Seattle, Washington, Monday, December 7th, 2015 06:00

The thermometer marked thirty degrees when her phone buzzed next to her neck, waking her up. The sky was clear, without any clouds whatsoever. The only things that blocked the stars were pollution, either the smog or the city lights. Sara rubbed her hands together and stood from her makeshift alley bed. She checked the backpack with her clothes, then the school backpack with her books.

Her face was freezing cold but she shrugged and wrapped another scarf around her mouth and nose, leaving only a gap for the eyes. Sara took both bags and walked out of the alley. After walking for a block, she entered a mom-and-pop bakery and shivered as the heat struck her reddened skin.

"Welcome!" The shop owner, Mr. Bartley, greeted her. "Sara, is that you? You're bloody early!"

"Hello, Mr. Bartley. I'd like coffee and a bagel," she greeted back and climbed on a bar stool by the counter.

"You're ready for school, I see. The bus won't come this way for another half hour! Did something happen?" He asked, his worry increasing as he assessed the girl's condition. "Take the scarf off, I'm going to raise the heater five degrees," he suggested but it was almost a demand. "Espresso?"

"Normal coffee is fine," she replied as she hesitated to remove her scarf.

Mr. Bartley smiled, then went for the espresso machine anyway, "Have a free upgrade on the house," he decided. "But take off that scarf."

Begrudgingly, she removed the scarf. Sara hoped her face wasn't so frostbitten but by the frown on the baker's face, while he worked the espresso machine, it was. Mr. Bartley brought the coffee before asking, "Is everything okay, Sara?"

"I'm peppy, thank you," She tried to smile. It came out fake. Sara's mind was too turbulent for normal social white lies.

He went to the back door and peeked inside. "Emily, a moment, please!" He took a cloth napkin and steamed it on the espresso machine. He felt her temperature with the underside of his forearm, then handed it over to her with a smile. "Press it against your face like you are getting ready to shave your beard."

Sara narrowed her eyes, glaring at him. She didn't want his kindness. It actually hurt her, because of what she intended to do before she left the bakery.

He pushed the napkin further her way, "Humor me, my dear. I'm sure you've seen how men do it."

She sighed, then removed the rest of the scarf and plastered the warm napkin to her face. Mrs. Bartley arrived on the scene and approached Sara as her husband waved her forward.

"Goodness gracious, what are the Millers thinking? Sara, did your parents turn off the heating or something like that?"

Sara frowned and felt the stuff she shoved down her metaphorical throat threatening to come up... She promised she wouldn't cry over their betrayal. Hearing someone call those robbers her "parents" hurt more than she believed it would. "Something like that, yes." She said dismissively and winced as the memory came in full sixty-four million colors and high resolution. Like she was watching the crappy B-movie of her life. Yesterday, they had evicted her the moment they returned from the bank, then locked the apartment and disappeared in their car. She pondered if she should tell them what they did. Instead, Sara sipped her coffee in silence.

"Do you know where they are now?" A worried Mr. Bartley asked as he put a bagel in front of her.

She snorted derisively and dug into the bagel, "I doubt anyone knows. If you do, call 911."

Mrs. Bartley exchanged a glance with her husband, who nodded and quietly placed two more bagels in a paper bag.

Sara shoved the rest of the bagel in her mouth, quaffed the coffee over it, then climbed down from the stool. She took a five-dollar bill from her pocket, the only money left in her name. "Keep the change and thank you for everything. I have a bus to catch."

The older woman moved to take the banknote but instead grasped Sara's hand gently. Mr. Bartley took the paper bag, now with three bagels from under the counter and pushed it forward. "It's on the house," they spontaneously said in tandem.

If Sara had one weak point, it was kindness. She wasn't used to it. God knew how crappy her life was since the accident, bouncing from foster home to foster home. She looked at the discarded damp napkin, to the bag with bagels. Removing her hand from Mrs. Bartley's grasp, she placed the money on the crumb-filled plate and took the bag. She didn't dare to look away before saying, "Thank you."

As she beelined to the door, Sara finally understood what "walk of shame" meant. She entered the bakery intending on distracting the baker to do a quick grab-and-run on the cash register. She knew she would never return to this neighborhood anyway, what difference would it make?

She hurried to the school bus stop, mumbling "Stupid, stupid" to herself repeatedly.

*

*

Seattle, Washington. Wednesday, January 20th, 2016 18:12.

