Having been dropped into the story in the midst of the previous insane day, I never got a chance to properly introduce myself. I’m Ruth Antunez. It technically should be “Antúnez,” but since immigrating here we have become accustomed to spelling it without the accent. I am named “Ruth” for the Biblical figure of the same name, a woman noted for integrating into Jewish culture despite not being an Israelite ethnically. My parents must have already been planning to come here when they named me. We emigrated here from Cuba, the Caribbean Island which has had a rather rocky relationship with the US for the past fifty years or so.

After we came here, we had a house with an extra bedroom, so my parents decided they should have one more child after me. To their shock, however, my mom had quintuplets. Now my family faces the challenge of fitting six children into two bedrooms. They are saving up to get a larger house, but that probably won’t happen until I have moved out at this rate. So for now, I have to share a room with my ten-year-old sisters, Mabel and Diane. As a result, it can be quite hard to get any peace and quiet around here, so I’ve gotten into the habit of getting as much work as possible done while I am at school.

Before we get back to the actual story, I should mention that while at home, my family primarily talks in Spanish. For your convenience I’ll translate our conversations into English, except for a few key words or phrases for the sake of flavor.

I am reluctant to get out of bed this morning. I was exceptionally fatigued yesterday after school. I was told yesterday morning that awakening one’s “Persona” has this effect, although I think the emotional turmoil of yesterday’s events would have done the job on its own. And yet, I am the first to rise, my sisters still sound asleep on the other end of our king-sized bed. I have a good window of time before my bus gets here, so I go to the kitchen to see if my parents left me any cafe con leche .

As luck would have it, they did. Greatly appreciated after the day I had yesterday. As my brain starts to properly wake up, I think ahead to what I want to get done today. This morning, I should review some notes for AP World History on the bus, as the midterm test is coming soon. Also, if I have time, I’d like to get my Environmental Systems project done so I don’t have to worry about it anymore. I never got to finish my practice session of Bach’s Cello Suite yesterday, so I’ll plan to do that after school.

My dad walks into the kitchen, dressed for work. You know from one look at him that he’s a tough man. His firm eyebrows give him a permanently hard look; he constantly has shadows under his eyes from his grueling work schedule; and to complete the look, he has a narrow scar on his left cheek. My father works as an operator at an oil plant, which is unfortunately a frequent source of conflict between us. He pulls out a slice of toast that had been sitting in the toaster and wolfs it down without a second thought.

My mom follows him in. She is not dressed for work yet, but she’s clearly been awake for a while. She is a somewhat heavyset woman with thick, frizzy hair just like mine.

“Buenos días, hija mia,” she greets me. “Mi amor, I would have buttered that for you.”

“It’s alright,” Dad responds.

“Ruth, you’ve heard the news, right?” Mom says. “A teacher at your school passed away yesterday.”

“Mmhmm,” I reply. “She didn’t seem well last I saw her. Well, that’s what she gets after what she did to Kevin.”

“It was that lady?” Mom questions incredulously. I didn’t get too in-depth with my account of yesterday, for obvious reasons. “What a crazy world we live in…”

“What about that man they took into prison?” Dad asks. “Wasn’t he the one behind it?”

“No. He was framed,” I say simply. “He should be clear to go back to teaching now in theory, but I doubt he will. The hasty actions of the police will leave a permanent stain on his reputation.”

“You can’t blame this on our police,” Mom argues. “They made a reasonable assumption based on the information they had.”

“Could’ve done some deeper digging before dramatically bursting into the school and dragging him away in front of everyone,” I say. “Wouldn’t it make more sense to search his house first? Check his online activity in more detail to see what device it came from? Anything ?”

Dad shakes his head. “Aye aye aye, to be fifteen and to know all there is to know,” he comments bitterly. “Perhaps next I’ll have you follow me to work and tell me how to do my job too.”

Hot anger rises within me, and I so badly want to bite back at him. But Mom gives me a ferocious look of warning, so instead I just finish my espresso.

Soon after this, Dad is off to work, leaving just Mom and I.

“You have been so mouthy recently,” Mom scolds me.

“Sorry, I forget sometimes that I’m not allowed to have my own opinions.”

“Que lata, hija mia,” she tells me, shaking her head. “Go catch your bus now, okay?”

It is a cool and pleasant morning; I don’t even have to wear a coat. Air quality is not the best though; my lungs are not happy. I take a puff from my inhaler when I get on the bus. I’m about to pull out my history book when I feel my phone vibrate. It could be important, so I decide to check it to find that Kevin messaged me on Skype.

Good morning, Ruth. How's it going today?

Poorly. How about you?

I've seen better days myself.

In fact, I wanted to let you know that I don't think I'll be at school today.

I certainly don't fault you for that.

Thank you.

We're all pretty shaken up by what happened yesterday.

I'm just glad my parents finally started believing in me.

Thank you so much for helping me talk to them.

I just wish my own parents would follow their example.

I'm curious about something.

If it is too personal I understand if you don't want to share.

What is it?

None of us saw what happened inside of that beast's stomach.

Was it exactly like you said, or did you change what you said to hide anything supernatural?

