Chapter One

When people look at me, they automatically assume I'm dark and weird. Why can't they see the truth? I'm just a girl, trying to find my place in the world.

From the journal of Jade Leigh

God, I hate school.

I'm sitting in trig, listening (not really) to Mr. Parton drone on and on about angles and measurements. As if I care. As if I'll ever use that stuff outside of this classroom.

Honestly, I'd rather be anywhere else. Even home, where my dad begins almost every conversation with, "You should lose the black clothes and wear something with color." Puhlease. Like I want to look like every Barbie clone in Hell High, a.k.a. Oklahoma's insignificant Haloway High School. Ironically, Dad doesn't appreciate the bright blue streaks in my originally blond/now-dyed-black hair. Go figure. That's color, right?

With my elbows resting on my desktop, I dropped my forehead into my upraised palms and closed my eyes. Mr. Parton continued to blah, blah, blah (or, as he'd tell you, talk), and his superior, I-know-the-answers-therefore-I-am-God voice grated against my nerves.

Was I surprised? No. He always talked to us like that, as if we were dumb for not already knowing how to work math equations we'd never encountered before. He even got mad when we asked questions—God forbid we actually learn, right?—and generally treated us like total dumbwits.

Fifteen minutes, thirty-seven seconds before bell. Translation: fifteen minutes, thirty-seven seconds of me wishing for an apocalyptic destruction of the universe so my misery would end.

What had I done to deserve this kind of torture? Talk back to my dad? Who didn't? Ditch a few classes? Show me one person who hasn't. Pierce my nose? Well…

"If Miss Leigh will give me the honor of her attention," Mr. Parton snapped, "I'll explain the relation between sins and chords."

I didn't glance up, didn't want to encourage him. Really, when would this end?

"Are you paying attention, Miss Leigh, or are you praying you never come into contact with a wooden stake?"

Several students chuckled.

I still didn't bother looking up, but I did react to his taunt. "No, I'm not," I gritted out. I think the man enjoyed making fun of me more than he liked teaching. Not a single day passed without a snide comment from him: Why don't you do everyone a favor and stay home tomorrow, Miss Leigh? You're the reason I need ulcer medication, Miss Leigh. Your poor father, he must need a lot of therapy, huh, Miss Leigh. I'd heard it all. "FYI," I added, "your comment doesn't make you fright, Mr. Parton."

"Fright." Avery Richards snorted. "That's such a dumb word."

"Just say cool like the rest of us," someone else said.

I felt my cheeks heat with embarrassment—and hated myself for letting them see any hint of upset.

Mr. Parton tapped his foot impatiently. "Mind sharing with us what you were doing that's more important than listening to what I have to say? If anyone in this classroom needs to learn, it's you."

Okay. Now I'm officially pissed. "If you must know, I'm thinking of less painful ways to kill myself than from your lesson. Kevin."

My classmates erupted into laughter, and I heard the shuffle of their seats as they turned to glance at me. They may not like me, but they always found my irreverence amusing.

Mr. Parton glared. "You will address me as 'Mr. Parton' or not address me at all. You do not call me by my first name. Ever. I don't want someone like you even thinking it."

How's this for a math equation: the wooden stake comment plus the someone-like-you comment equals a ready-to-throw-down Jade Leigh. His words assured one thing: I would not allow myself to back down now.

Copyright © 2006 by Gena Showalter