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    going to take her down a notch . . .
    The venom in the thoughts is so strong it almost snaps my head back.
    I tug Rachel around so we’re half facing Becca.
    “That’s so cool that the school wants to start a gay-straight alliance,” I say loudly.
    “Uh—yeah?” Rachel says, her forehead scrunching up.
    Becca stops an inch away from us, looking at me with disgust. I don’t move, just look back, face neutral, waiting.
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    “Lesbo Para-lovers like you shouldn’t be allowed to walk through these halls!”
    “Becca, are you worried that you’re a lesbian—or a Para?” I ask, keeping my eyes innocent-wide. “Because usually that’s what people are afraid of when they talk like you.”
    Red crawls up Becca’s neck and face, like tiny red ants.
    “Of course not, you—you—piece of Para-loving trash.” Becca stalks away from us, her back stiff with anger.
    Rachel laughs loudly, her belly shaking. “Becca’s the biggest homophobe and Para-hater in the school, in case you didn’t figure that out. You just made my day. My year!”
    “I’m glad.” I grin. But fear rattles inside me. I’ve just drawn attention to myself—again.
    The crowds are thinning out. Rachel looks at her sport watch. “We’d better hurry—Mr. Arnold hates it when you’re late. He gives you a detention even if you’ve got a good reason.”
    She jogs up the stairs and I follow.
    A tall man with a nose that looks too big for his face leans around a classroom door and glares at us, his glasses askew. “Hurry it up, Miss Levy,” he says, in a nasal, almost whiny voice. “You don’t want another tardy mark added to your record.”
    “Just forty-five minutes of purgatory to get through,” Rachel whispers. “Remember it won’t last all day—even if it seems to.”
    Rachel slips through the doorway.
    Mr. Arnold stops me. “Take those sunglasses off. They look ridiculous.”
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    Cheryl Rainfield
    I make a show of pulling out the “doctor’s note” Mom scrawled out for me. “They’re prescription glasses, sir. I need them to see.”
    “Oh, for—Very well.” He impatiently gestures for me to walk in ahead of him, then snaps the door shut behind us.
    “There’s an empty seat near the front.” I’ll bet there is.
    Students turn, curious. Dark brown eyes meet mine, the wide mouth curving into a happy-to-see-you smile.
    Alex.
    I take a shaky breath, holding in my answering smile, but I can feel it flood into my eyes. I curse myself. He’s a Normal. NORMAL. I must be losing it.
    “Any day now, Miss Ellis.”
    I walk over to the empty desk and perch on the hard chair. I take my books out carefully, focus on my every movement to keep myself out of Alex’s head.
    Mr. Arnold stands in front of the smartboard. A few whispers start up, but when Mr. Arnold turns and frowns, his bushy eyebrows converging into one, they abruptly go silent. “If you’ve got nothing better to do, you can take out your scripts and read ahead while I put up these questions.” Everyone groans. I reluctantly open my battered copy of Othello while Mr. Arnold drones on and on, like a fly buzzing around the room. A whiny, irritating little mosquito.
    “Miss Ellis? Miss Ellis, can you tell us the answer?” I look up into his expectant face, seeing his I’ve-got-you-now expression. The answer is so loud in his head that it’s hard to ignore. I know it’s wrong, but I want to wipe the 50
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    smirk off his face. “Brabantia accused Othello of using witchcraft.” I think back to the scene—I read it at the last school—and add, my lips so dry they stick to my teeth, “He did it because he was a bigot.” Like most of you Normals.
    Mr. Arnold blinks. . . . How did she—? . . . Swear I had her . . . “That’s correct. Although not everyone would agree with your assessment.” He turns away.
    People’s attention swings to me like polar north. I slouch in my seat, pretending to be bored.
    “Mr. Arnold, Mr. Arnold,” a tall,