I keep the letter (or maybe note would be more accurate, but Deming called it a love letter and love note doesn't sound as cool) in my binder throughout the day. When chemistry comes by, I'm paired up with the girl who sits behind me, because the rows have an odd amount of people in them.

I'm...acquainted, with the girl behind me. Her names Lada, I think she's...Russian? She's tall, thin, but she's actually kind of toned, I heard rumors she has a six pack but I'm not sure if it's true. She's blond, and she's at this school because she was literally the most talented cheerleader west of the U.S. and she's also super good at chemistry. For the record, I don't think she's popular because she's a cheerleader or anything, I think she's popular because she's incredibly pretty, lower upper class, and she's relatively nice. She can't spell worth shit though, but that's like, the only problem I have with her.

For the most part, she takes charge in the project—which I'm glad for, because I don't really know what I'm doing. I wasn't really paying attention—I struggle with chemistry a bit, and by struggle, I mean I get a B- and get slightly disappointed with myself and move onto the next subject. "You're acting different," Lada says, circling something on the paper. I circle whatever it is she's circled.

   "What do you mean?"

   Lada shrugs. "You look...you know, happier," she says. She really is pretty—like that model type pretty, tall, thin, high cheekbones, hazel eyes. "Something happened."

   I shake my head—but I think I'm still smiling. "It's nothing."

   "...It's kind of difficult to tell," she muses. "Because your skin is brown, but like...you look like you're blushing? Well, not in the way that the color shows up, but the way that you smile and your eyes kind of scrunch up, you know? I don't know, I think you're blushing." She smiles mischievously. "Is it a guy?" I flush. "A girl? I'm not judging."

   I kind of want to tell someone anyway. I slide the note out of the front of my binder, trying to ignore the other things on the front of my binder. There is a rough sketch of a dragon, and then a small actual drawing of one with colored pencils, both from Deming. There's also an abstract picture that's mostly just varying shades of pink that Deming made and I think looks cool, and a small poem I've loved since before I was a girl.

   I hand her the note. "I found this in my locker. I'm not sure if it's just some cruel joke or what, but..." I clear my throat—my face feels warm. "I guess it has me in a better mood."

   Lada snickers—not really in like, a mean spirited way, but I'm certain it's a snicker. "Aw, it's so sweet."

   "Not sure if it's real though."

   "Listen, Rozhan," she says. "I know a thing or two about love letters and crushes. Actually, ever since I started puberty in fifth grade, I think I've become an expert. And this looks legit."

   I shrug—I still don't want to buy it. I mean, it'd be awesome, but I go to school with girls like Lada.

   "You really think this is a joke?" Lada raises an eyebrow.

   "I've never gotten anything like this," I admit. "Ever."

   Lada shrugs. "I guess I get it. I mean, you're cool, but most people in this school are rich, and rich people have been proven to tend to be less empathetic, and I'm not optimistic about the amount of people who would consider themselves allies to the LGBTQ+ community." Lada nods, like she is satisfied with what she's said and how intelligent it sounded, and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. "Who knows, maybe I'm wrong."

   "...I think I want you to be right."

   She nods. "It's still cool," she says. "If you get another note, you should totally tell me. I'm trying to stop taking so many Buzzfeed quizzes, so I've lost my main source of entertainment. Keep me updated on this."

"I doubt I'm gonna get another one," I tell her, but holy fuck, do I hope I get another one.

She shrugs. "Who knows? Maybe you will."

   When the bell rings, I shamble off to English. I, for the record, am absolutely brilliant when it comes to English. I'm in a very advanced class—it's fantastic, I feel so smart. I slide into my seat and try to relax—behind me, two students are in a conversation.

"—So, naturally—" I recognize the voice as Zane Ferro's. And I recognize it because he's one of the reasons why I love this class so much. "—I was like, no, bro, bro, bro..." The guy next to him is snorting in laughter. Zane doesn't actually use 'bro' a whole lot. "There's no way I'm letting you walk home by yourself like this if you're so uncomfortable, so I left early with him, took that motherfucker home and tucked that bitch in goodnight."

"Doesn't that sound kind of...you know...gay?"

I hear a crunch—when I look over my shoulder, Zane is holding an entire can of Pringles. "What's gay about my platonic love for my best friend's boyfriend? I'm telling you, I'm gonna have Kiara be like, the Best Lady at my wedding, I have to love her boyfriend."

   The boy he's talking to nods. "Alright, just thought..."

"I'd rather be gay than homophobic—and there's nothing romantic about being a good friend, dicknips." There's more aggressive crunching. "Anyway, we still on for after tomorrow's game? We're still going to Green Eats, right?"

What the fuck is Green Eats? I wonder.

Zane's been the star of the football team to every school he's ever been in. He's just really strong and really into physical activity. Makes him pretty fit, but he's also just really cool. In Freshman year, when I was the person who raised my hand the most to answer questions in English, he had been the only one who could keep up with me—I mean, I don't mean to brag, but I'm really good at English. Once, we got in a conversation about a video game I was really passionate about and I've been head over heels ever since.

It likely helps he's incredibly attractive—he's black, with short hair he's joked about gelling into a mohawk once for some reason, and dark eyes, and always a letterman jacket instead of the school's blazer, in the school's colors though. Again, the dress code isn't super strict. Sometimes teachers will say something, but for the most part, they consider it a showing of school pride, at least and let him continue on with his day. He has the warmest brown eyes I've ever seen, and he wears contacts. He sometimes has glasses, but glasses don't mix well with sports, I definitely know that. ...I might be drooling, the slightest bit.

