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My voice teacher�s a chatterbox; we spend half of every lesson talking about completely irrelevant things. �I was talking to Jake, and he mentioned Michael might be coming back here next semester.�

Ice-punch to the stomach. �Back here?�

�Yeah, apparently he�s having trouble getting enough scholarships or something at St. Ed�s��

As she nattered on I was frozen. Terror. Absolute terror. That�s what it was.

It could just be a rumor. My voice teacher�s been known to get information wrong. Even if he couldn�t afford St. Edward�s, he wouldn�t come back here, would he? He hates it here.

He hates me here.

It�s childish, to react this way. But I can�t lie and pretend I didn�t seriously consider transferring, right there and then. Wondering wildly how I could get away, as if he were a rabid animal, not a pompous, semi-talented redheaded boy with visions of grandeur and the coldest heart on the planet.

It�s ridiculous. He�s just a guy. I mean, I�ve adjusted to living on campus with a boy I know to be a date-rapist, and I don�t feel that same cringe of apprehension when I see him enter a room. No, that reaction belongs solely to Charlie Brown, the boy who feels �revulsion� toward me. Cue violin music.

Please, God, don�t let it be true. It�s not true. He�s out of my life. Forever. He is not coming back.

Please.

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