Blind Spot
By Laura Ellen
3.5/5
()
About this ebook
There’s none so blind as they that won’t see.
Seventeen-year-old Tricia Farni’s body floated to the surface of Alaska’s Birch River six months after the night she disappeared. The night Roz Hart had a fight with her. The night Roz can’t remember. Roz, who struggles with macular degeneration, is used to assembling fragments to make sense of the world around her. But this time it’s her memory that needs piecing together—to clear her name . . . to find a murderer. This unflinchingly emotional novel is written in the powerful first-person voice of a legally blind teen who just wants to be like everyone else.
Laura Ellen
Laura Ellen was born and raised in Fairbanks, Alaska. Legally blind, Laura drew upon her own life in her portrayal of Roz in her novel, Blind Spot.
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Reviews for Blind Spot
15 ratings4 reviews
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5I finished Blind Spot in a few days. I was completely enthralled in the story. It’s an attention grabbing “who done it.”
Roz is a character that I related to, and wanted to shake some sense into at the same time. She’s legally blind and wants to be normal. Being placed in a new class for kids with impairments of some sort completely rocks her world. She’s being forced to get help she doesn’t want after an incident with a student the year prior. I think the fact that she has handled her disability all of these years has been amazing. She doesn’t realize that people just want the best for her. I couldn’t stand Roz’s mom. She has no idea what’s going on in her daughter’s life, and she doesn’t really care as long as it doesn’t interfere with hers. The side characters were intriguing, especially Tricia. Tricia definitely has issues, and will manipulate anyone she has to in order to get what she wants.
I liked the mystery of trying to find out what happened to Tricia. I kept trying to figure out who had a hand in her disappearance, and for the life of me I couldn’t guess who. I was even blabbering to my husband about it. He said I was way to invested in the characters, but that’s how I know when I really get into a storyline. There are so many things that happened the night Tricia disappeared, and events that led up to that night. I did feel like Roz made the wrong decisions in how she handled everything. She’s still a teen though, and she was scared. She doesn’t know what exactly happened that night. She’s just trying to piece things together from what everyone is telling her.
I suggest this for those that want a great mystery with unique characters. - Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Roswell Hart can not remember anything from the night that Tricia Farni died, the bigger problem is that she needs to, because she was one of the last people to see her alive.
Our story is surrounding Roz, who suffers from a muscular degenerative disease affecting her eyes. So she is used to living in a world that always appears hazy. After learning about her condition, she lost her place on the softball team and her best friend. Even though her school year has been fairly crappy, she still keeps her stubborn, spunky personality. She learns what true friends are, and not everyone is worth trustworthy. Roz is a pretty complex person, she doesn't let people in, and at times I wasn't really sure if I liked or not. I did find myself connecting with her, and I found Roz to be a realistic character, and admired her determination to find out what happen to her classmate even through all the turmoil to do so.
The plot development moved quickly, and pulls you into a dark world with murder, drugs, betrayals, and prejudices. The characters aren't perfect, but each have have a story to tell all on their own. Sometimes I just want to smack some sense into some of them, but other times I thought, "wow, where did that come from?" The love interests were Jonathon and Greg. Two guys with very different personalities. Jonathon's number one person is himself, and Greg was so sweet to Roz, and seem to really care about her. Roz has to figure out who really is the good guy all on her own.