What I said is true in spirit.

She did use something supernatural to do it, though.

I'm very sorry.

Please take it easy on your day off.

Thank you

I can only imagine you're suffering some amount of mental anguish.

You may want to consider talking to a psychiatrist.

That's not a terrible idea.

I have a lot of unpleasant stuff on my mind…

I won't keep you any more, though.

Have a good day at school!

No promises.

You're a great friend, Ruth

❤️

I put my phone away, feeling guilt gnawing at me. However, I simply take a deep breath and make myself feel numb and blank. I pull my history book out of my backpack and crack it open.

When I walk into the library, I immediately notice something unusual: Ashley is using one of the computers, which I’ve never seen her do before. Well, I need to use a computer too, so I go sit at the one next to her. You see, I have to write an essay about characterization or some shit in a book we were forced to read called A Separate Peace. As far as assigned books go, TKAM was alright, but I really don't get A Separate Peace . It's just this dipshit rich kid's adventures at a boarding school, where he sabotages one of his best friends and then some guy jumps the snow ski division of the army (that’s a thing???) and then goes insane, or something, I already forgot most of it. The biggest thing I like about the book is how the main character is obviously gay and every English teacher in the school vehemently denies this when you bring it up. Like bitch, you're the one who gave us softcore yaoi as an assigned reading.

Uh, anyway. Up close, Ashley gives distinctly bad vibes today. She is looking between her computer screen and a piece of paper with narrow eyes, as if contemplating whether to burn it.

“Morning,” I greet her. “What's wrong? You look constipated or something.”

“There is a lot wrong, Nova,” she tells me in a harsh voice. “I am exhausted and stressed. I have received a threat against the life of my loved ones. Phase 2 of all-region band is in 2 days. And I have to do this stupid assignment.”

“What stupid assignment?”

“It's for Speech. I must do an informative presentation. There is no clear criteria, rubric or structure to follow, so I have no idea where to start.”

“Dude, that project was easy. Just do it about music or something.”

She turns her slanted eyes to me. “What am I supposed to do, teach my entire speech class how to play the french horn?”

“I dunno,” I respond, shrugging. “You can think of something, you know about a lot of shit.”

“What did you make yours about?” she asks with a hint of what I think is sarcasm. “The subtleties of competitive Pokémon? How to wavedash in Super Smash Bros. Melee?”

“Huh. Those are both pretty good ideas, I kinda wish I had done that now.”

She huffs at me and turns back to the computer. “Typical.”

“Hey, look. I'd much rather be making a presentation about cool stuff like that than the boring shit we usually do. Like the essay I have to do for English.”

“I technically have an English essay too, but given the circumstances I doubt it will be collected. The class will be almost as great of a mess as it was when my English teacher was still living.”

As dark as that is, it gets a snicker out of me. “Do you think your schedule's gonna get messed up next semester because of all this?”

“Probably not, I assume they'll just hire a new teacher and give them the same time slots.”

“Ah, alright. Mine's gonna be different because my algebra teacher is forcing me to move up to PAP.” “Pre-AP” is just a fancy word for an advanced class.

“Good. You'll do well there, you're good at math.”

“Yeah, I know. It's the autism.”

“You're much better off academically than you were at the start of the year. Good on you,” she tells me earnestly.

“Well, I won't be much longer if I keep getting these fucking essays. I hate these. It's like mental torture.”

“If only you could write an essay about Pokémon or Super Smash Bros.”

“That's what I'm saying. You have it easy, getting to choose your own topic!”

“At least with your essay you have a clear idea of what to do and where to start.”

“You kidding me? I don't have a single fucking thing to say about this shit.”

“But you have a subject. That is better than I have. Just start with generic sentences about what you know.”

"Okay, how’s this? ‘A Separate Peace is a book that exists.’"

She scoffs at me. “Okay, a little more specific than that, smartass.”

“Fine, I’m just gonna start writing shit, I guess. I'll go back and organize it later. I don't care enough right now.”

“That works.”

“And you? Just think of something you could rant about on your own. Easy as shit.”

“Well, here's the issue. If I make it about something musical, like you suggested, nobody would care.”

“Da fuck you mean?”

“If they're not in band themselves, they'll just tell me I'm bragging,” she says bitterly. “So I don't rant about that stuff on my own anymore.”

“Bro, just write about it in a way that isn't bragging. You got shit for brains or something? Is acting like a bitch so ingrained into you that you don't have any other way to express yourself?”

That touched a nerve. She bares her teeth at me and growls, “Oh, that’s it. I've had enough of you!”

She tries to push me out of my chair. Years of experience with Kat allowed me to quickly react and anchor myself to the desk with one hand, while retaliating with a punch to her shoulder with the other hand.

“Ow!” she yelps, clearly surprised that I actually got her back. She must not have any siblings.

We glare at each other for a while. I’m ready for another attack from her, but instead, she eventually takes a deep breath, gives me one last scathing look, and starts her presentation.

Here’s the kicker: She finishes the whole thing in like ten minutes. I catch her putting the finishing touches on it when the bell rings for us to go.