Let me introduce myself, dear reader. My name is Thalia Evans. I must admit, I was unsure of the purpose of disclosing this information. It was quite possible that no one would ever address me by my given name, thus rendering its mention unnecessary. Perhaps I was hesitant to reveal my identity, as I was uncertain of the extent to which this narrative would unfold or if it could even be deemed a legitimate story. Nonetheless, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.

Could a story be only one sentence long? Some might argue that yes, a single sentence can hold enough depth and meaning to constitute a story, while others might argue that a story requires more than just one sentence to fully develop and engage readers. As for why I was posing this question, I suppose I was searching for the best way to begin this story. Do I start from where I am now, or do I go back to weeks ago? The power was in my hands as the storyteller. I could choose to tell the truth or to weave a web of lies. However, if I chose the latter, what purpose would that serve? Therefore, I will be as honest as possible in my storytelling.

My lovely listeners, let me take you on a ride.

As I approached my birthday, I could not help but feel a sense of anticipation and reflection. At the age of seventeen, I was on the cusp of reaching an important milestone in my life. Upon contemplating this approaching milestone, I was also reminded of the fact that I should be in my final year of high school, eagerly preparing for graduation. However, due to unforeseen circumstances, I find myself in the eleventh grade instead. I was hospitalised for a couple of months, resulting in me being held back from moving up to twelfth grade. While I understand the school's policies and procedures, I could not help but feel that my medical situation should not have hindered my academic progress.

Oh, well!

It served no purpose to dwell on the past and argue against the school's decision. If they saw fit to keep me at my current grade level, then I see no reason to dispute it. Besides, I had so much crap going on in my head that it was like a ticking time bomb ready to explode. It was enough to make me stumble and fall over being held back. And to be honest, I was not even that into school anymore. It was like every day was a drag, and I could not wait for the bell to ring. It was only a matter of time before I just stopped showing up to class. Not like anyone would even notice, you know? I was just another face in the crowd, blending in and fading away. But who cared?

I never had many friends growing up. Okay, let us be real. I did not have any friends. I did not hang out with the so-called "cool" kids at school. And do not even get me started on my mom's boyfriend, or should I say Chump? That was what I will call him now because, let's face it, the man was a complete idiot. And as for Chump's sons? They did not like me either. But you know what? I did not care. I did not need a bunch of fake friends or a toxic family to validate me. Plus, I always thought those cool kids were trying too hard. I felt like I could never quite understand the way the rest of the world operated. It was like I was constantly on a different wavelength, and, as a result, I found myself with zero friends. But I did not mind at all. It had been just me and my mother for the longest time. That was until she started dating Chump. Suddenly, everything changed, and I found myself feeling even more isolated and alone.

Walking down the hallway on Friday morning, I felt a serious sense of dread. The halls were empty. The usual hustle and bustle of students rushing to classes was replaced by a quiet stillness. It was a clear indication that classes were now in session, making me realise that I was once again late for my English Literature class. My heart raced as I thought of facing Mrs. Harries, who I knew would not be pleased with my consistent tardiness. She had already sentenced me to detention four times in the past week.

Last week, Mrs. Harries pulled me aside and gave me this crazy ultimatum. She was like, “If you ever show up late for my class again, you are going to regret ever meeting me.”

Come on, lady, it was not like I showed up late on purpose. And it was not my fault that her class happened to be the first one for the day. I already wish I had never met half the people in my life, so her threats did not faze me.

Making my way to class, a sudden sense of unease washed over me. I could not quite put my finger on it, but something just felt off. My flesh felt clammy and gross as if I had just run through a rainstorm. Even so, I refused to take off my hoodie—a habit I never break. Needless to say, the oppressive force of heat had proven to be my greatest foe. Chump got bothered when it came to the heat as well. Whenever the temperature rose, he would get in these blown-up fits and take it out on my poor mother. It was almost like the heat was his kryptonite, and he could not control his anger. Of course, I knew that there were also other factors involved.

Ugh! My lovely readers, my body felt like a total garbage dump. I swear, it was worse than any other morning before. I did not even feel clean at all. I was so uncomfortable, and I just knew that when I walked into class, the students might catch a whiff of me. But what could I do? I was already super late, so I could not stop and try to freshen up in the restroom. I confidently entered the classroom and closed the door behind me. 

The first thing that struck me was the unusual quietness. Mrs. Harries' class was notorious for being the loudest and most energetic in the entire school, so the peacefulness was quite surprising. It was a challenge for her to even get the students to quiet down for attendance before they would inevitably become loud again. I made my way to my seat. My head hung low as usual. It was clear that something was amiss, but I could not bring myself to look up and find out what it was. I paid little attention to those around me, knowing that if my classmates were planning a cruel joke on me, it was better not to see them. They have a habit of pulling these stunts on me, but this time, I simply settled into the back row and leaned against the wall. Lost in thoughts inside my head.

"Hello everyone. I am Mr. Cross, and I will be taking over as a substitute for Mrs. Harries." A deep and mature voice caught my attention, pulling me out of my reverie. Slightly shocked by the unexpected voice, my heart skipped a beat, as if I were under some sort of spell.