I thought I had everything all figured out of the murderer was, but then a new twist came into play, and I was completely wrong. I think this is the aspect I enjoyed the most. At one point I even suspected Roz for being behind Tricia's death. Blind Spot take us through a gritty mystery, that is keeps you on your toes. This was a great story to follow and watch unfold and I would definitely say give this one a try if you love murder mysteries with a dash romance. - Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5I'm just going to come out with it: This book made me angry. Like, throw-the-book-across-the-room-and-glare-at-it angry. But, in an effort to calm myself, I'll start with what I actually liked about Blind Spot.The main character, Roz, suffers from macular degeneration, leaving her legally blind. She constantly struggles to make up for this deficit as she maneuvers her way through high school, but her eyesight is, unsurprisingly, always on her mind, making her self-conscious and lowering her self-esteem. Constantly frustrated from feeling helpless and out of her element in many situation while still wanting to be able to handle everything herself and without help, Roz has a tendency to jump to conclusions and snap at those around her, even those with the best intentions. This aspect of the novel felt very realistic to me. My younger sister was born with glaucoma and I think she'd identify closely with Roz. I can't say what goes on inside my sister's head, but I do know how she reacted to things when she was in high school and, from my point of view, Roz had similar reactions and thoughts. In the novel, Roz points out that people don't realize how poor her vision is and are constantly asking why she doesn't just get glasses. She can't drive and isn't able to play sports because she's a liability. These are all things my sister struggled with. Also like Roz, my sister could be a bit angry. She didn't like wearing her glasses, which improved her vision but left her feeling dorky and unattractive (which is not fun for anyone, let alone a high school-aged girl), and new situations were extremely stressful because she couldn't see to figure things out. This is where the similarities between my sister and Roz end, right along with my positive feelings regarding Blind Spot. My biggest issue? I absolutely loathed all of the characters. Okay, that might be a bit dramatic... there were a few secondary characters that weren't mentioned enough to warrant such strong feelings. Still, when I can't stand any of the main characters, it makes it hard to want to keep reading. I just felt like I couldn't escape the negativity! I feel like I'm uniquely qualified to understand and handle Roz and her moodiness, but her self-centeredness and hurtful ways pushed me over the edge. The teachers, the police, Roz's friends, her mother, her boyfriend: all horrible, mean people motivated by self-interest and unwilling to see things from any point of view other than their own. I know it's a strong word, but I was truly disgusted. Realistically, I know that there are people like this in real life, people that let power go to their head, etc, etc, but to have an entire novel populated with them was too much for me. I will say that I actually did enjoy the character Tricia, but she's dead from the first page, so it's hard to tell if my positive feelings would have lasted. Tricia, however, was the only character who, though monumentally messed up, actually seemed to do some genuinely nice, even protective, things for Roz without expecting anything in return.I have to admit though, I don't really know whether my strong negative feelings were necessarily a bad thing. Yes, I said I was disgusted and unhappy and wanted to stop reading, BUT I didn't. And I keep telling everyone about this book and the messed up characters... So maybe the author, Laura Ellen, meant for her characters to be disliked. Or maybe she didn't mean for it to happen, but it still isn't the worst thing that could have happened. I suppose having no opinion of the characters or easily forgetting them would be even worse than hating them. It's hard for me to accept that, at least in this case, hating a book or characters might actually be a good thing rather than a bad thing.Despite being very unhappy with pretty much all of the characters, I kept reading because I really wanted to know what happened to Tricia. It really bothered me that the one person who wasn't completely horrible ended up dead and I had to know what happened to her. I finished the final pages feeling pretty unsatisfied and upset, but Blind Spot hasn't been far from my mind since and I'm still trying to sort out my feelings.In conclusion, I want to tell you to read this book. And avoid it. I can't decide. I want to know what you all think, but I also don't want you to feel so ripped apart and frustrated by what you'll find inside. I suppose you'll just have to read at your own risk.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5This book completely turned out different than what I thought it be. Instead, I was consume by an awesome plot that brought a great mystery I just had to solve.What I loved most about the story is the great plot. Filled with non-stop good drama and a mystery you can't help but immerse yourself in Roz shoe's. So much memory lost, so many clues to put together. For me, it is good to see the main character out of the loop along with the reader. Watching all the pieces come together is wonderful.There's not much of a love interest rather than a good friend and a toxic friendship. There are so many lies, fakes faces, and just all together losers, that I had me fill of digustingness. They tried to use Roz. Use everything they know against her and that made me angry. I'm glad that in the end, Roz out smarts them all, kicking their butts! BOO-TO-THE_YEAH!If you love a good mystery check this book out! It's filled with insane theories and madness of cray cray people. Once the picture is painted, it all made sense. Blind Spot is a doozy when it comes to messing with your mind. Satisfaction guaranteed, Blind Spot is sweet!
