“Fresh out.”

“Damn. And I was so optimistic.”

“Seems to be the theme with you, optimism.” I throw out, then smile. “You know, it’s okay to feel things, but don’t ever feel them because someone forces them on you. Choose to be sad, happy, choose to be angry, but don’t allow another power to make that choice for you.”

“Ah…” His smile is slow. “So she was a philosopher in another life?”

“She clearly was because she’s brilliant.” I wink.

He stops tapping his pencil and then looks up at me just in time for Tessa to walk between our desks. “Something interesting back here?”

Quinn grips the pencil again so hard I’m almost afraid he’s going to stab her with it. He glances at me, then leans back and smiles like it’s just another day. “Sorry, was flirting, she’s super-hot, and I wore red today, so I was feeling myself. That a problem?”

Her nostrils flair. “Pay attention in class.”

“Yes, Miss Tessa.” His legs are bouncing a bit, and I can tell he’s not just enraged, he’s terrified. “I’ll make sure to pay really close attention. After all, details are everything, wouldn’t you agree?”

Her lips part open, and then she turns away from us. “Sure.”

I’m ready to ask what just happened when Mr. Dekker starts talking about another pop quiz. When Tessa stops by my desk, she not only drops the paper onto it only for it to fly off but steps on my bag.

I hear a crunch and want to cry.

“Oh, sorry!” She’s so fake I want to smack her as she picks up the bag and puts it on my chair. “Remember, bags go on the chairs, not on the floors. We wouldn’t want anything to break.”

It’s probably a bag of chips or my sunglasses that I’ve had for the last five years, one of the only things I kept from my favorite foster mom when I saw them at Wal-Mart, and while it may sound dumb like they’re not Louis Vuitton so who the hell cares. I care.

Because I treasure small things.

Small things are all I have.

And she took that away with one look and a footprint on my designer satchel. I think maybe, looking back, I’d laugh that I couldn’t care less about the designer bag but the sunglasses that cost my foster mom maybe five dollars. They were my first pair.

Shaking, I reach for my bag after she passes my desk and starts talking to other students or helping while Mr. Dekker lectures.

The bag is a cream leather, beautiful Prada. I reach into it and then down. I’m afraid to look in, so I just feel while attempting to pay attention. Quinn’s watching me from the right like he’s not sure what to say or how to react. He’s dealing with his own demons.

My hands hit the potato chips first, they’re good.

And then, they shakily reach for the black sunglasses.

The lenses are both completely gone from the glasses, but both sides are intact, so I could at least put them on if I wanted to.