The shrill, mechanical screech blasts as the clock blinks in and out.

  5:30! 5:30! 5:30!

  It only takes two or three slaps before my groggy depth perception adjusts before I can slap the top of the noisy gadget. As I swing my legs out from the cool quilt, Mrs. Kennedy’s quick steps rap-tap away from the bedroom door. I’d probably beat her by ten seconds.

  New record.

  The Kennedys run a decent home, if a bit strict. After the Murrays had given me so much freedom, the agency wanted to make sure I had the structure I was apparently missing. It had taken a week for me to acclimate. Mrs. Kennedy’s most recent word from her little calendar. She uses it all the time.

  I yawn, rake my fingers through the tangled ends of my hair, and stumble across the thick carpet before randomly grabbing something from my closet. The gaudy tie-dye hoodie will make Mr. Kennedy crazy, but it’s not against the rules. It’s a small rebellion, but I’ll enjoy it all the same.

  It only takes me a couple minutes to pair it with black jeans, but I can already smell breakfast cooking. I wearily grab my bookbag and try to remember what day of the week it is. Wednesday: Mrs. Kennedy is burning wheat toast and making runny scrambled eggs.

  My stomach protests at the mere thought.

  I sigh, talking to no one in particular, “If I don’t eat it, she’ll complain the whole drive to school.”

  Part of it is genuine worry, I think. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day. Honestly, I actually agree. That’s why I prefer something I can keep down. The other part, at least in my opinion, is pride. No one wants to tell Mrs. Kennedy that she’s an awful cook. I’m not sure anyone has built the guts.

  I square my shoulders and yank the door open, muttering, “To battle.”

  ***

  “Uhhhh,” I groan as I shamble down the hall. The eggs hadn’t just been runny. They’d also been crunchy. I’d only managed three bites

  “That good, huh?” Lucy smirks and turns back to her locker, twisting the knob left, then right with increasing speed. The warning bell rings. People jump and start to empty the hall.

  “She dropped a shell in the eggs.” I hold back a nauseous burp and watch Lucy’s rapid turns again before she desperately pulls on the latch. “We’re going to be late to trig.”

  “AGH!” She slaps flat palm against the locker, the sound echoing in the tiny chamber.

  My mind finally works away from my revolving stomach and I realize the problem. “You forgot the combo again.”

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  “Yeah.” She yanks on the latch frantically, staring at it with great offense. “And I put my book away last night.”

  She looks up and down the now-empty hall and gives me a pleading look, those blue eyes becoming giant discs of desperation.

  I sigh, too tired to argue the point. “Block the camera.”

  Lucy smiles and walks around my back while I twist the knob a couple times, only to benefit the camera at the other end. From this far away, it should just look like I’d given a different combination a try, but the one at my back is really close and could catch what I’m up to if Lucy doesn’t stand in the way.

  I pull on the latch once, sharply, pushing through the fasteners and pins that would have unlocked it if my friend could remember a simple three-turn code. Really, I should just memorize Lucy’s combinations. At least three times a year, she forgets one digit, or another and I have to bail her out. Something click-clacks on the interior and her door swings open. “What are you going to tell the office this time?”

  Lucy squeals with excitement before grabbing her book. “I’ll close it for a couple classes, then find it vandalized later.”

  It’s worked before. Our lockers have been painted, glued shut, and even a bunch of excess lockshave been applied to our latch in one giant chain. I still don’t know how they pulled that last one off.

  The school always assumes it was Angela. Since there won’t be any evidence or reports, this will just mean a few good teachers keeping a sharper eye on her prissy butt for a week or two.

  The final bell rings, and we break into a run, the quick jog jostling my roiling stomach. I burp and can taste those nasty eggs all over again.

  “You good?” Lucy spares a concerned look over her shoulder, her blonde ponytail bouncing

  “Yeah.” I rub my stomach once as we enter the room.

  Luckily, Mr. Stevens was craving his typical second cup of coffee. We’re already seated with our books in place when he stumbles in, apologizing for the wait. He plots a few equations on the blackboard, calling on me to answer something I haven’t even read.

  I burp loudly in response, and everyone laughs.

  “Molly?” Mr. Stevens eyes me over the top of his glasses.

  “Sorry.” I let out another burp behind my hand. “May I go to the bathroom?”

  “Class is almost–”

  I hold my hand over my mouth and stand fast enough to knock the book off my desk. “Please.”

  “Oh!” Mr. Stevenson waves frantically towards the door “Yes, yes please go.”

  I nod and run, worried about what might happen if I open my mouth. I sprint down the hall, past Lucy’s busted locker, and swing into the first bathroom stall just before the eggs make their second appearance.

  In the midst of my own heaves, the bell jingles teasingly. A girl comes into the bathroom, only to exclaim her disgust before exiting again. I can’t blame her. The eggs smell even worse coming up. Another bell rings as I spit the last bit.

  Weird that Lucy didn’t check on me during the break. She must figure she’ll see me in the next class. Probably grabbed my bag for me. I’ll still have to go back to Mr. Stevensons and beg for a note. I could bring Mrs. Swiften a bag of my puke, but she still wouldn't accept it as any kind of excuse.

  I stop at the sink, rinse the taste of acid from my mouth, and splash my face before dabbing at it with the rough paper towels.

  A few red curls are plastered to my cheeks, like they’re trying to trace the outlines of each freckle before tangling in my lips. My brown eyes are tinged with red, as if I’ve been up all night.

  Great… Mrs. Swiften will probably assume I’m high instead of just suffering from crappy cooking. Our PE teacher jumps to that conclusion a lot during the start of school. Probably because of all the drug tests she’s running for the basketball team.

  I’m finally walking back to math class, trying to think of how I’ll convince Mr. Stevenson to help, when the first shot echoes around me.