Mrs. Allar's desk is very long. It's made of a fake, light brown wood, with darker, uneven streaks running across. The underside is dark green, and at the bottom of each silver leg is a little soft pad, to keep it from scratching the floor. Right by Mrs. Allar's blue swivel chair is a smaller, fixed chair, where Mrs. Allar can talk with her students, during Study Hall or other times she needs to speak with someone. I know that I'm supposed to sit in that chair, but I'm just staring at it blankly, too scared to enter. And I thought Geremy acted weird when he got in trouble. I almost laugh.

Mrs. Allar is a very beautiful woman. She's only about twenty-seven or twenty-eight, with a husband and a little boy, who's not even a year old. Her hair is long and black, and today, rests on top of her head in its usual bun. Her complexion is smooth and clean, the color of cinnamon. Complimenting her hair and skin are her eyes, big and dark brown, framed by thin black glasses. "Brooke," She says calmly, with her clear, slightly mystical voice. "Do you want to sit?"

I snap out of it, and nod a few times. "Okay," I accept, sitting down in the Electric Chair. Every teacher in LSMSEA has a chair by their desk for a student, and most of the students call them Electric Chairs, because for most of the teachers, they're like torture devices. I don't let Mrs. Allar see that my hands are clenched around the sides of the chair. I have no idea what to expect.

Mrs. Allar leans in close. "Brooke, if you don't want to talk about it, that's okay. But are you okay? After what happened yesterday?" She asks quietly. I can't help it-I wince, and recoil. Saying no to Geremy was fine. But saying no to a teacher....no one would do that. Right?

"Uh. Um, yeah, I'm okay. I just had a seizure, they happen all the time. Uh, it wasn't much, I just needed some medicine, and, um, some rest. Bu-but I'm here now, so it's okay," I mumble, trying to deflect her concern. My eyes stare at the ground, and I resist the urge to pull my hood over my head. It's ridiculous, but I'm suddenly aware of the state of my hair. I just scooped it up with a clip this morning, I didn't even check the mirror. And of course, my stupid hand is dying to reach up and touch it, sure that I'll find large tufts of knotty brown hair piling on top of me and flyaways surrounding my head like a halo. Not exactly the perfect student.

"Okay. Well, I'm glad you're alright. Brooke, if that keeps happening, I want you tell me, okay?" Mrs. Allar reassures me, reaching out and wrapping her fingers around my hand. I want to tell her. I want her to yell at the kids in the hallway who swore that I had almost died, only listening to what they want to hear, and trading rumors as if it's nothing but a game. I want to show them that their cruel and mocking lies that they tell each other comes with a price. But that won't be any different than what they're doing to me. It'll just be out of spite, and I want to act out of courage. So I look at her, plastering on a grin, and nod.

"Great. Thank you, that makes me feel less worried," She sighs, and the smile on my face suddenly weighs a ton. Why was she worried in the first place? I'm no different from her other students. I can handle myself. It takes everything in me not to let my fake grin falter, my eyes look at the ground. I'm starting to wonder why I find the boring, dirty floor so appealing to look at. No one else does. But my own pride and annoyance at her comment has gotten by heart pounding.

"Brooke, there's one more thing we should talk about," Mrs. Allar says darkly, and she grabs my attention. This time, I can't keep the smile up. My face falls, and Mrs. Allar's relief for me is gone, as though it were just a flash of an illusion. "Yes?" I squeak nervously, my face cold. She sighs. "I hate to say this, but you are far behind in our math class. I know you're intelligent, but a lot of your homework is late, and incorrect. You struggle in class, and are constantly distracted, causing a bit of a disruption. Your grade on the last test...it didn't quite make the cut. You're going to have to sign up for tutoring."

Her words are like a hand, large, strong, and harsh, wrapping it's firm fingers around my throat, and cutting off all air. Everything in me hurts, and I want to crawl into a hole and hide from the shame piling up so thick, I could make those rumors of me vomiting true. Tutoring?!? Oh, God. Oh, no. Oh, no, no. What will my parents say? They're always telling their friends how proud they are of Tracey and me, how smart we are, and how we excel in school. They're going to be so mad. I bite my lip to keep from crying, and have no idea that the news is going to take a turn for the worst.

