01

WHEN I WAS younger, I had a really foolish dream of becoming a music sensation.

I told all my friends that one day my face would be plastered onto a billboard you see in Time Square. They all believed me.

And I was dead-set on it. I was convinced my voice was blessed by angels.

So it was a surprise when I turned eleven and found out that that was not the case. If anything, my voice was cursed by the monsters that I believed were under my bed.

It was that bad.

Since then, I've discovered that focusing on more realistic goals will save you a ton of trouble. Or in my case, the humiliation of performing on a stage.

I don't think there's anything more embarrassing than messing up a high-note in front of thousands of people.

I blow a strand of hair out of my face, and sigh into the palm of my hand. I'm trying really hard to pay attention to whatever Mr. Wilson is saying, but it's becoming extremely difficult when every five seconds my mind keeps wandering back to random things.

I should also definitely be writing that essay of mine, but every time I sit down to do it, it's like my mind goes blank.

Kind of like right now.

Mr. Wilson has been rambling for what I think to be about seven minutes now. And I can guarantee I stopped listening as soon as my mind caught sight of the window.

Rainy days make the perfect scenery for getting lost in your thoughts.

There's something weirdly nostalgic about the way the rain drops hit the window and the trees blow with the gust of the wind.

I feel a tap on my shoulder and carefully look behind me. My eyes narrow on the girl who is pointing toward the board.

Mr. Wilson stands with his arms crossed and a pointed look on his face in my direction. I fight the urge to roll my eyes. Sixty percent of this class isn't paying attention and yet I'm the one who gets called out.

I knew that Mr. Wilson didn't like me, especially on the numerous occasions I've corrected his knowledge, but it's starting to get a little repetitive.

I'm surprised he hasn't failed me out of spite. Yet.

"Care to add to that, Lila?" He speaks, his voice harsh and very nearly causing me to have a migraine.

I blow out a breath and look to the board for a bit of help. It isn't usually like me to zone-out of class, so I'm sure he's having a field day by catching me this time.

"No, I don't—but I'm glad you found me worthy enough to ask," I smile tightly at him and watch as he scowls harder.

This is how it always goes, he tries to catch up to me—but I'm always ten steps ahead.

I return my attention to my notebook but I guess he isn't done with me yet because he calls my name out.

I raise a brow at him and he points toward the door.

"Go to the front desk, I'm sure they'd like to deal with you."

A resounding "Ooh" goes around the class as I fight the urge to argue and make things worse. I really want to throw a number two pencil at his head, but instead I gather my things and avoid the stares of my classmates.

The walk to the front desk is quiet—which is to be expected considering I'm probably the only person who is out of class.

Well, I hope I am, at least. How would it look if I was getting sent out of class again?

The front office comes into view and I knock on the light-wood door, waiting for Ms. Andrews to give me the okay. Her bright red hair comes into view and she smiles at me.

Always so cheery.

I remember the first time I got sent down here in my freshman year and she took it upon herself to tell me her whole life story. Apparently, her husband cheated on her with his coworker a couple years back so she moved from her home in Virginia and got a degree in child development.

I also remember telling her it was a good thing because Virginia sucks and no one likes it there, anyway. She then told me that she was actually upset about leaving her home and I realized then I wasn't doing a very good job with the whole comforting thing.

"Morning, Lila," she greets, I nod back in acknowledgement. "He stepped out for a moment but he'll be back soon," she informs me. "Take a seat on the bench, honey."

I comply and look at the other bench to see a boy with a napkin held to his nose and a girl who is glaring at the boy.

I don't even want to know.

As promised, Mr. Morova walks in and calls my name. He doesn't even look surprised as I walk in and take a seat in the leather chair. He only sighs once he's settled and folds his hands together.

"What's the matter with this, Lila?" He begins, raising a brow at me.

I merely shrug and lean back in my seat. "I'm just as confused as you are, Mr. Morova," I answer truthfully.

He nods his head, "Right. Well I'm going to skip over the part where I ask you to give a me a recap and you do everything but that because I have places to be, so let's just cut to your punishment."

I'm almost shocked at his dismissal. "Punishment?" I sputter. How would that look on my track record? "What is this? The 1950's?"

Mr. Morova doesn't find this amusing, he just rolls his eyes, his bald head wrinkling as he does so. "Your punishment will be easy, I don't want to hear anything. All you have to do is pick up the trash from the football field that was left from Saturday."

My mouth practically drops open. Is he crazy? Like genuinely, does he need me to call a doctor?

Saturday was the first game of the season, God knows how much trash is wedged between those grimy seats.

"Right after school, Dan will show you where to begin."

As if the punishment wasn't enough he's making me talk to Dan?

Dan the janitor who has the patience of a toddler and the breath of someone who has chewed five sticks of beef jerky everyday for the past three years.

I wouldn't be surprised if it were true.

Before I can even get a word out, he's out of his seat and calling in Bloody Nose Boy and Angry Girl in.

I sigh and fist my hands in my pocket.

This is going to be a very long day.

______________

The sun beats down on my back as Dan tosses a trash bag to me.

He wasted no time in preliminaries and shoved me out to the field without so much as an instruction pamphlet.

"Start with the left," he drawls, and I hold my breath in case he breathes in my direction. "Then work your way around." He spins on his heel, leaving me alone with the mess to clean up.

I clench my jaw as I stomp up the bleacher steps. Does it have to be so hot? It's like the universe is purposefully going against me today.

But I guess the universe isn't done with its fun because about ten minutes later, when I'm finally getting the hang of this punishment, a bee flies close to my head. And as I'm flinging my arms around I catch sight of the files to see the entire football team filing in, ready for practice.

Wonderful.

As if walking out of the school with Dan trailing behind wasn't embarrassing enough, I now have to act as a janitor in front of every single one of these assholes.

I place my back to them, trying to make my presence less known, but I don't think it works with the way I can feel each one of their judgy eyes on me.

I don't often pray, but I hope God can see I'm mentally kneeling right now and begging for them all to turn away.

Luckily, Coach Henderson jogs out to the field and steals their attention long enough for me to make my way around.

I discover things under these seats I never thought possible. There was a wad of gum the size of a golf ball stuck to one of the bleachers, and I practically ripped my fingernails off trying to remove it.

I move on from that though, and fixate on the smooshed order of what I think might have been nachos? Or maybe a hotdog? I don't know.

But I'm definitely scraping off something yellow when someone yells, "Watch out!"

My head shoots up and the yellow stuff falls out of my hand as a football smacks me right in the face.