Book preview
Blind Spot - Laura Ellen
There’s none so blind as they that won’t see.
—Jonathan Swift
Pieces
Forty days before
It should’ve been a breeze, a no-brainer. I was returning to the same halls I’d occupied last year. A seasoned vet, not some scared, insecure freshman. But still. I passed through the black doors of Chance High that first day of sophomore year and found myself in Hell.
Okay, I exaggerate. Hell didn’t reveal itself until minutes later, when I met Tricia and realized I’d been placed in a special ed class. But the sensory overload that hit me when I first entered the building certainly began my journey. Nauseating combinations of musk, coconut, cherry blossom, and industrial cleaner assaulted me. Out-of-focus faces in globs of color swirled around me like the psychedelic covers on my dad’s old acid rock albums. A cacophony of squeals stabbed at my ears. I went from zero to panic in less than sixty seconds, and the fact that I had to get through it on my own only made it worse.
Before, Missy Cervano had been my compass, my shelter, my shield. Last year we’d attacked the first day of school together, scurrying down the halls, mice in a maze, trying to find our lockers, ducking into corners, and flattening ourselves against walls to avoid the intimidating seniors. We’d survived because we had the perfect social weapons: each other. Best Friends Forever. Forever ended a few months ago when she suddenly stopped talking to me. Music was my only safe haven now. Lyrics never change like people do.
I took a steadying breath and popped in my ear buds. My F.U. World playlist cut through the chaos surrounding me and urged me forward. Clutching my class schedule, I skirted the boundaries of clique after clique arranged like planets along the hallways. Posers and wannabes orbiting around them, like satellites waiting to crash through the atmosphere. At least they could pretend to belong. Without Missy, I couldn’t even do that anymore.
I passed the office and the cafeteria and turned left down a nearly empty hallway in a section of the school where I’d never been. The lack of people allowed me to move closer to the wall, and I squinted at the room numbers. I was looking for room 22, Life Skills.
Life Skills wasn’t on my original schedule. Auto Maintenance was. A total waste for someone who’d never drive, I know. And in my defense, I’d totally planned on signing up for Art. Except Missy gave me that oops, my bad
look when we were coordinating our schedules last spring. Then she started babbling about how she’d understand if I didn’t want to take Auto, and how Rona would be in there to keep her company if I didn’t, and how maybe they’d take driver’s ed together too . . . Whatever, it didn’t matter now anyway. I’d been switched to Life Skills, which according to Mom was some new school policy. A required class.
The farther I walked, the more deserted the hallway became, and a nagging suspicion about Life Skills began to take over, twisting my stomach, disrupting the leftover shrimp lo mein I’d had for breakfast. For a new, required class, shouldn’t there be more people on this route?
I consulted my map. My fingers followed the thick black lines that I’d drawn the night before. This was the way. A right at the next hallway and I’d be there.
At that last turn, I stopped. Someone in a brown, hooded cloak twirled, twirled, twirled in the middle of the hallway, like a little girl in a frilly Easter dress. A garment like that meant immediate social suicide, but in a deserted hallway, I knew it meant something else too.
Special Ed.
I maneuvered around the twirling girl and approached the classroom. As I brought my eyes up from the floor to look inside, I spotted the spokes of a wheelchair.
No, I thought, my stomach tightening. I slid the dots blocking my central vision to the side so I could see the chair’s occupant. He was talking to someone out of sight range, but I could hear his voice; he sounded normal. Simply a guy in a wheelchair.
I relaxed, took a few steps closer—and noticed the slumped body to the left. He was humming and rocking, hands twitching uncontrollably. My eyes flitted to the girl facing me. Short and plump, a permanent smile plastered on her face—the perfect model for a Special Olympics poster.