My darling readers, did I not say something was off? It made sense why everyone was so quiet in Mrs. Harries' class. I mean, it was full of horny teenage girls and a couple of junky guys. Like, what else would you expect? They were all about getting their flirts on and satisfying their raging hormones. So, of course, they were all hush-hush. Based on the sound of our substitute teacher’s voice and the level of attentiveness displayed by the girls in the classroom, one could infer that he was either exceptionally handsome or possessed a certain skill at commanding obedience.

In the back of my mind, I pondered with concern about Mrs. Harries' noticeable absence and wished that someone else would be considerate enough to enquire about her well-being.

"Your wonderful accent reminds me of Harry Potter." These words came out of a girl's mouth.

I rolled my eyes. How refreshingly unique her observation was.

“Thank you,” remarked Mr. Cross in a lacklustre tone, seemingly accustomed to receiving such praise.

The same girl asked, "Have I mentioned how incredibly attractive his voice is?"

The girls in the classroom all laughed.

I feel like a total shmuck for even admitting this, but I agreed with the girl who spoke up about Mr. Cross's accent. There was something undeniably captivating about a British accent. The way their words effortlessly roll off their tongue. It was almost as if their voices were specially crafted to be the epitome of charm and sophistication. But at the same time, there was a subtle hint of sultry and seductiveness.

“Excuse me. Is Mrs. Harries already taking a break?" A girl whose name escaped me enquired.

I was grateful that someone spoke up, as I was also curious about Mrs. Harries' sudden absence.

“Based on the information I have received, it appears that she is not feeling well.” The substitute teacher shed light on our teacher's absence.

The same student enquired, "What is the matter with her?"

“Unfortunately, she experienced an accident and is currently receiving treatment in the hospital,” Mr. Cross replied.

"I swear Mrs. Harries birth was an accident!" exclaimed a boy, to the amusement of the class.

"State your name," barked Mr. Cross with a stern tone.

"The name is Nick Johnson," the student boasted with confidence.

Of course, Nick Johnson. Known as the school's ultimate jerk and lead football player. It had been some time since I last caught a glimpse of his face. His father held the prestigious position of sheriff in Brownsville, granting Nick a sense of entitlement to do as he pleased without consequences. And even if that was not the case, Nick Johnson made sure to give that impression to everyone.

"Mr. Johnson, imagine if I were to inform you that your birth was an unexpected occurrence," the substitute teacher said with a serious tone.

Nick chuckled, a hint of bitterness lacing his voice. "I still remember my dear mother repeating that line to me day after day. But you know what? She is gone now. Maybe that is the punishment parents receive for feeding their children such lies."

Nick's voice was laced with resentment and fury, and as I contemplated my mother's obsession with Chump, I could not help but wonder what Nick's mother might have put him through. 

While I have always held a deep love for my mother, there were instances where my new circumstances proved to be too much for me to handle. In those moments, I could not help but harbour strong resentment toward her. The fury within me would often intensify to the point where I feared I would suffer a heart attack. It felt as though my heart might explode.

“Is it permissible to speak of another person in that manner, merely because your mother did?” Mr. Cross asked.

Whenever he spoke, his tone of voice added a touch of refinement to everything he said.

"If my mother could tell me that... I do not see any reason why I cannot tell others."

I would do anything to witness the reaction on the substitute teacher's face, but I am hesitant to look. Not because I am afraid of what I might see, but because I am worried about the awful sight that he would see.

It was astonishing to think that, for months, I had not even taken a glance at my reflection. My daily routine was effortless and lacked any consideration for my appearance. I would simply roll out of bed, take a quick shower, brush my teeth, and put on a pair of jeans before throwing my hair up in a ponytail and covering it with a hood. I could not even remember the colour of my own eyes. They might have been blue or just plain brown. But in retrospect, does it truly matter? After all, no one ever saw them.

“Can you tell me how long Mrs. Harries will remain in the hospital?" enquired another student.

"I am uncertain," replied Mr. Cross, then he added. "To recognise all of you, I require your hands to be raised whenever I call your names. Understand?"

Everyone was quiet.

"Henry Allen," Mr. Cross called out. "If you are unable to speak, simply raise your hand as I had previously directed." It seemed that multiple students followed the instruction too well, as Mr. Cross remarked, "I suppose with so many of you unable to speak, it will be even quieter in here."

The only sound that reached my ears was the loud thud of books hitting the ground and the forceful slamming of desks. There was no doubt that the source of this chaos was the rowdy boys. Meanwhile, the girls seemed to be behaving themselves, most likely because they were still under the control of their hot substitute teacher.

"Guys! Shut the fuck up and let the teacher get on with his class!”

I recognised the voice that spoke the curse. It was one I knew well. It belonged to a student named Sam, whose strong and confident demeanour embodied her masculine-sounding name. She always stood up for Mrs. Harries, and it was no shock to hear her rallying in defence of Mr. Cross.

“Thank you for that, Miss."

"I am Sam Brooks, sir," Sam declared with pride, and I smiled under my hoodie.