Her heart threatened to burst from her chest like some movie alien creature. Sara turned left at the last moment and entered a side alley, squeezing herself between two trash dumpsters. She hoped she had been inconspicuous and only stopped when she reached her backpacks. She glanced around, upward, and then sat on a paint drum. She reached for her hoodie pocket and produced a leather wallet.

Grinning, she opened it. Her smile crashed as she saw the driver's license. Ethan something, she didn't have the nerve to read the full name. She started rifling through the contents. Credit cards, debit cards, a photo of a woman, business cards, and finally a stack of four ten-dollar bills in the money compartment. Ethan would spend more than twice that amount to get everything reissued. Not to mention the cost of the brand leather wallet itself.

That's what she became. From seven to three she was a model student, then she was a pickpocket until bedtime. Wherever bedtime happened to happen. She became friends with the cold of winter in Seattle. She learned where to sleep and where not to sleep.

She took a pack of wet wipes and a small bottle of rubbing alcohol, then cleaned the wallet and the documents. While she did that, she found a secret pouch behind the card stack, with two neatly folded C-notes. She moved those to her bra, sighing that the only purpose of wearing the piece was to hide high-denomination money.

Dinner was guaranteed, at least for today. Sara took her bags and left the alley, carefully checking to see if anyone was paying attention to her. Some did as she exited the alley but she soon merged into the foot traffic and went along it for a handful of blocks. She never stayed in the same area after what she called a big heist.

Along the way, she dropped the wallet in a mailbox, then took a bus whose doors were about to close. That would shake any tails, for sure. Five stops later, she got off the bus and into a Wendy's. It was dinner time.

*

*

Seattle, Washington. Wednesday, November 22th, 2017 14:00.

Standing before a safe she didn't own, Sara froze when she heard the siren outside the house. No, it wasn't supposed to happen. It didn't happen in the last five houses, why now? She did everything by the book. She scouted the place, marked the residents' schedule, and even learned they would be off-city for Thanksgiving. She made sure she wasn't seen coming in, she didn't trigger the alarm when she picked the lock.

The documents in the safe before her were bad news. She messed with someone nobody should mess with. If the ledger she found was real, the owner of this house was… someone that should be locked in Federal prison forever, to say the least.

She moved to the kitchen, intending to leave with only the money with her. The jewels and watches in the safe needed to be fenced but the money was untraceable. She just needed to...

"Eek," she let out a faint shriek when she saw the flashlight causing a glare through the sand-washed kitchen windows. The back door was blocked and she confirmed it after staying quiet for a while, listening to the heavy steps of a man outside.

She climbed the stairs and then the ladder to the attic. There, a small porthole would allow her to slip...

No way.

She could see light filtering through the porthole edge, which would allow her to jump down on the next lot, also empty. She heard the front door open.

"Seattle PD!" A man shouted. "We know you are here, girl, and we have the owner's permission to enter. Show yourself with your hands behind your head. Go, clear the house."

More footsteps, this time too many to count. Several people entered the house and started combing through it, shouting "clear" every now and then. Sara looked at the money, then decided to hide it inside one of the boxes lying around. She would be charged with breaking and entering, but not with burglary. After dumping her lockpicks inside yet another box, She removed her beanie, ruffled her hair, and hid behind some crates near the hot water pipe. If anyone asked, she would say she entered the house to warm up, because it was thirty-two degrees outside.

With her plan formed, she laid next to the pipe and pretended to sleep.

It didn't work. She heard the attic floorboards creaking as someone heavy approached. "Sarge, I got one. It's a girl." Something nudged against her leg. Sara didn't move. "She seems to be asleep, over."

Then a voice buzzed on the radio, "Ten-four, don't touch her, McCraig. Officer Jenkins is on her way. Jenkins, do you copy? Over."

A woman this time, "Affirmative, sarge. I'm climbing the stairs now. Fred, is she armed? Over."

"Not that I can see, no. She's wearing a coat, though. Over."

Officer Jenkins again, "Of course, she is wearing a coat, it's thirty degrees out there. Move away from her and put your gun away. We don't want another incident. Over."

Someone climbed the metal ladder and moved on to the attic. The floorboards protested less than before, confirming it was a woman.

"You can stop pretending to sleep, kid," Officer Jenkins said. "I'll give you a Starbucks Hot Cocoa if you come with me now. Scout's honor." Silence, then she said, "Did anyone call child services? I think we have a stray here."