I sit near the front of the class, like I always do. I cross my ankles and grab a book I have and start reading until the bell rings. When the bell rings, I set it down—but the teacher's not here yet. The other students are catching on about it, too, whispering, a murmur. One boy asks, "Yo, where the hell's the teacher?"

"Probably late," a girl responds. But it's unlike the English teacher to be late. I know because I'm a bit of a teacher's pet—sort of. The English teacher, a sixty year old man with salt and pepper hair who loves English, is a real hard ass. No one likes him. But because of that, everyone tries to appease him and sucks up and tries to impress him. I have enough confidence in my English skills to not worry about impressing him, because I impress myself, so I tend to do whatever I think will piss him off—it amuses him. We hate each other, but I laugh at his jokes and he doesn't tolerate transphobic talk when I'm in the room. He's forbidden one student from ever being in his classroom because of it. He's alright.

We all kind of wait for a minute. He's still not there.

"Technically," I say. "After a certain amount of time, I think we can legally leave."

"Cool!" One girl exclaims loudly.

"Wait, really?" Zane asks behind me. "How long?"

"...I don't know," I admit.

"Damn," he mumbles.

I don't have much friends in this class. (Though, I'm not sure if I have many friends in any of my classes...) For the most part, in down time, I just read. But this book—and even though I love English, which is really saying something about this book—it's so boring. I keep telling myself it's bound to get interesting on the next page, every time I flip the page. I am a little over seventy pages in and I still am waiting for, you know, plot.

I set the novel aside and slowly pull my phone out of my pocket. I feel like I need to be super careful, even though everyone around me has also pulled out their phone, because my parents can't take the time off of work to pick up my phone from the office. I already have a text from Deming.

"Class is boring," the text says.

"Yeah, same," I respond. "Teacher isn't here yet."

"The fuck?" He texts back.

"Okay," some guy says, and his chair squeaks as he audibly stands up. He's one of the guys who's smart enough to be in this class but doesn't put in a whole lot of effort and doesn't really care. I think it's dumb that he'd be in this class then, but I get it—English really isn't everyone's strong suit, I get it. "If the teacher doesn't walk through that door in the next minute, I'm skipping."

   "Skipping is very good exercise!" One girl eagerly chirps.

   The boy rolls her eyes—I count to sixty in my head.

   When I reach thirty nine, the door swings open and the boy, still standing starts. It's not the teacher, it's some woman I think I've seen around the school, in a brown pencil skirt that goes past her knees and a black shirt. "Morning, students," she says, like this is an everyday thing and we're supposed to know who she is.

   The boy looks at her. "Are you a teacher?"

   "No," she says. "Guidance counselor, so I'm still a member of faculty and none of you are leaving."

   "Damnit!" He shouts and takes his seat.

   She's pale, brown hair and brown eyes. She has a bit of a long face. "...There's actually something, I hate to have to be the one to tell you this, but..." She clears her throat. "...Wait, the vice is supposed to be here. Where is he?"

   "What are you supposed to tell us?" I ask.

   She frowns and looks towards the door. "...Where is he, did Vice Principal Morale come in at all this morning?"

   "It's Morreal," I say.

   She frowns. "What did I say?"

   "And it's one thirty two," I add.

   She looks at me and then looks at her watch. "What?"

   "Did something happen to the teacher?" A girl next to me asks. "This feels a lot like what happened in middle school when my History teacher had a heart attack."

   The guidance counselor looks at her. "This has happened to you before?"

   She nods. "He was a jerk, I didn't really care—wait, did our English teacher die?"

   The door opens and every eye turns to it. The Vice Principal, a man with olive skin, black hair and grey eyes stops. "...Please tell me you didn't already let it slip, Mrs. K—Miss Kara?"

   "I'm not good at this," she laments.

   "Alright." He straightens his tie. He's an alright vice, I guess, but there's not much to talk about when it comes to him. "We regret to inform you that Mister Brian—" Wait, that was his name? How did I never know his name? He knew mine. He knew the name of every student in his class and its finally hit me that I've used "knew" instead of knows and it's like I already know. "—is..." He squirms. This is obviously a very, very uncomfortable topic.

   "Oh no," I say. I wonder if it was supposed to be obvious. Should I have known, it had been obvious but how is this such a shock?

   The principal can't meet anyone's eyes. "He was found dead in his car outside of his house by his neighbor, who watched him pull up and then the horn started honking. A brain aneurysm—he was dead before he even fell forward."

   "Oh no," I repeat.

   "We're looking into a replacement for the teacher, until then there will be subs, but, to address the much more pressing matter, I want to mention that there will be counselors who specialize in grief counseling for any students who need it." There's a beat of silence—you could probably drop a pin and hear it, that's how the saying works, right? "I understand this is a very sensitive topic, so there's no need to be ashamed of needing counseling. Your mental health is very important."

   Everyone is still silent—it's that sort of awkward silence you'd expect teenage students to have when being told that a teacher basically no one liked and most were indifferent to, if didn't outright hate him, is dead. On one hand, yikes, who wound want someone dead, and on the other hand, it's not like you're sad about it.

   I'm so relieved when the bell rings—I've never wanted to leave an English class more.