There had to have been a mistake. This was not my room. I hurried past, hoping the next room was mine. But there wasn’t one. Only a pair of bathrooms with blue HANDICAPPED signs.
Welcome to Hell.
I turned around. The girl in the cloak stopped spinning and stared at me. The thick layer of eyeliner against her white-blond hair and ghostly pale skin made her eyes hang in midair, faceless. I moved past her, rounded the corner, and once the hall was clear, yanked my magnifying glass from the side pocket of my backpack. The enlarged numbers on my schedule told me what I already knew. That was my classroom.
Why? I didn’t belong in there. I wasn’t a freak.
There’s been a mistake,
I said, handing my schedule to the counselor. I don’t belong in Life Skills.
She typed something into the computer and then peered over the top of her wire-framed glasses. "You are Roswell Hart, aren’t you?"
Roz.
I tried to make eye contact with her by directing my blind spot to her ear and using my peripheral vision to see her face. But she thought I was looking behind her. She looked over her shoulder and then turned back to me, a puzzled frown on her face.
I hate it when that happens. I tried to save face by pretending I was looking behind her, and at the ceiling, and down at the ground. Eyelash on my contact,
I muttered, pulling at my eyelid. Yes, I’m Roswell Hart.
There’s no mistake, sweetie.
She handed the schedule back to me. Life Skills is in your IEP.
What? No. It isn’t.
My Individualized Education Program—a list of adaptations some school officials came up with to help me succeed
in the classroom: extra time for tests, oral instead of written tests, prewritten class notes, class materials in large print, books on tape, and so on.
I didn’t need any of it. As long as I sit in the front, I get along just fine. Yes, it takes a while for me to read the board—I have to move my dots from spot to spot until I have pieced together a sentence—but it’s better than being singled out for special
treatment. I had told this to Mr. Villanari, my IEP advisor, when we discussed my IEP last spring. He told me if I didn’t think I needed any special help, I didn’t have to use it. That’s how I knew. There’s no Life Skills in my IEP—ask Mr. Villanari.
Oh, Mr. Villanari is no longer your IEP advisor. Mr. Dellian is.
She gave me a sappy sympathetic look. And he’s decided that after that unfortunate event last year, everyone with a disability must take Life Skills. It’s for your own good, sweetie.
Disability.
How I loved to hate that word. I used to think I had ability,
that I was normal. That’s because I thought everyone saw like me—disjointed and fragmented, every object in visual range like pieces of a puzzle in need of constant reconstruction. When it’s the only way you know, your way is normal. Until told otherwise. For me that happened in fifth grade, when Ms. Freemont thought I was dyslexic because I’d read words wrong out loud.
After my optometrist rechecked my glasses’ prescription and found nothing wrong, everyone figured it must be some mental problem, a learning disability, whatever. They ran me through tons of tests, finding nothing. Then in the middle of eighth grade, Mom suddenly thought to mention that my dad can’t drive because of some eye disease. Something I didn’t even know. I saw an ophthalmologist and voilà! They got their diagnosis: macular degeneration. And I got my label: disabled.
Don’t get me wrong. With Mom dating anyone who checked out her ass and Dad chasing UFOs across the country instead of hanging out with me, I’d had my share of labels before that. But Broken Family,
Single Mom,
Absent Dad,
no matter what the teachers tagged me with, it didn’t matter; half the class had them too. Disabled, however, opened a whole can of labels that stripped me of my identity. I went from Roswell Hart with straight As and a permanent spot on the honor roll to Legally Blind, Visually Impaired Roswell Hart, a Disabled student with an IEP.
Look,
I said, fighting the urge to sweetie
her back, I have bad vision, but my life skills are just fine.
Your parents can speak with us about it. But until then, the only change I can make is to place you in another Life Skills class.
She looked behind me. Next!
The first bell rang. There was an instant swarm as I entered the hallway, and then I was left alone with only a few stragglers. A frustrated scream thrashed around inside me, clawing at my ribs. I didn’t want to go to that class, that black hole the school was shoving me toward. But what could I do? The school had made that decision for me. The class was on my schedule, a requirement now for losers with labels.
