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anything about death has everything to do with me.
    Mrs. Jacobs and other students read parts of the story aloud and it occurs to me the piece has more to do with me than I suspected. I’m like the Red Death, sulking around the halls, the students afraid to approach me.
    When the bell rings, everyone files out of the room while I stay in my seat. I stare out the window, past the road that curves toward the cemetery, in the direction where the accident occurred.
    In a mere instant, everything changed at that spot in the road. One moment Monica was alive, the next she was gone. But I’m gone too, left with this shallow shell. I’m Monica’s Red Death.
    “
Julia?” Mrs. Jacobs’ worried voice interrupts my thoughts. “Are you okay?”
    “
I’m fine. Just tired.”
    “
Do you need to go to the nurse?”
    “
No, I’m fine.” Halfway to the door, I realize my backpack is still on the floor. I turn back and grab the strap, then bolt from the room. Dealing with other people is something I can’t face at the moment, so I head to my secret lunch spot.
    A month ago, I discovered the choir room is always unoccupied during my lunch period. The hall in the music wing is empty, but I still look around before darting in. This room is off limits and if I’m caught, I’ll be in more trouble than I can afford. But the benefits outweigh the risk.
    I cross the room and sink to the floor in the corner behind the piano. It’s a good thing I’m not hungry since I didn’t bring lunch.
    Leaning my head against the wall, my eyes close as despair washes through me. My nightmares—me dying while Monica watches— replay in my mind. I grip my head in my hands, trying to squeeze out the false memories. That wasn’t what happened. Why does my mind remember it that way?
    Tears fill my eyes before spilling over.
    Not here. Not here .
    For one day, I felt a fraction of my former self return. For one day, I relived a sliver of my former life but only gave my family false hope. I’ll never be that girl again. Everyone would have been better off if my dreams were reality, if it had been me instead of Monica.
    Wiping my face with the back of my sleeve, I push off the floor with a heavy sigh then slip into the hall as Lindsey comes around the corner. Her eyes widen and I consider darting into the restroom, but I worry that she’ll follow me. I lift my chin and walk toward her, hoping if I look like I’m supposed to be here maybe she won’t turn me in.
    She doesn’t speak as we pass but stares with fear and disgust.
    There’s another restroom closer to my next class. Leaning over the sink, I splash water on my face, thankful there’s no makeup to smear, then look into the mirror to survey the damage. My bloodshot eyes make my hazel irises look greener than usual. My red nose looks like Rudolph’s against my pale cheeks. Maybe if I keep my head down no one will notice.
    I make it through my next two classes, dreading the last. Only a couple of students are in Mr. Archer’s classroom when I arrive. I hurry to my seat in the back, hoping to avoid Evan, who takes his seat moments before the bell rings. He glances back at me with a smile before he gives Mr. Archer his full attention, as though he finds the lecture fascinating.
    My own attention returns to my notebook, the current page nearly full of scrolls and swirly lines. I should be taking notes, but the Cold War seems like a bad black and white movie, farfetched and impossible to believe. Who could believe countries would be stupid enough to nuke each other?
    The bell rings and I close my book, standing as a swarm of bees buzzes in my gut. Evan leaves the class without looking back and my disappointment is surprising. What did I expect?
    My stomach twists into a pretzel as I walk through the library doors. Evan is already here, his back to me. My feet root to the floor and refuse to move forward.
    Muscles stretch the back of his t-shirt, thick biceps visible beneath the short sleeves. I