I’m staring at the picture of spring, with tiny bright green buds dusting the trees like pollen, when class starts. I’m worn out from my small bit of participation in theater class today. I can’t believe I shared the “moral of the story,” as Mrs. Nicky calls it, with the class. I’m a little proud, too, though. I want to tell Andrea so she will stop leaving notes in my locker with the names of occupational therapists. But first, all I want to do is sink down in my seat in the back row and take this period off. That’s how I’ve learned to do it. If one class is a little too intense, a group dissection in science or a debate where everyone’s yelling in history, then whatever class comes next, I just… check out. I don’t sleep or anything. I just sit there with my eyes open and let my mind drift.

“Psst. Psssssssst,” Well whispers next to me. He does not understand the concept of taking a period off.

“What?”

“Coach is passing back the essays.”

“And?”

“And you’re going to have to hold my hand if I failed.”

I shake my head as Dan walks up and down the rows, a stack of papers in his hand. Well is always trying to get me to hold hands, high-five, pinky-swear, fist-bump. I never do it.

Dan is just turning down the aisle farthest from me when it happens. Later, I think maybe if he had been a little closer, it wouldn’t have played out like it did. But then again, probably not. Some things are inevitable, like a train running on a broken track. Eventually it’s going to crash.

My train wreck is the fire alarm in fifth-period English.

It screams. I grab my ears and then my hair. It’s not stopping. I pull at my hair. Harder. Harder. Until some comes away in my hands. The pain helps. But not enough.

Through my arms I see people standing, laughing, texting. They are walking out. I begin to rock in my seat. Still the alarm wails. Well sticks his face in front of mine. He’s saying something, but I can’t hear him over the siren and my own fast breathing. Then he grabs at my arm. I scream and jerk away. The last ones in the room turn to watch. They’re watching me, the freak.

I don’t care. I don’t care about anything right now but noise. I can feel it, burrowing in my ears like a worm. I’ll never get it out. Make it stop. I’m on the floor. How did I get here? Now I’m in someone’s arms. Make them stop. Too much touching. Too much sound. I’m being carried down the hall, out into the cold, cold air. And suddenly, finally, it is quiet.