I stand in front of the huge glass doors. My bag slung over one of my shoulders. I take a deep breath, staring into the school.

It’s been almost two week since I’ve been gone. Two weeks of school work that I’ve missed. And I’m not going to be able to pay attetion in classes.

All I can think about is Mom. The last time I sat in English Mom was at work. The last time I ate lunch in the corner all by myself Mom was out with her friends. The last time I walked out of these glass doors, Mom was sitting in her idling car waiting for me.

I close my eyes fighting back tears as I inch closer to the doors. I reach out, grabbing the cold metal and pulling the door open.

A huge gust of warm air hits me, and I realize how cold it is out here. I sigh, throwing the door open and grabbing onto the handle of my back pack.

The school is buzzing with kids. Millions of tiny groups scathered throughout the building. I always dream of what it would be like if one of those groups was mine.

I’d be laughing, talking, joking around. Just having the time of my life. I snake around the groups, trying my best to avoid any eye contact.

This morning when I woke up I thought “Hey maybe because your mom died people will actaully come talk to you.”

And every second I’ve been making sure that I never let those words cross my mind. I don’t care about some kids who don’t even notice me. It’s not worth it even if my mom died . . . I mean even that she’s gone.

. . . . . . . .

I get through my classes the same way I always have. Doing my work, avoiding talking in front of the class, and most important alone. Well thats not the most important just the most painful.

I’m glad when the three bells echo through the class room. I’ve never been so glad to get out of this building. Even though I told myself that no one would talk to me, I still hoped maybe I was wrong.

But I wasn’t, which isn’t much of a shocker.

I jog down the stairs, running into a huge cluster of kids, swarming through the crowded halls. It’s normal for this much people, but the sounds. Screaming and yelling. I mean it’s normal but normally it’s only the boys.

I stand on my tippy toes searching above the heads for what has stolen everyone’s attetion.

I gasp when I see two boys rolling around on the floor. I recognize the one pinned down. His brown hair, black eyes.

It’s the boy. The boy I met at Mom’s funeral. Suddenly without thinking I’m pushing past the girls and boys who are circling the boys.

I get to the front, letting my bag slide off my arm as I run forward.

“Hey!” I shout, both boy’s stop. The one on top holds his fist out in the air. I wasn’t expecting such a good reaction. “Stop!” I say, surprised that they listened.

The boy with black hait scoffs as he gets off the boy I met.

“You called your girlfriend,” he pauses giving me a hateful look. “How patheic can you be?”

The boy pulls himself off the groud. His bottom lip dripping with bright red blood. He gives me a thankful look that instantly turns to fear.

“She’s . . . She’s not. . .” He looks down. “I don’t know her.”

The boy with black hair rolls his eyes. “Whatever.”

He walks away, and the rest of the school floods back to normal. Groups forming around me, laughter, handshakes, hugging.

The boy I met walks towards me, wipping the blood off his chin with the back of his hand. “Thanks.” He says calmly.

I nod, “You helped me. So I guess I owed you.”

The boy looks like he’s about to disagree, but instead he just smiles. “Yeah, well thanks.”

I smile back, “You’re welcome. I’m Maisie.”

The boy wipes his chin again. “Davian.”