My legs carried me back toward the Special Education hallway, but my body was rejecting the situation. Bile crawled up the sides of my stomach, and I struggled to keep my breakfast down. When I reached the hallway outside Life Skills, I flung open the bathroom door and barely made it into a stall before the vomit broke free. Chunks hit the gray linoleum with a splattering slap.
Classy.
Cape-girl hung over the stall wall above me. Is this a first-day thing, or are you bulimic or something?
Huh?
The puke. You do it to stay skinny?
Before I could answer, she’d disappeared. Her high heels click-clacked on the tile outside, and then she shoved my door open, a handful of paper towels in her hand. God, that is rancid! What did you eat for breakfast?
She covered her nose and tossed the brown paper on top of the half-digested shrimp swimming in a salmon-colored sea. Clutching her cloak with one hand, she pushed the towels around with the toe of her thigh-high black leather boot. I puked at school once,
she said, still holding her hand over her nose. Jimmy Benson shared his fifth of vodka with me during gym.
She turned smoothly on her toes and went back to the stall next door. You coming? Or you gonna stay in here with your puke?
I should’ve washed my face, recentered myself, and moseyed into that hellhole of a class. But something about her fascinated me. I couldn’t tear my eyes away. The cloak suggested some out-of-touch lost soul, but she sure didn’t talk that way. Like an alien abductee caught in a tractor beam, I followed her.
I’m Tricia,
she said. Her butt rested on the railing, feet balanced on the toilet lid, hiked-up cloak revealing a red vinyl miniskirt. She slipped a thin, home-rolled cigarette from her cloak pocket and flicked her lighter until an orange flame lapped at the paper. She sucked in as she lit it, holding the smoke in her lungs before exhaling. Want some?
Is that weed?
I waved the smoke away and glanced up at the ceiling, expecting a sprinkler or smoke alarm to go off at any moment.
Tricia smiled. Don’t worry. No one except Rodney will come looking in here, and he and I are like this.
She crossed her fingers.
Rodney?
Could I get high sitting here? I tried not to breathe.
Mr. Dellian. Mr. D. The SPED teacher? He’s also the hockey coach. Makes for some hot teacher aides.
Tricia took another long drag. It’s all legal anyway,
she said, holding in her breath. I use it for medicinal purposes.
She grinned and let her breath out again. I have a prescription and everything.
You have a prescription for pot?
I breathed into my sweatshirt collar. Why?
Tricia’s dark, outlined eyes bore into me as she took another drag. The end of the joint flared a bright orange. Its thin paper crackled in the silence.
I no longer wanted an answer, just out. I reached for the stall door.
They stuck you in Life Skills too, huh?
Her voice startled my hand from the door. So, what’s your poison?
I turned, frowning. My what?
Poison, you know, learning disabled, physically challenged, or, my personal favorite
—she gave an evil grin—severely emotionally disturbed.
I don’t—
Okay, so I did. But she didn’t need to know it. It’s a mistake.
Sure it is.
She blew smoke in my face and jumped off the railing. If you plan on hiding out in here, don’t. Since Renny’s suicide, Rodney’s been pretty hot and heavy about this Life Skills class.
Renny?
She glared at me. The Down syndrome kid?
She jammed the lit end of the joint against her palm, barely flinching as the butt burned her flesh. We’re late. Tell him you got lost. He’ll let it slide.
When we reached the door, Tricia yelled, Found her!
and yanked me into the classroom. She was ditching in the bathroom.
No, I wasn’t!
Her betrayal didn’t shock me; after all, she was a pot-smoking SPED student in a cloak. How smoothly she pivoted from ally to prosecutor, however, did. I . . . got lost.
Sure,
Tricia said. That’s why you were outside before the bell rang.
She flopped down in Mr. Dellian’s chair and put her feet up on his desk, not bothering to cross them. You should give her detention.
Thank you, Tricia. I can handle this myself.