Silence again, then Sara felt someone blow in her ear. She couldn't resist and stirred, waving a hand to block the air current. With her eyes closed, she struck someone.

"Assault on an officer! Repeat, Assault on an officer!" Fred the cop shouted over the radio, his voice parroted by the radio on the woman right next to Sara.

That got her to open her eyes, completely freaking out. She scuttled to the corner of the attic, staring at the two cops flashing lights straight into her eyes. A classic deer-in-headlights situation.

She saw the woman stand up and push the shouting man away, "Fuck off, Fred. Seriously, what is wrong with you?" Once again, her voice came out on Fred's radio as well. "And close the god damned channel, you idiot. If you want to see what an assault on an officer really means, come to the training ring at the gym tomorrow. Sarge, why is this fucker not pushing pencils back at the office instead of out here scaring citizens? Seriously, Fred. Step. The. Fucking. Down. Literally this time. Get out of this attic. Over."

Sarge's voice. "You heard the lady, Fred. Return to your patrol car, and stay there. This is an order. Jenkins, bring the girl with you."

"Fred, move," Officer Jenkins said, then turned around, putting her back between Sara and Officer Fred. "It's fine. The scary man is gone. Come with me, my darling."

Sara saw the cop take her cellphone out and tapped a few times on the screen. Then she turned the phone around and she saw herself picking the lock on the safe. Her face wasn't visible but she realized how the police arrived so fast. The house owner had hidden cameras in the house. She slowly stood up, hands in the air.

After frisking her, officer Jenkins smiled and crooned to encourage her. "There, there. Now, you can go ahead, slowly and steady. No sudden moves. Watch your foot, easy does it. Now, stop and don't move."

Sara complied. Jenkins followed her, speaking into her radio. "Jenkins here. I searched the suspect, she has no weapons. Repeat, the suspect is a juvenile and is unarmed. Over."

"Ten-four," Sarge said over the radio. "Bring her to the front door, Jenkins. Good Job. Over."

The two women slowly made their way to the living room. An older police officer, probably Sarge, was talking to a man on the huge TV. Sara recognized the house owner from the family portraits. The video background was a hotel room.

"So this is the little bitch that broke into my safe! Take her away, gentlemen. And good job."

Jenkins clapped her shoulder. "Stay here and don't move." She exchanged a glance with the sergeant, then turned to look at the hidden camera in the corner of the ceiling molding. "Sir, thank you for cooperating. We are definitely pressing charges against the burglar that's in our custody now. We need you to confirm what was stolen. We found cash with her, but some objects appear to be missing from the safe. Can you tell us what was in there so we can make a detailed report for the prosecution?"

Sara shuddered. Why were the cops lying to the house owner? Did it have something to do with the ledger she found?

"I'll take the next flight tomorrow morning to Seattle. Do not concern yourselves with that. How much did she take?" The man on the TV asked, suspicious.

"Ten thousand," Sara said, aware she had just waived her fifth amendment rights. It felt like the right thing to do, though. "A stack of a hundred C-notes, with the bank band intact.

"She just confessed," the man grinned. "Take her out of my house. You can also help yourselves out, officers."

"Sure. Once we finish processing the crime scene," Sarge said.

The man was getting angry, "You already arrested the criminal. There's no need to continue inside my property. I insist. Leave."

Sara almost snorted. Of course, he would want the cops out of his house as fast as possible. She belatedly noticed that she wasn't handcuffed.

Sarge's radio buzzed, and something inaudible was spoken. "We have to take the money with us as evidence."

"No problem, do what you must. Just go."

Sarge smiled, "Well, sir, Seattle PD thanks you for your cooperation. You can get a copy of our report as well as our body camera footage if your attorney files a motion of discovery if you intend to pursue a civil lawsuit against the criminal for damages. The money bundle will be treated as a single piece of evidence and the paper band will remain there. We'll note the banknotes' serial numbers, and you can retrieve the evidence once it is no longer necessary. We need your phone number to contact you in case the DA wants you to testify in court. Could you give it to us?"

Was Sarge stalling for time? Sara had no idea what was going on, but the cops were being too polite with the man. He was nobody important in the political scene or in any wealthy social circles. Sara made sure to target only those who could afford to be burgled but wouldn't overdo the security. She had obviously screwed up, but yet…

"My attorney will contact you. Last time, leave."

