I stared at Mrs. Crimson, hoping we could hurry up and get this over with. She had a way of pausing between words, not phrases, making conversations awkward. Mrs. Crimson wasn't respected in my school. The students always made fun of her. If I had the balls to eavesdrop on the teacher's lounge, I'm sure Mrs. Crimson's peers talked about her, too.

"Hello...Loren. How are you...this morning?"

I inhaled deeply. Today would be a long day.

Mr. Patterson and our history class settled in the hard chairs of the modest school library. Books were neatly placed on the shelves, and the librarian fussed with the cart of loose books near the check out desk.

Maria and I sat by the double doors. She wanted easy access to the computer section. I was just like...whatever. School work never really appealed to me. I had always just wanted to dance. Mom and Dad had been saving up money to send me to Julliard. It was one thing for Mrs. Denton to praise me, but another for Franco and my parents to support me. My parents wanted to support my dreams, and Mrs. Denton wanted my parents' money. If she ever said I was a bad dancer, they would stop paying tuition.

I thought I was a good dancer, nothing special. But Franco would never lie to me. He had said I was a beautiful dancer, his perfect little dancer. Maybe I actually had a chance at Julliard...not now, though. I would never dance again. Never. Ever.

Maria held her pen tightly. Her fingers and palm turned bright red. Her notebook was opened to the first page. The scary first blank page. I sat up with my elbows resting on the table. My paper and pencil were still in my book bag. What was the point of taking anything out? I knew Maria couldn't resist doing everything.

Mr. Patterson, who was a married man, wasn't paying attention to his students. He was too busy flirting with Mrs. Kirby, the librarian. His fingers kept locking with hers as they sorted books. I couldn't stop from staring. I remembered how Gregory had held my hand the other night, how his touch had given me goosebumps.

When I heard Maria clear her throat, my gaze averted to see her mean, ugly mug. She should smile more often. "You weren't in homeroom," she said.

"Duh. I was called to Mrs. Crimson's office."

Maria rolled her eyes. "Well, I wanted to talk to you about what holiday we should pick. That's the only opporuntity we had to discuss our project before meeting here."

"Well, it wasn't my fault I was sent to her office."

"Wasn't it?" She sneered.

Speechless, I kept opening and closing my mouth, like a stupid fish shocked from being taken out of the comfort of the water. After a few attempts, I finally got the courage to say, "You could've called if it was that important."

"Of course, I could've, but once again, you made it impossible."

"Excuse me?"

"Last night, Illuvy told me you had an 'episode' at ballet practice. How you went psycho again, running out the front doors and falling down the steps, hurting yourself. So, like I said, you being called into Mrs. Crimson's office this morning was definitely your fault."

My body trembled as I took deep breaths and counted to ten in my head, a calming technique I had learned from Mrs. Crimson this morning. I didn't want to cry in front of Maria, couldn't cry in front of Miss Priss, wouldn't cry in front of goody-two-shoes. I fell back into my hard chair, and my body slumped down.

Maria must have loved the mental torture she was giving me because she continued her verbal assault. "You know what fault is, right? The dictionary says 'fault' is a noun, which is 'an unattractive or unsatisfactory feature, especially in a piece of work or in a person's character' and 'responsiblity for an accident or misfortune.' Fault can also be a verb, like what I'm doing to you. Fault is to 'criticize for inadequacy or mistakes.'"

Swallowing a knot in my throat, I looked down at the table. A scratch on it caught my eye. A student must have written so hard on his paper that his scribbles bled through the page. I had to concentrate on that. I had to. I didn't want to cry in front of Maria. I couldn't cry in front of Miss Priss. I wouldn't cry in front of goody-two-shoes.

"Loren, you want me to take care of this bitch for you?" My brother, my best friend.

I glanced up to see Franco standing behind Maria. His bloody hand gripped her shoulder. His skull was cracked, but his eyes still remained sweet and kind--my big brother coming to my rescue.

I nodded. Yes, Franco, take care of that bitch for me.

His bony fingers pulled her head back. Maria grunted from the pain and pressure of his grip. If he jerked her head to the side, her neck would break. I licked my lips in anticipation.

"Maria, you're a complete bitch. You know what 'bitch' means, right? The dictionary says it's 'a pejorative slang word for a person, usually a woman, who is belligerent, unreasonable, malicious, a control freak, rudely intrusive or aggressive.'"

I laughed at each descriptive word. Each time he said an adjective, he pulled Maria's head further backwards. Her body leaned up from the chair by the forceful impact. Her veins were popping in her neck.

"For your bullying ways, your sentence is death!" With his free hand, he pulled out a switchblade from his pocket. He slit her throat. Blood spurted everywhere. Some blood landed in my mouth. I wiped my eyes with my sleeves, but kept my eyes closed. I kept laughing, laughing, and laughing.

Ding-dong, Miss Priss was gone.

"What the hell are you laughing at?"

I stopped laughing and sighed. I had gotten my hopes up for nothing. Miss Priss was still alive. I glared at Maria. She looked at me as though she thought I was batshit crazy. Good, I'd use that to my advantage.

"You want to know what I was laughing at? Your dumbass. You have so many faults I can't even count them. You're belligerent, you're unreasonable, you're malicious, you're a control freak. you're rudely intrusive, and you're rudely aggressive. Since you know the dictionary so well, I bet you know what term you are." I leaned over the table, grabbed her hand, and hissed in a menacing whisper, "The dictionary would call you a bitch."

She tried to relieve her hand, but I wouldn't let go.

I squeezed tighter and tighter. "I suggest you stop bringing up touchy subjects with me, and let's focus on our damn project."

Mrs. Kirby's high heels clicked toward our table. I still didn't let go of Maria's hand. I had to let her know that I had nothing to lose. Detention didn't scare me, but I'm sure it scared her. Her reputation with teachers would be ruined if I cried to Mrs. Kirby about Maria making fun of the fact that I had a panic attack over losing my brother.

Mrs. Kirby asked, "Is everything okay?"

I kept staring at Maria, but Maria broke eye contact with me to look up at Mrs. Kirby. Maria smiled, trying to gather her composure. "Absolutely. Loren and I picked Valentine's Day as our favorite holiday, so we're demonstrating how people in love act on a romantic date."

"Oh, lovely. It's absolutely splendid how you are dedicated to your school projects, Maria. You have a good partner, Loren." Mrs. Kirby walked away before I could respond.

The rest of our time in the library was met with silence. Maria did all of the writing. When we moved to the computers, I sat beside her and watched her type. She printed off so many pages for our research project. I held all the papers in my lap. My gaze wandered to the first page from The Smithsonian website that discussed the gory origins of Valentine's Day by Lisa Bitel. I chuckled to myself, knowing the thought of violence as the origins of Valentine's Day would eat at Maria.