I dig my teeth into her wrist until she hisses. Twisting, I toss her to the side and crawl backward on my palms, struggling to grab something to hoist myself to my feet. My sweaty palms slip around a chair’s metal legs.
This is Miss Diaz. I don’t want to hurt her. I don’t even want to scream. If someone comes in and sees her accosting a student, her career is over.
I should have known better than to hope. I did know better, but hope is its own violence.
“Miss Diaz, stop,” I plead. “If you can hear me, I don’t want to hurt you.”
Her lips part into a gruesome grin. She grabs my shoe, dragging me toward her. Black sludge coats her tongue, drips from the roof of her mouth. Bile burns in my throat. It never speaks, never answers me. I don’t even know if it understands what I say.
But desperation is a universal language, even between man and myth, and it relishes mine.
I hurl my backpack at her head, temporarily knocking her grip on my leg loose. She releases me with a groan. Lurching upright, I topple asmany desks as I can into her path and make a break for the door. If I can just get far enough, it’ll leave her. She’ll blink and be Miss Diaz again, baffled at the state of her classroom and her unexplainable headache.
As soon as I throw the door open, something sharp spears into my arm. I shriek, falling against the door and grabbing my elbow. A pair of small red scissors protrude from my upper arm. My sleeve darkens around the tear, sticking hot against my skin.
She threwscissorsat me?
Before I can pull it out, a book the size of a brick crashes next to my head. The thing hurls them at me like missiles. Miss Diaz’s beloved books. Books she’s collected over a lifetime, lovingly preserved in first and second editions.
Hitting the ground, I yank the scissors out of my arm with a pained gasp. I’ll have to crawl. Once I get out of the room, she’ll be okay.
I make the mistake of glancing down at the scissors. The vivid red of my blood on the blades sends the world spinning. I glance away quickly. Absolutelynotthe time to let my ridiculous aversion to blood knock me out.
I’ve crawled hallway out the door when a book collides with the side of my head. My vision blurs a second time, and I slap a palm against the carpet to keep from going flat. The book drops open next to my hand.
How Not to Drown in a Glass of Water,by Angie Cruz.
I turn onto my back as more objects come flying, holding up the book to shield myself against the onslaught. A mug, protein bars, pencils, notebooks. Almost impressive, how many items it manages to hurl my way.
I glance to the side. With a mixture of relief and despair, I realize the hallway is empty. No one will see Miss Diaz try to kill me.
No one will see her succeed.
A weight lands on my stomach, and I drop the book in time for thin fingers to close around my throat. I scratch at her hands, writhing as I try to buck her off.
Orange spots blossom in my vision. The color of the beach in El Agamy at dusk, of the sun burning behind a gauzy film of clouds. My breath rattles in my chest as it strangles me with Miss Diaz’s hands, and all I can think about is Baba. He can’t lose me like we lost Mama. He won’t survive another death.
An arm encased in leather punches Miss Diaz in the face. She flies off me, hitting the door with a sickening thud.
I cough violently as air rushes into my lungs. A passing touch to my throat confirms the presence of finger-shaped bruises.
Jesse Talbot stands wide-eyed above me. “Holy crap.”
Miss Diaz stirs. I’ve grown quite scientific about analyzing when this thing manifests, and curiosity nearly edges out my instincts. Will Jesse’s presence strip the thing out of her immediately? Or will it fade?
“We have to go,” I croak. I’m not strong enough to test either theory. With my non-bleeding arm, I push to my feet and grab Jesse’s jacket. “Run!”
To his credit, Jesse doesn’t hang around to question me. We sprint down the deserted hall, not stopping until we shove through the double doors and stumble outside.
Sweet, sweet air. I barely remember to check Jesse and I aren’t alone in the quad before I grab the rim of a garbage can and try to breathe through my battered throat. I don’t need to prod it to know she did real damage.
Maybe I can ransack Baba’s closet for a few of his turtlenecks. He owns about a million of them; he definitely wouldn’t notice a few missing.
Before I can devise a plan to rob my father, a harsh voice slaps me back into reality.
“What the hell just happened?”
For a supposed loner, Jesse Talbot is surprisingly clingy.