"Sir, we need to process the crime scene. The investigators…"

"Leave!" He shouted at the camera in his hotel room.

"Well, sir. I'm sorry. My investigator found evidence that the girl had a weapon she left in your attic. We must retrieve it."

"That's a load of bullshit and you know it! I order you to leave my property. I'll sue your department for trespassing."

Sarge's radio buzzed. Sara heard the words, "We got it."

Now the senior police officer grinned. "That's understandable, sir. Jenkins, bring the suspect with you. We're leaving."

"Let's go," officer Jenkins held her shoulder and gently nudged her forward.

The three started to walk to the front door. Sarge stopped before he left, and extended a hand outside. A man wearing a tactical vest with the letters "FBI" in yellow over his breast entered.

"FBI, we got a search warrant for the house. Step aside, officers."

Another three agents entered the house. She heard a shout, distant and with a slight electronic distortion filtering through the TV. "FBI, open up!"

Jenkins giggled and guided Sara out of the house. "Let's have that Starbucks Hot Cocoa. Sarge is buying," she joked and got a glare from her boss. "Oh. You're under arrest. Anything you say can and will…"

*

*

Seattle, Washington, Tuesday, November 28th, 2017 14:00.

A man in a suit, a woman in a demure dress and a scrawny teenage girl wearing jeans and a T-shirt sat in an office. The man, who clearly is the office's owner, was across the desk from the two women. Books upon books on most subjects but mostly on law decorated the mahogany bookshelves. A small flag denoting national pride hung from a pole between them. Diplomas and awards occupied the wall that books and flags didn't. Finally, a wide window was the entire fourth wall, letting in the afternoon sunshine.

The girl was in deep trouble but she could care less. In all honesty, she cared about very few things.

"Miss Miller, do you know why you're here?" The man asked.

Should she care to check, she would see a chromed nameplate saying "William Gibson, ADA". Though she didn't avoid eye contact, the question went unanswered. William kept his composure.

"Did you hear me?" He pressed.

"Yes," She answered in a flat, almost robotic tone.

"Do you know why you are here?" He repeated himself.

"Yes."

"Can you tell me why?"

"Yes," She said and immediately shut her mouth.

His eyes twitched. "Would you tell me why?"

"I invoke the fifth amendment. I will not testify against myself."

"Sara, please," the woman next to the girl said. "We aren't here to throw you in jail, we are here to help you."

Sara turned her head to stare at her newly-assigned social worker, Ms. Higgs. Never been married, she assumed. Her former caseworker, Mr. Hodges, was on the wanted list for dereliction of duty, gross negligence, and conspiracy to commit fraud. He lazed so hard to reach his retirement age only to fuck up at the end. The millers screwed everyone up on their way to undeserved riches. She crossed her arms and glared at the prosecutor.

"Sara, this is a friendly conversation. Can I call you Sara, Ms. Miller?" Gibson tried to be friendly.

"I demand my lawyer. I don't answer questions. My last name isn't Miller."

Gibson looked at the sheaf of papers on his desk, then at Ms. Higgs.

"Mr. Gibson, that document is invalid. The Millers exploited a loophole in the adoption system and withdrew their application before the last step. Judge Wilkinson deemed Sara's adoption invalid. I have the court transcripts here with me," she handed him some papers.

William read them quickly, his feigned friendly face turned into a frown. "I need to discuss this with Wilkinson. This hole needs to be plugged. This way, no other child will have to go through what you did. Isn't that right, Sara?"

She had to use all her willpower to not tell the ADA to go fuck himself. Instead, she vented by mumbling under her breath, "Too little, too late."

"Also, we filed a motion to allow Sara to change her name back. It would be kind of you not to call her by the thieves' last name," Ms. Higgs said in an attempt to placate the girl. It didn't work.

Sara tuned out the conversation between the ADA and her social worker. Until they addressed her.

"I got your school report, Sara." She looked up, feeling betrayed. Yet she said nothing. "It's strange but laudable that you kept attending school."

"I believe our Sara never wanted a life of crime," Ms. Higgs said. "She lost her trust in us adults when the Millers betrayed her. She lost her trust in social services when Mr. Hodges facilitated the theft of her inheritance. Yet she knew that if she were to have a future, she needed to graduate."

She felt embarrassed by the over-the-top but bullseye compliment. That's exactly how she felt and she immediately became wary of Ms. Higgs for being so perceptive. Sara liked her cards close to her chest.

