The second time the screaming happened, I was in math class. The room was quiet, the only noises the ticking of the clock and the occasional shuffling of papers.

Before I could try and stop it, the ticking of the clock became as loud as thunder and the air was ripped from my lungs. The walls of the room began closing in on me, squeezing me with cold stone. I tried to yell for help, but only incomprehensible screaming came from my throat. Then there were scorching hot hands on my skin and I tried to fight them off.

Time blurred with the sight of flashing colored lights and the inside of an ambulance. Then I was alone and looking blankly at a gray ceiling. There was a stain on one of the tiles, and I blinked. My heartbeat slowed. The stain must have been a watermark, it was a discolored cloudlike shape. My muscles loosened, and I was able to breathe deeply for the first time in what seemed like years.

When I could, I thought over what had happened before. They asked me many times where it hurt, and every time I told them nothing hurt.

The door to the room opened and closed with the sound of footsteps. My mother stood there, still in her business clothes, with a doctor I'd never seen before. The doctor gently said my name and I nodded. She started asking the required questions: when had the feeling started, what was I doing, and had it happened before?

At the last question, I glanced at my mother. Then I nodded again and told the doctor about that night when I was at my desk. The doctor took notes and set an appointment with a behavioral psychologist.

Of course, I went straight to Constantine's house after the awkward drive home from the hospital. "You had a tough day, babygirl," she told me after she handed me a slice of pie and patted my cheek. "But you'll be okay, don't you worry."