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have my elective. Art. The familiar smell of turpentine pricks my nose as I take a spot behind one of the beat-up tables. Both Mrs. Stilke and my fellow art-freak, Nelson Strange (yes, that’s his name, poor kid) smile at me.
    Nelson gives me a thumbs up as I slide onto the stool next to his. His thumbnail is painted black. As are the rest of his nails, though somehow the overall effect is actually masculine. There’s a hole in his nose where a ring should be. School policy doesn’t allow obvious body piercing. However, there’s apparently no policy against Nelson’s electric blue hair. Go figure.
    “Hey,” I whisper, and nudge him with my elbow. “Looks like she’s still got a thing for you.” I’m talking about Melissa Scott, the center on the girls’ basketball team, who’s sitting on his other side. She sits next to him every year and flashes her long legs in his direction. She likes to play up her assets.
    Nelson blushes and hooks a combat boot onto the rung of his stool. He narrows his eyes at me. “You okay, Sylvie?” Leave it to Nelson. Haven’t seen the guy in almost three months and right away he knows something’s up with me. Like every time I’m upset I have a tattoo on my forehead announcing it. Today it could read: Shadows Sucked Me Pale or Dad Moved Out. I don’t talk about the shadows, but eventually I’ll end up telling Nelson about my dad. After Cassie, he’s really the only friend I’ve got. We sat next to each other in Mrs. Stilke’s Art class freshmen year and hit it off from day one. He’s got blue hair; I’ve got a blue outlook on life. Makes us buddies, I guess. Plus he’s never called me Psycho , despite witnessing a couple of my “incidents.”
    Nelson’s about to say something else when Mrs. Stilke stands up and demands our attention.
    “Welcome back, ladies and gentlemen. I hope your summer was nice.” She pushes a strand of jet-black hair from her face. “We’ll be starting off simply today. Just a charcoal sketch.” We all go to the back of the room and gather our materials together. When we’re at our places again, Mrs. Stilke continues. “I’m going to need a model.” Several hands shoot up like rockets – it’s a chance to get out of actually doing the assignment and to just sit still for the next couple of classes.
    I stare down at the table, my hands tucked between my legs. No way do I want my classmates to study my features, draw them on paper. I’d rather die first.
    “Sylvie? I’d like you to do it,” Mrs. Stilke says in a firm voice.
    I whip my head up and let out a little squeak. All the blood drains out of my face, maybe my body, too. I’m sure if I get up, there’ll be a puddle of it on the floor. “No ... I ... uh ... can’t, Mrs. Stilke.”
    “Yes, you can and you will. You’re the one in this class who needs the least amount of practice sketching faces.” She waves for me to come forward out of my seat. “Come on.”
    “But—”
    “No buts. Come on. You’ve got an interesting face. Great for sketching.”
    Interesting. A nice way of saying aesthetically challenged. I swallow.Mrs. Stilke motions again for me to come to the middle of the room. Unless I commit suicide right here and now with the sharp point of my charcoal pencil, there’s no way out of it.
    The second I get up, all the blood I thought I’d lost comes rushing into my face. I walk stiffly around the semi-circle of tables towards the center of the room and the tall stool Mrs. Stilke has put there. I don’t look around, just keep my eyes locked onto a point on the back wall. Big mistake. Because somebody put their foot out. On purpose or I just didn’t see it. Either way, my foot hooks theirs and all of a sudden I’m kissing the floor. There’s a loud thud as my forehead smacks the concrete.
    Ooof. The pain. It’s piercing and it squeezes, squeezes, squeezes my head. My body tingles and shivers. Oh, no. No, no. Here it comes. Again. There’s a shifting at the