"Sara—" Gibson started but was cut off by her.

She blinked a tear away and spoke without raising her head. "I claimed my Miranda right to counsel and my fifth amendment rights. Please cease any questioning."

"I believe we should adjourn our conversation, Mr. Gibson," Ms. Higgs suggested. "Sara will be released under my custody, as agreed, right?"

"Indeed. I'll see you soon, Sara."

*

*

ADA Gibson's office, Seattle, Washington, Monday, January 22th, 2018 08:00.

"Soon", in lawyer jargon, meant two months, Sara reckoned. But she wasn't in jail and out of the streets, so two months without seeing the glib-tongued prosecutor was a win in her book.

Guided by Ms. Higgs, Sara entered the ADA's office. Mr. Johnson, the lawyer who took her case pro bono and Mr. Gibson were already inside and a third chair faced the desk. She took the middle one as Ms. Higgs sandwiched her.

"Sara, welcome," Mr. Gibson said. "I was talking to Mr. Johnson here about your deal. How's the new foster home?"

Sara just stared at the ADA, then at Mr. Johnson for help. "You may answer the question."

"It's good. I am grateful to Ms. Higgs for matching us together. I guess the new school is good too. It's weird moving out of the big city. I miss the skyscrapers."

"Do you miss your friends here in Seattle?" Gibson asked.

She stared at her counselor, again. Johnson nodded.

"No, sir. I'm afraid there's nobody to miss," Sara said in a flat tone. She honestly didn't care. She didn't care about many things people thought she should.

"Did you make any new friends at your new school?"

Sara raised an eyebrow at the ADA. "I beg your pardon, sir, but how many centuries ago did you attend high school? Because your experience might not be the same as mine."

Johnson chuckled. "She got you, William."

"I reckon it was in the previous millennia," Gibson joked.

Sara opened her mouth, then closed it without vocalizing. Her face expressed confusion for a moment, then she shrugged, "OK, boomer."

"Well, I think it's time for some good news," Henry Gibson, ADA, said, clearly uncomfortable with the mention of his generation. "We want you to testify in the case against the man whose house you broke into. Sara, do you know why we pardoned the mob minions?"

"I honestly don't care, sir," Sara deadpanned. She thought the ADA's attempts to appear friendly were extremely irritating.

"They wouldn't give a statement against their bosses if it meant they would incriminate themselves," he explained anyway. "That's what we're doing with you. We make a deal, you show up to take the stand, and your case goes away."

She tried to understand why he insisted on forcing himself into her personal mind space and found one explanation. This guy was a politician first, and a public servant a distant second. Apparently, the case against the TV guy was a big one that would catapult him in the next election's ratings, much more than throwing the book at a poor orphan whose inheritance was stolen by her foster parents pretending to adopt her.

"It is a good deal, Sara," counselor Johnson counseled.

"I'll make it better," Gibson said like a car salesman. They had much in common, both professions. "I'll add into this all the crimes you committed since the Millers took your money."

"Add witness protection," Sara counter-offered. "Or I'll take the Juvie. At least that way I stay alive."

The ADA smiled, "We have a deal. I'll work on the details with Mr. Johnson."

*

*

Terrell Starr High School, Forest Park, Clayton County, Georgia. Monday, October 7th, 2019. 07:22.

The world was scheduled to end that day, at rush hour, which was not until roughly eleven hours later. On planet Earth, more than seven billion sentient beings went around their daily lives. Some were asleep, others were going to sleep, while a few just woke up. Among them, was a seventeen-year-old girl.

The sun had yet to rise over the horizon. The celestial sphere never missed an appointment and today it would shine upon the Peach State in twelve minutes. Yet the sky was already painted in shades of blue and light orange, a few stubborn stars who didn't get the memo still shining thinking it was yet night.

Sara got off the school bus and followed the flux of students to the school grounds. As usual, she felt that eerie disconnection between herself and this place. While she knew the name of the other teenagers walking the same path, she wasn't really friends with any of them. She didn't care to be, either. Wave when waved at, and so on. Those that don't bother her weren't bothered by her in return. Her collected and brooding demeanor, coupled with her mysterious appearance in town less than a year ago painted her as a bad girl, one to avoid. Rumors about her ranged from just a bitch to a serial killer who changed schools every time she committed mass murder. A few even said she participated in the Columbine shooting even though anyone who could do basic math would know she was only four years old at the time.

