Chapter 13

** Candice **

I'm about to walk into my third period class when I feel a tap on my shoulder. Turning around, I see my counselor, Mrs. Stephens, staring at me with a concern in her eyes.

"Hi, Candice. Are you finding all your classes?"

"Oh, yes, thanks."

"Great!" she says with a troubled look on her face. I'm not sure that's what she really wanted to ask.

What's going on with her?

"That's good. I just..." She stops, dropping her eyes to my cheek, then back to me.

Shit.

She takes me by the arm, leading me toward the ladies' room like we're about to have a secret meeting, stopping once we're inside. "Is everything all right, honey?" she whispers with a new look of concern.

My hand goes directly to my bruised cheek as if covering it up will make her forget what she saw. "Uh huh...everything's fine," I lie, watching her face contort, because I'm sure she knows I'm lying.

As if dismissing my words, she says, "You know I'm here to help, right?"

I nod, not meeting her eyes.

"Good, because I mean it, Candice. If you need to talk about anything, all you have to do is knock on my door."

"Okay, thank you." I smile as genuinely as I can before walking out into the hallway.

"Oh, and Candice?"

"Yeah?" I look back at her.

"Do you have a car?"

Where did that come from?

"No, but I live pretty close. Why?"

She looks both ways as if she's afraid someone might be listening. "Just be careful walking home."

"Um, yeah. Sure," I answer, no doubt with a confused look on my face. Because I am. Are there boogeymen on the streets in this town or something?

She takes my hand and I immediately see the worry in her eyes. "Just promise me." She closes her mouth and swallows once. "Please."

The bell rings and I nod, knowing I have to haul my butt to class or be late. I pull my hand out of her grip, walking so fast I may as well be running.

I hate being late and despise having an entire class stare at me when I am. It's happened enough times you'd think I'd be used it. But the panic that slams into my chest when a room full of strangers suddenly focuses all their attention on me is different each and every time. And just like that, I start resenting being the new girl-and my mother-all over again.

Thank goodness I don't have to go to my locker because it's a miracle I make it to class just in the nick of time. Unfortunately, my seat is next to a guy who talks to himself and likes to shoot spit wads.

Awesome.

On the positive side, World History is one of my favorite classes and we just started a chapter on the European Renaissance. As much as I love this era, I keep going back to the conversation I just had with Mrs. Stephens. I hope like hell she doesn't try to call Mom, or worse, Child Protective Services. I could tell by the look on her face that she saw the mark on my cheek. It's like she knew where to look. But how?

After torturing myself with question after question, I decide I just can't obsess about it and should probably pay attention. The teacher, a leggy bleached blond who looks too old for her bright skirt and high heels, is writing something on the board. I notice only one guy is paying attention, the rest are checking out her ass.

Typical.

Mentally rolling my eyes, I pull out my spiral notebook, watching the girl next to me raise her hand when the teacher asks if anyone knows how many wives King Henry VIII executed. That's a no-brainer for me and if this is any indication of how this class will be all semester, I could probably test out right now.

"Yes, you in the back," the teacher says, pointing in her direction.

"Two," she answers as a spit wad soars past my face.

I don't think the teacher saw it, but Jesus, who the hell does that? I shoot Talks-to-Himself a dirty look and he immediately slides down in his seat. Good. Maybe I embarrassed him. I'm pretty sure he's not in the popular group and I'm instantly ashamed of the smile I'm trying to hide. Fortunately, it worked, but he's sitting with his head down on the desk. I'm not sure if I hurt his feelings or he's simply taking a nap.

I manage to finish what was supposed to be a homework assignment in class. I know everything there is to know about Henry VIII, and don't even have to crack open the book to answer the two-page worksheet. It also kept my mind occupied for a beautiful ten minutes.

I shove my pen and notebook in my backpack when the bell rings, feeling around in the bottom for the quarters I threw in a couple days ago. For the first time in days, I'm starving and lunch sounds good for a change.