He turned to me. Life Skills is not a blow-off class. I won’t tolerate tardiness and unexcused absences. Understood?
So much for peace, love, and understanding. It probably wasn’t the best time to tell him I didn’t belong in there. But like an idiot, I gave it a try. Yeah, but I’m not even supposed to be in here.
I darted my eyes up to his face briefly and then looked at the ground. I told Mr. Villanari last year. I don’t need any help.
Mr. Villanari is no longer in charge of your IEP. I am. And I think you need this class.
The tone in his voice told me I’d struck a nerve, but I couldn’t let it go. I had to make him see that I wasn’t like Tricia and the others. Mr. Dellian, I get your reason for this class and all, but I don’t belong in here. I’m not like
—I gestured at the class—them.
I focused on Dellian’s shoulder. I’m totally normal, and I swear, I’m not suicidal.
The muscles in Dellian’s arm flexed. Normal? You think these kids aren’t normal?
No! I—
I stopped. The class was dead silent. I didn’t need Tricia to tell me I’d said too much.
She did anyway.
Smooth. Even Asperger’s over there has better social etiquette. Think I know your poison now. Mental retardation?
Enough!
Mr. Dellian growled at Tricia, and then looked at me. You’re in here because I say you’re in here. Now sit!
He glanced back at Tricia. Both of you.
I had no desire to be near the now pissed-off Mr. Dellian, nor by the freak-show named Tricia. Besides, what could I possibly need to see on the board? So I headed to the back of the room.
The short girl held out a plastic container as I went by. Cookie?
Don’t give her one, Ruth,
Tricia said. She’s a puker.
Tricia,
Mr. Dellian said with a sigh. Please, find a seat.
No, no. Stay there. I like that view!
A guy in jeans and a hockey jersey walked into the classroom. Thong or bikini?
Tricia’s voice took on a seductive tone. Maybe neither.
The newcomer handed Mr. Dellian a stack of papers. There was a traffic jam at the copier.
He took a cookie from Ruth. Mmmm, chocolate,
he said, then nodded his head toward me and grinned.
My heart stopped. Jonathan Webb. A senior and a huge hockey star; everyone called him Zeus, the lightning-fast god of the ice.
Class,
Dellian said as he set the papers on his desk, Jonathan will be my aide this semester.
I almost laughed out loud. Missy would die to be in a class with Jonathan—well maybe not this particular class, but still. She’d been crushing on him since the summer before freshman year. He lived a few blocks away from me, though I’m sure he didn’t know that. Missy and I used to ride our bikes by his house, hoping to see him. Sometimes he’d be outside washing his cherry-red Corvette. We spent hours planning ways to cross his path—a flat bike tire, a lost dog, a twisted knee—each time victims in need of saving. We always chickened out, though. Neither of us had ever spoken to him.
While we’re making introductions
—Mr. Dellian walked to the slumped-over guy who’d been humming and rocking earlier—most of you know Bart, and over there—
He pointed at the girl with the cookies. She grinned at me. I’m Ruth.
JJ,
the guy in the wheelchair said.
Roz,
I said.
No!
The dude wearing an oversize cowboy hat at the front of my row whipped around and glared at me. "It’s my turn. He faced forward again.
I’m Jeffrey."
She probably couldn’t see over that hat,
Tricia said.
I could too!
I snapped, realizing, as I did, that she was teasing him, not me.
It’s my Indiana Jones hat.
He turned back around. Do you like Harrison Ford? I have all his movies. You could come see my collection.
Aah, retards in love,
Tricia said. When’s the wedding?
T.
Mr. Dellian lowered his voice and moved in front of Tricia. Take a seat.
Tricia let her legs fall, one by one, to the floor. She strolled to the back of the room, lingering too long as she passed Jonathan, and then dragged a desk across the floor and pushed it against mine. This better?
I scooted away, but she followed with a sadistic smile. I surrendered and slid my butt to the edge of my seat instead.
There seems to be some misconception about this class. So let me explain.
