you can improve your participation
grade this term in a different way. I leaned in, face still, body nearly ready to fall on the floor.

She has suggested that you tutor a student.

My butt hit the ground. W-What? I crammed out of my mouth as I scurried back into

my chair. Tutor a student? How does participation even relate to tutoring?

Yes. Ms. Meyers wants you to prove your ability to collaborate and help other

students.

Oh no. I could read the secret teacher code. My English teacher thinks Im stupid.

She would like to talk to you after school today.

I survived the rest of my classes, avoiding my AP chemistry teachers gaze when she

asked questions and spending all my down time obsessing over my French presentation last

period. How on Earth could I talk in front of the whole class about Les Trois Mousquetaires

without using any stutter words? I brainstormed a few replacements, but could not figure out

how to avoid any words beginning with D when the main characters name was DArtagnan. I

was screwed.

At lunch, I sat next to Addison as she chatted with all of her track friends at our table.

Weve been best friends since we became biology lab partners when I was a freshman and she

was a sophomore. I was able to have a senior as my best friend because I take a couple classes

with the grade above mine. Unfortunately, I didnt have a chance to voice my worries about my

French presentation to her before the bell rang.

Heading to last period, I weaved through the halls, disappearing into the crowds of people

with my short stature and long, ordinary brown hair hiding my face. As I approached room 107,

I felt my heart drop into my stomach. I pretended like I was picking at my fingernails so I could

avoid the teachers gaze.

 Monsieur Fournier greeted me at the door to his classroom with a curt nod, Bonjour

Lucy.

I faked a cough in the opposite direction.

As I sat at my desk, preparing for my presentation, I started to feel nauseous and the

room began to spin. I could hear the thud of my heart against my chest and wondered if the boy

sitting next to me could hear it too. I didnt even listen to the other students present their

projects, as my auditory capabilities were overwhelmed with thud, thud, thud.

Madame Davidson? Monsieur Fournier startled me out of the beat. Tu es prt?

For a prolonged moment, my eyes met his and I quickly swallowed and responded with a

faint Oui.

My feet shuffled to the front of the classroom. I stared at the clock. Okay, its only five

minutes. In five minutes it will be over. All I needed to do was slow down my pace of talking.

If I slowed down, maybe I wouldnt stutter and my presentation would stretch out so I wouldnt

have to include every little detail.

I began. Throughout my day, I had been rehearsing the presentation in my mind,

practicing avoiding all stutter words, except for DArtagnan, of course. But as my mouth opened

to speak, all of that rehearsal slipped out of my brain through my ear.

All I could do was push through. I couldnt even think to avoid stutter words and began

to trip on words that were rarely a problem. My throat was tied into a knot, my vocal cords

struggling to untie it so they could sound. I was stuttering so hard that it physically hurt.

For the whole time, I could only focus on the ground, too afraid to look up. But suddenly

my brain wanted my eyes to see everyones expressions as I cowered through my presentation.

My eyes darted up. All I saw were eyes staring back at me. Everyones eyes. I glanced to the
back of the room to see M. Fournier scribbling down notes on my rubric. Like a truck, it hit me.

I was about to fail a presentation--a test grade. Bits of broken words stopped tripping out of my

mouth and I could barely think. I tried to come up with a plausible solution but my mind went

blank.

Without even realizing it, I turned my head towards the door. For what felt like hours but

was more like two seconds, I gazed at the door, wide-eyed. I didnt even turn back to M.

Fournier but shrieked out, Excusez-moi! as I sprinted out the door.

Buckets of tears pooled at the rims of my eyes. Frantically, I forced the bathroom door

open and barreled into the handicap stall.

So here I am. I watch the time on my phone switch to 1:57 as I hear the footsteps in the

bathroom fade out and the door swing shut. I look underneath the stall to double check that Im

the only girl occupying the bathroom and I crawl out to retrieve some paper towels. Splashing

water on my face and washing off the residue of snot, tears, and mascara, I breathe out for what

seems like the first time since I ran into the bathroom. The final bell rings. I throw out the paper

towels and take the walk of shame back to French to get my bag.

Luckily, M. Fournier has popped next door to talk to a Latin teacher so Im in the clear.

For now, at least. My brain is unable to even consider what will happen tomorrow.

I head to the exit, ready to free myself from the schools rusty chains. My body is about

to cross the threshold when I freeze in the doorway.

Oh, I almost forgot. I have to go meet my tutee.