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voice behind her. “Don’t forget your books.”
    Reluctantly, Skey turned to see Ms. Renfrew pointing a grim finger at the large stack of books on her desk. With a grimace, Skey shuffled to the desk and hoisted the heavy load into her arms. She was never, never going to look at any of these.
    Tammy followed her into the lobby. “Do you want to sit down?” she asked politely.
    Skey glared at her. The girl was so smug. She probably had an alphabetized list of life goals, a whole Dewey decimal system of thoughts. Now she wanted to invade and organize Skey’s brain. Skey was sick and tired of people running her life. “No,” she snapped.
    Tammy’s dark eyes widened. Ignoring her, Skey stared grimly through the lobby’s open doors.
    “Well, what time do you want to meet tomorrow?” asked Tammy.
    “I don’t care,” said Skey.
    “Twelve o’clock?” suggested Tammy.
    “Fine,” said Skey. Without another glance at Tammy, she walked out of the lobby, into the coolness of the large echoing hallway and the nearest girls’ washroom. As she entered, someone came out of a cubicle and left without washing her hands. Skey waited until the creature of filth was gone, then dumped her books on the counter. Grimly she leaned over the sink, bracing her palms against the mirror and waited. Her stomach was on a major rampage; she could feel it churning, throwing itself around like a mad dog. With a sudden surge, it sent a mass of acid gushing into her mouth. It wasn’t too bad—she hadn’t eaten lunch yet—but she gagged for a while, the heaves gripping her with a satisfying totality, a gargantuan force she couldn’t fight, couldn’t argue with, couldn’t think away.
    Finally, it was over. Relieved, Skey spit the last of the acid from her mouth and rinsed the sink. She had some breath fresheners in her locker—they would clear the stench. Darting a glance at the mirror, she let out a groan. Tears had plastered her makeup. Her face looked like your basic, all-around smudge. She was going to have to wash it, then skulk through the halls to the makeup kit in her locker, hoping against hope that no one would notice.
    Leaning over the sink, she splashed water carefully onto her face. The water felt good, cool liquid sympathy. With measured handfuls, Skey washed away the noon hour session with Beluga Nose and Dewey Decimal Brain. Then she studied herself in the mirror.
    Looks to kill: That was what her father said about her, that was why her mother hated her. Long dark hair, purple-blue eyes, the best kissing mouth in the universe and a body guys mentally undressed and kept chained to their beds. Most girls wanted to be her. The rest wanted to put a noose around her neck and swing her from the nearest tree. Skey knew what everyone did to her in their minds—it leaked out through every word, every action, every spasmodic muscle twitch. When she walked into a classroom, everyone changed, even the teachers. She was a magnet, attracting the dreams of everyone around her. A dream hit list. Most of those dreams were ugly. Real ugly. And the rest were stupid. But she had to live them all out. No one gave her a day off.
    Standing in front of the mirror, Skey disappeared into the dark tunnel where nothing could be seen. Immediately, stone pressed against her hand, and her fingers slid into a carved hollow someone had left for her to find. Who had it been? What did the carving mean?
    “You all right?” asked a voice.
    Abruptly, the washroom reappeared—lights too bright, two skinny minor niners staring at her. Hand outstretched, Skey’s fingertips were moving slightly on the mirror. She jerked them off the glass.
    “Yeah sure,” she snapped, brushing past the two girls.
    “Hey, are those your books on the counter?” asked one of them.
    “No,” said Skey and made off down the hall.

C HAPTER F OUR
    S HE FOUND A STAIRWELL landing with a window and stood staring out. Windows had always been voices calling to her. Lately she had