They left her alone, and that was good enough in her book.

She didn't complain, she didn't react to provocations unless they crossed some vaguely defined boundaries depending on her mood. She'd spent two years in the streets of Seattle, and she could pack a punch. She only had to fight once, a broken nose at the opening moves was enough. Such is the extent of their social contract. She never had a place she truly felt she fit in. Sara would like to say her life had ups and downs just to acknowledge it had ups if any. But she recognized she had grown used to how much life sucked. She could throw a tantrum and say her life was unfair, try to win someone's sympathy or even their pity but that wasn't her either. She had just accepted, no, resigned to her lot in life.

Something was missing and she couldn't tell what. Her days were all mechanical, repetitive. The girl knew the number of steps to her locker. How many turns, how many steps between turns. Life was boring. Until it wasn't. Seldom something broke her out of her droning routine. Today, it seemed to be one of those.

"Sara, do you have a minute?" Mr. Ericsson, the literature teacher, called her in the corridor.

Several students snickered and stared at her before rushing away from the teacher's ire, thinking she was in trouble. She was, but not the kind of trouble they think.

"I have physics now," she replied as she approached. "I can't be late. Mr. Matthews is very strict."

"Just a minute. I can talk to Eric on your behalf since I'm the one holding you back. It's about your essay."

He had it on top of a sheaf of papers, on top of a stack of folders. Teachers love their papers and folders.

"What about it?" She asked just to keep the conversation going a bit faster.

"Are you sure it was written by you?" The man raises an eyebrow.

"Yup. Word by word. Did you find any similar text online?" She challenged him, knowing that he didn't. It was an original work.

"The protagonist, why does he hate his parents?"

"He's adopted," she shoots straight away before he even finishes his sentence.

"What? How? Where does it say that in the text?"

"Line seven, then line thirteen."

The teacher flips the papers, finds her essay, then the relevant lines. "Peter wondered about the meaning of the word 'mother'..." he read one line, then the next. "He stared at the woman, wondering if he truly knew her."

"The first line shows that Peter grew up without the concept of 'mother' ingrained into his psyche," Sara explained. "The second shows the disconnection between his current matriarchal figure and his inner reality."

The professor nodded at the same time the bell rang. His lips twitched a bit upwards, a sign he was happy she passed his test. "Sara, do you need help? Is everything alright in your home?"

The girl groaned. Now she was officially late. "This is far from being a cry for help, sir. I just used my own impressions for the character. Is there anything wrong with that? I hear authors do it all the time."

She had a term for this kind of person. "Cluelessly Helpful." They usually cause more harm than good and this time the victim was the last dregs of her school's reputation. She could already imagine the rumors after the whole class would see her escorted by the English teacher.

"This is very good writing, Sara. Have you thought about—"

"Thank you, sir, But no, not interested," she interrupted him again out of spite. "But I believe Mr. Matthews is wondering where I am right now. I would love to finish this term with no disciplinary record."

"He wouldn't... I'm sorry, Sara. I'm going to give you a hall pass, and talk to Eric later."

He handed her a "get out of detention free token", and went on his way. Now that she had rejected his offer and was of no importance to him, he just gave her some crumbs and walked away. Exactly like dozens before him. Sara held the credit-card-shaped hall pass in front of her and hustled to her class. She eventually avoided most of the grilling by Mr. Matthews because of the token.

The two teachers would never meet to discuss the girl's tardiness because Ericsson never intended to. But it wouldn't matter in a few hours, as the world was scheduled to end at rush hour.

*

*

Terrell Starr High School, Forest Park, Clayton County, Georgia. Monday, October 7th, 2019. 09:11.

She was minding her business in the corridor during an interval when someone called her.

"Sara, do you have a minute?"

The girl fought back the urge to pretend she didn't notice the female voice calling her. It seemed that everyone wanted a minute of her time today. "Sure, Mary. What is it?"

Mary Wells, the girl in question, approached Sara with light steps and hooked her arm as she leaned in to whisper a secret, "I heard Pamela will invite you to her party tonight."

Sara disliked Mary. One had to go above and beyond their ways to get to such a lofty place, apart from the masses she was indifferent to. If Sara had to explain why she disliked Mary, she would start with the bags of fat pushing against her shoulder. Then her disregard for personal boundaries. Finally, the fact that Mary was a remora girl. Just like the fish, she would latch onto a bigger shark and feed off the leftovers. The shark in question was Pamela, a serious prom queen contender.