"The tutoring group for this class takes place on Tuesdays, from 5:00 to 6:30. You talk it over with your parents, and we'll sign you up. Don't worry, Brooke, it's not that bad." Mrs. Allar's voice becomes gentle at the end, like she's soothing a heartbroken child. Well, she is. That's what I am.

"Tuesdays?" I ask, my voice wobbling. I feel lightheaded. "5:00 to 6:30?" Mrs. Allar nods. My stomach rolls.

That's the same time as the running program, the 'Milky Raptors,' as we call it. Don't ask about the name, but we're a team. They are my best friends in the whole world. I wouldn't give up that program for anything. Especially not some tutoring group! No. No, I couldn't. No!

"Is there any other time I could be tutored?" I beg, tears leaping to my eyes. Ugh, she's right. I'm such a wimp. No. You can't say no to a teacher. Mrs. Allar reaches out and grabs my hand. I stare at it through a blurred world. The pain in my chest is like a knife, making its way deeper and deeper through flesh, blood, bone, and organ, until it pierces my heart. I can't give up the running. Not for anything in the world. In the worst of times, the Milky Raptors are my only salvation. Tutoring?! Math is one of those worst times. I'm not giving up my only happiness for even more suffering!

"Brooke, what's wrong? Is there a conflict?" Mrs. Allar asks. Yes, I want to say. Yes, there is a major conflict. I have to make a choice-either give up my running, or face harsh disappointment from my parents. 

What a choice to make. Neither option will lead me anywhere good. But with keeping running, at least I'll still have one safe space. One place to be myself, while the world falls apart around me. So I look at her, trying desperately to cover up my heartbreak, and nod. "I-I have running," I whimper, lifting up a hand to wipe away a rebellious tear. Mrs. Allar releases my hands, her eyebrows clenched in confusion, but her dark eyes are full of sympathy.

"We have running here, too, on Fridays," She suggests, non-helpfully. My face, against my will, twists into a scowl. Oh, I know about the LSMSEA Cross Country team. I know how it meets every Fridays, right after school. I know how every runner finds their best friends there, and how it's one of the most successful running teams in Arwick. I know how great it is. I know how it doesn't allow kids with any sort of disability to try out. I know, oh, I know, how seventh grade girls with ADHD and epilepsy beg every single season to even have a chance at running with them, but the coaches insist that she doesn't have a chance, and shoo her off and stamp on every hope she has, like one might do to a fly. I know all of these things far too well. But I'm not going to admit that. I drop the glare.

"Oh. Right. Um, well...." My voice trails off. You can't say no to a teacher. Tracey wouldn't say no. But of course, I'm not Tracey. Never have been, never will be. I don't think I will ever be just like my sister, or even close, with complete and absolute freedom, a world where every living creature adores and respects her, and not a doubt in her mind that she can make it to what she wants, no matter what. The thought brings on a sigh, and again, I curse myself for my stupid jealousy, but I can't help it. My older sister has the perfect life. Me? Well. Right now, I'm being forced to give up the only thing that I truly enjoy and feel happy in for math tutoring. Math tutoring! Never have I felt so imperfect

"Okay, well, why don't you try out for that, and tell your parents about tutoring." Mrs. Allar glances at the clock. "Oh, my, Brooke, this conversation took a lot longer than I expected. You have to get to class. We can talk about this more if you want, but I think that I've made my point." She smiles a little, but there is nothing I want to do less than smile. I am numb. I can't think. My heart is shreds. It's almost impossible to believe this. How? How could I give up my running, which is the one, the only, stable thing in my life? How did I take for granted? And why, why do I have to quit? No. I don't have to. I won't, I can't , give it up. Not for anything! Something in my mind is brewing. It's not much yet, but it will be. Somehow, I will get the Milky Raptors back. I have to.