Margo faces the building. Rogers High School. The penitentiary of her eleventh grade sentence. Swarms of different classes are fighting their way inside the building. There are the popular ones: cheerleaders, athletes, preps. The expressive and talented: artists, band members, glee club. The techies. The 'individually unique' — the definition of 'unique,' of course, meaning whatever is considered 'in' this year. The dark wearers.

Below all of these classes rests one lone category. Margo's category. The nobodies. They consist of the randoms who don't quite fit into any other group. The lone rangers. The brave souls. Just fancy terms for who they truly are: the rejects.

Last year things changed slightly, though not willingly. For a short while, Margo became the school's most talked about nobody. The whispers were like the buzzing of cicadas. Only upon her entering the room did it stop so abruptly that the eerie silence became palpable. Nothing could have made that first day back more humiliating.

A year later and the iciness still follows her through these halls, the bubble of silence around her so chilling. The torture behind her lids every time she shuts her eyes is unmanageable enough without the tangible reminder.

Michael Peters does not talk to her in lunch. Or in fifth period, the only class they share. His eyes shy away nervously throughout the whole hour. It isn't until the ride home that he does something unexpected.

He quietly slips into the empty seat next to her. Even though they are mere inches apart, neither speaks. She waits patiently to see where this will lead.

His shoulders wilt. "I'm sorry about what I said earlier," he nearly whispers. "I didn't mean to —"

"You sounded like you knew exactly what you meant," Margo says hotly.

He nods stupidly.

"Well then, I guess I'm done talking to you, Michael." She turns to watch the hills roll by, counting cows as they pass. Michael doesn't leave her side.

"Margo, do you... Can you ever forgive me?"

She scowls at him. "No."

His lips sullenly twitch downward the slightest bit, and suddenly Margo feels obligated to elaborate. "It's not that I don't want to," she huffs. "But you don't mean it. Not really."

Her cheeks shake as the bus turns onto the gravel road. Relief rushes through her knowing that her escape is near. Michael heads toward the front of the bus long before they reach the stop. She doesn't rise until the bus slows.

The walk home is quiet. Margo is grateful for the silence and takes in the calming scenery. The trees' leaves have shifted into warm hues over the past few weeks and have formed a tunnel of gold around the road on which they walk. The afternoon sun warms the air.

The two near the crossing of Old Dobbin. Margo welcomes the impending lone walk, albeit she is aware of Michael's eyes on the back of her head. Of course he would find a way to prolong their time together....

"Can we talk about this?"

Without faltering her steps, Margo replies, "I don't have anything to say."

The thudding of feet behind her speeds up until Michael blocks her path. "Well, I do."

She groans.

"I shouldn't have brought up your sister like that." His voice is firm, eyes strong upon her face. "It was wrong, and I'm sorry."

"So what?" she shouts so loudly a flock of birds take flight at the sharpness of her tone. Suddenly it all spills from her lips. "Did you really expect me to forgive you just because you realized you took it too far this time? How about the past twelve years of you messing with me? Am I supposed to forgive you for that, too?"

"Look, Margo, I'm just saying that I —"

She jolts from under his touch, and in an attempt to keep her in place, Michael catches hold of her bag from which she also jerks away. Her textbooks fall out in a series of loud plops.

Defeated, Margo holds stock still, hands balled at her side, cheeks darkening. A hiss escapes through clenched teeth, and a rush of energy pulses down her arms to her fingertips. Her fists tighten in reaction, eyes squeezing tighter until the spasms subside. Her heartbeat slows to an even rhythm.

Michael, noticing nothing, grunts and steps forward to help retrieve her books.

"Just go home, Michael!" She kicks up a cloud of dust in his direction and falls to the ground; her head drops to her knees. Disgust builds inside her once she realizes just how close she is to breaking down. She wills her tears away certain that crying will only allow him to win, and lifts her head to pick up her fallen books.

"I'm just sorry," he whispers. "That's all."

Shoving her belongings back into her bag and not wanting to even acknowledge him, Margo mutters under her breath, more to herself than to the boy standing over her, "You're just lucky I'm not suicidal or something."

Michael's body tenses, unsure how to respond to such a morbid thought. He turns toward Old Dobbin as if her statement went unnoticed and continues walking along. Once he's around the corner, he runs beyond sight.

A hysterical laugh breaks through her lips. Suicidal? Yes, she is far from that. Of course, there are other ways to cause pain to oneself, and she allows them more often than not. She shuts her eyes to prove her point. The two silhouettes are burned in her lids.

It is far past time to move on, and she knows that. She isn't entirely certain why she has endured the memories for so long. It's not because she is being selfish and coveting the past, exactly. Nor is it because she is too fearful to forget. The truth is she simply cannot, no matter how hard she may try, force them out of her mind.