She wanted to call bullshit right then and there but the girl's heart had a moment of weakness and fluttered at the chance of a normal social life. Then again, it's not like she didn't have a social life, just that hers was not mainstream. She wasn't a psychopath who couldn't relate to people, she just found it bothersome to do it all the time. She had a few people she was on speaking terms with, like the guys she agreed to meet tonight to play a new game. New to her, at least.

"I can't. Sorry," she replied and tried to move away but Mary didn't let go of her arm.

"This is important, Sara. You only refuse Pamela's invitation once. And then it will be like you refused all of them, from everyone who matters, forever," Mary doomsayed.

'Everyone who matters' was the keyword. They didn't matter to her. Sara extricated her arm from the blubbery cage. "I have a thing tonight."

"Yes, you do. Pamela's party," it came matter-of-factly.

"Not really."

"Cancel it," Mary demanded and seized her limb again.

Was she doing it on purpose, to make Sara feel inadequate because of the discrepancies between their bodies? Cups aside, she felt her resistance wane. Her wish at that moment was to shed temptation like a Buddhist monk attaining enlightenment, reject Pamela, pretend everything was fine, and move on with her dull life. But a small part of her, a very vocal one, wanted to live like a normal teenager. She wouldn't keep being one for too long and maybe Mary was right. This could be her last chance.

"I'll cancel it when I get a formal invitation, okay?" She tried again to free her arm, to no avail.

"Pamela asked me to make sure you would be there," Mary said after a suspicious pause. "She also asked you to keep it a secret. She really wants to give you a chance, Sara. Don't blow it." Mary gave her a cold smile as she let go of the girl's arm and walked away.

Sara watched Mary strut down the hallway. It smelled like a setup but today she was feeling odd. Something was messing with her mental focus since she woke up. She felt guilty but she couldn't miss this opportunity. The girl went down the stairs and found the organizer of the game night.

"Hey, Sara," a stereotypical fat guy with glasses greeted her. "What's up?"

"Hey, Simon. It's about today's game," she fidgeted. "I don't—"

She was overwhelmed by Simon's enthusiasm. "Yes, today's game will be awesome. I just finished tying your character's backstory to the main plots, and boy, it is great! The story you sent gave me so many ideas! I wanted to talk to you, about making a little change to that, can your parents be dead?"

She jumped away. "Simon, not now. And no, you can't kill my character's parents!" She protested.

The girl found that very instant that she wanted to go to the game instead of the party. But even though she pretended not to care, she knew this was a golden opportunity to have a taste of real social life like a normal teenager. Her last shot before she would be too old for this kind of thing. After graduation, they would be adults and people would scatter everywhere for college. Everyone except her, apparently.

"Okay," Simon said placatingly. "It's unusual, but I can work around that. Can they be missing?"

"No!"

"Gone for a trip to a distant kingdom?"

"No! They're safe at home, in that place with low crime!"

"Tough customer," Simon joked with a smile. "I got ya, Sara. I need to fix some things, but most people play orphans."

"I thought people played this game to escape reality," she mumbled to herself.

Simon didn't comprehend what she said, but he could tell she was troubled. "Is something the matter, Sara?"

She closed her eyes and tried to breathe. She felt like she was betraying Simon. Which she was. Unsettled, she leaned against the hallway wall and tried to focus her mind. Make a call. Today, her bottled-up emotions won. "I'm sorry. I can't tell you but I can't make it to the game tonight."

The boy's shoulders slouched. "Seriously? What happened? Look, after today, the party will enter the dungeons of Kel'Caldor the Lich. I can't add your ranger to the party after today."

"Maybe another game then?"

"I don't know, Sara. I think not. It's the end of the campaign, the apogee as they say. I have no idea if we can even finish this dungeon before graduation, people scatter for the holidays and nobody will play during the finals with all the SAT and college application madness. That's why I've been pestering everybody about their grades."

She felt like crying. Simon was rightfully feeling betrayed. "I'm really sorry. Good luck with your game." The girl said before she turned on her heels and rushed out of there.

Behind a bend in the corridor, Mary and Pamela watched everything. The girl never saw the two and never noticed that Pamela handed a victorious Mary a twenty-dollar bill. Such was the price of the girl's happiness.

School ended and she went home. Lying on her bed, the girl waited for the phone call and eventually fell asleep out of frustration.