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applied makeup. The bizarre image of that tree stood firmly in my mind, even as I struggled to shake it. “What?”
    “Stand up!” she hissed. Alarmed, I sat up and realized that the entire class was staring at me.
    “What?” I repeated to Obnoxious.
    “It’s your turn!”
    Now I was really confused. MacFarlane had just started handing back the tests. Great, maybe he had decided to change his protocol and hand back the worst grades first. Slowly, I made my way to the front of the class. I took the packet and made my way back to my desk without even looking at the large red number circled at the top of the page.
    I was aware that a low hum of whispers emanated from the rest of the class as I sat down, my seat managing to pinch me right inside my thigh. The sensation jarred me out of my thoughts and my attention went to the packet that I had placed face down on the desk. I turned it over to face the music. I sighed, resigned to the fact that I would be taking summer school or worse, repeating the class next year.
    I actually had to rub my eyes as I read the number at the top of the page. Next, I checked the name on test to make sure I hadn’t received the wrong packet. The score just could not be right. I looked around the room uncertainly, half-expecting a television crew to jump out from somewhere and punk me. The writing on the test appeared to be my own, although it was neater than usual. Mr. MacFarlane’s voice carried on in the background as I wracked my brain, trying to think of an explanation for my score.
    I had received the highest grade in the class, setting the curve. I left one question unanswered, but I had correctly solved each of the forty-nine other equations. I was so confused I completely tuned out the rest of the class. Instead, I stared at that test packet, and the red slash through my one blank question. I had skipped question forty-seven. What made it so different from the rest? I had no recollection of completing any of the work at all. I studied the equation, and to my surprise, I was able to solve it right away.
    I muddled through the next few periods: English Honors, Spanish Honors and Biology. I wrote down copious notes, attempted to look interested to avoid being called on, and fought to make it to the lunch period when I could think about everything.
    I fiddled with the pendant around my neck. Touching it felt good. I pressed into the pointed tip, making a small indentation into the skin of my thumb. As my fingers explored the stone, I suddenly noticed it felt warm and somehow…alive? Yes…I could definitely feel some sort of…pulse…like the crystal was awake with a kind of internal energy. When the bell rang, I shot out of my seat and ran into the bathroom near my locker.
    I had to fight for a spot in the mirror as the Candy Girls—the ones who wore tight, brightly colored clothing, tons of makeup and perfume, and constantly chewed gum—applied more makeup and gloss to their faces. They jockeyed for a glimpse of their reflections. When I finally settled my eyes on the stone that sat against my chest, I let out an audible gasp. My necklace was on fire! A tiny flame burned in the recesses of the stone. It flickered and danced a slow, sensual twirl as I watched, mesmerized, hoping that the fire didn’t burn my skin.
    In response to my surprised gasp and subsequent fixation on my own reflection, I heard one of the Candy Girls say under her breath, “Freakin’ Stoners….why can’t they use another bathroom!”
    As the others giggled in response, I quickly stuffed the crystal under the fabric of my black tank. I bolted myself into one of the stalls to catch my breath in private. What the hell is going on? Now, I was sure I was going crazy. I worked to retain some level of composure. I would have to ignore my—hallucinations—or whatever they were. Then I would rush home and hide until I figured out what to do next.
    I flushed the toilet, pretending I had actually gone to the