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walking past the door to the principal’s office, out the rear exit and into the parking lot, never seeing the thing that had been watching her.
    ***
    Cynthia knew that random act of crotch hockey would mean detention, which was fine, but it would also mean a parent/teacher meeting. This was not fine. Her mom would have to lose sleep to come deal with her deviance. Her mom worked hard enough just keeping them in Cheerios and that lousy apartment.
    The halls were empty, and that special shade of gray that doubtless contributed to many a student’s need for anti-depressants. She stomped down the stairs, wondering if Jan had remembered to grab her backpack. She also wondered how long she’d have to wait to talk to Principal Stokes. His secretary always made Cynthia wait at least ten minutes while she pretended to do important paperwork, or type on her keyboard like it were a letter to the President, before letting the guy even know she was there. She supposed it was her way of expressing some kind of pitiful authority. Her own little bit of pathetic, secretary-level punishment for the miscreant.
    Cynthia rounded the corner, the place where Dalen’s teeth had hit morphed from an ache to a mound of pain. Biting her lip, she stopped to give it a look. He hadn’t torn through her stockings, but he’d given her one hell of a punch with those perfect teeth. (Damn, she wished he hadn’t turned out to be such a douche.) She rubbed the spot, and looked up again. An intake of breath and she was motionless.
    It was the shadow one ignored when home alone. The thing that, if one mustered enough courage to investigate, was nothing—that if one cocked their head a certain way would reveal itself to be a coat on a doorknob, or a trick of the moonlight. She blinked. Moved her stiff neck. But it still seemed to stare back.
    Then it moved.
    It was at least thirty feet down the hall, this pale phenomenon. Shaped like a man. But it was no man. Breath caught in her throat. Its silhouette jittered like a poorly received signal. It was near translucent, this thing that now floated toward her.
    Cynthia wasn’t panicking yet. Allowing herself to register in full what she was seeing felt risky. All of life’s experience told her that, despite its persistence, it must be that trick of the light or a ghastly reflection of someone inside the office on the glass of the rear doors. She forced herself to breathe—an unhealthy, misshapen gulp of air.
    No. As much as she ached for it to be something explicable, no. Like an ink that would forever stain her skin, the sight of it (not what it was, she had no idea of that,) incorporated itself into her. A watery smile wavered on its near featureless face. A scream rose in her chest. It raised an arm, its alien features coming into view, forcing its reality on her. Then the thing was gone.
    “Hey!” Jan said.
    Cynthia’s eyes, a swell of black now, shifted in the direction of Jan’s voice, breaking the spell of rising fear. It had been an amulet against the unreality, the proverbial cover over a child’s head that kept away the hungry mouths of hidden things.
    “I brought your books. Figured you might need moral support after seeing Herr Fuehrer and getting the…” Cynthia’s stare was pointed at the last spot where the thing had been. “You okay?”
    Cynthia shook her head.
    ***
    Nathan, Angela’s date for the evening, arrived at her house right before six to drive her to the party. Her mother called for him to come right in. He looked around a little, nervously. Everything was shiny and looked expensive. He was trying to decide whether he should take his shoes off or not when Angela called out to him.
    “Back here!”
    A head poked out of the kitchen, a long, wooden spoon in hand, black hair pulled into a stubby ponytail. She looked only a few years older than Angela. “Hi, Nathan. I’m Angie’s mom. Go on straight down the hall.”
    He walked the long hallway beside the stairs. There was