Even as I stared at my desktop, I knew Mr. Dellian was looking at me. Sometimes academic classes alone cannot prepare you for the world outside, especially if you have a physical, emotional, or intellectual disability hindering your success.
My ears began to burn. It was bad enough sitting there in that class. But in front of Jonathan? How humiliating.
Except for Bart, all of you take classes with the rest of the school, and this can be tough sometimes. If you’re not prepared to interact with others who don’t understand your unique needs, the stress can be overwhelming, as it was for Renny. Renny was having trouble, and no one knew it because he was refusing help. It’s hard to admit to yourself sometimes that you are overwhelmed and need help. That’s what I hope to teach you in this class: How to recognize that you need help and how to—
Dellian sighed as the bell cut him off.
I couldn’t escape fast enough. I leaped forward, reaching the door at the same time as Jonathan. He smiled and gestured for me to go in front of him. After you.
Funny. I never liked Jonathan. Not like Missy. But that simple interaction sent my mind reeling. Do I laugh? Smile? Say something clever? But that would all mean making eye contact. What if he thinks I’m looking behind him? Not interested? Blowing him off? I’d almost decided to smile and just look at the ground, act shy, when Mr. Dellian zapped me back to earth.
Miss Hart, you should be sitting up front.
I stole a glance at Jonathan from the corner of my eye. He’d paused, as if waiting for me. I’m fine back there.
Are you?
Dellian stepped backwards to let JJ wheel by. I distinctly remember Mr. Villanari telling me the only accommodation you admit needing is a seat up front.
I wanted to disappear, meld into the cement wall and fail to exist. It was as if Dellian was suddenly bent on proving I was a freak. Whatever,
I muttered and sped out without looking back.
The rest of the day sucked like that too. Missy was in most of my classes, just as we’d planned last spring. She made it obvious I was invisible. Whatever. I listened to music until each class started. Earphones make it easy to pretend you don’t care.
Sixth hour, AP History, was supposed to be my highlight, though. It wasn’t the subject. I’d rather read about Sasquatch or the search for alien life forms than about dead presidents. It was what it represented. A junior course; only a handful of sophomores were allowed to test in. Missy squeaked by with the minimum score. But I smoked that test, not a single point missed, and I even refused the extra time they offered so I wouldn’t be accused of special
treatment. Missy had always been the perfect one, the popular one, the pretty one. Acing the test meant I was the smart one.
Now, however, AP History meant more than a simple victory in a jealous rivalry; it was the sole representation of the real me. Being in that AP class validated me. It justified my belief that I did not belong in a special education class. I was AP History material, and I’d clung all day to the idea that AP History was my salvation. It would deliver me from evil.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t deliverance. It was the doorway to another level of Hell.
Sixth hour started with my usual level of frustration. I’d misplaced my map and spilled water on my schedule. To make a long story short, I was still trying to decipher the room number well after the bell had rung. It was 200, 203, or 208. Through a process of elimination, I finally found it—but class had been in session for at least fifteen minutes already. I opened the door, heard the teacher’s voice, and froze.
Well, Miss Hart? Are you joining us?
I’m looking for AP History?
And you found it.
But . . .
I frowned. Why are you here?
I could ask you the same question,
Mr. Dellian said. Once again, you’re wasting my class time. If you are staying, take a seat.
I’m sure my mouth dropped open; I was so shocked and infuriated, I think I even forgot to breathe. I know I forgot to sit. I just stood there and stared at him. Dellian was my AP teacher? How had I missed that? This was supposed to be my salvation! My chance to prove I didn’t belong in Special Ed. I wanted an AP teacher, not the SPED teacher, my SPED teacher.
Miss Hart,
Mr. Dellian said in a tone that was half exasperation and half boredom, we sit in this class.
I smelled Missy’s signature scent, lavender and vanilla, and, repulsed, moved toward the center aisle. I suppose most people can see the empty seats in a classroom right away. I can’t. Not until I’m a few feet away. And being pissed doesn’t help me focus. I realized halfway up