Though a tiny corner of my mind blanches at Blaire's righteous sense of betrayal, the hostility in her voice sparks a defensive reaction from my fox. My jaw aches from the incipient change from flat teeth to canines. My fur threatens to pierce my skin—the pins and needles sensation ratcheting up a conflicting sense of alarm and need to attack. This will not do. Not here. Not now. I close my eyes, desperately striving to soothe my fox because the hallway is still full of students. I inhale slowly then exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

I open my eyes, half hoping Blaire has decided to drop it and head to her next class, but nope. She's striding over, her long legs devouring the space between us, her brown eyes as cold as icy stone. I want to explain to her that the date is part of my plan to find out what happened to Tori, but considering her current volatile mood, I don't have a snowball's chance in Hawaii of making my case. "Listen, I know it sounds bad, but it's not what you think."

"Oh, really? From what angle is this ever a good idea, Amaya? Jesus. I can't believe you!" Blaire's arms flail in the air.

My stomach pitches and rolls unpleasantly as I sneak a glance around me. Heads pop back behind locker doors, but not before I see their eyes. New girl drama.

Idiots. Why can't they just mind their own business? The last thing I want is to be the hub of gossip.

I step closer to Blaire and drop my voice. "Please, can we go somewhere and talk about this after school? I'd do it now, but I have to meet Ms. Albert for college prep. Honestly, I can explain."

She looks at my outstretched hand and shakes her head derisively. "You're a terrible liar."

Sudden fury napalms my hurt and lingering fear as my fox snaps awake, an inner snarl ratcheting down my spine. My fingers curl around the strap of my bag, strangling it. Like all kitsune, I'm a master deceiver and a champion of trickery. No human is going to tell me otherwise—unwanted audience or not. "I'm actually an excellent liar."

Blaire's head jerks back as if she'd been punched. A few gasps sound from behind me, but I can't take my eyes off my target. "Who are you? Most people don't want to be told they're good liars. Good people, anyway." Her eyes narrow in apparent disgust. "Guess I had you all wrong, didn't I?"

My throat is so dry it hurts to speak, but there's no going back now. Not when my fox is keening in my mind to be set loose. "I'm not most people. You should have guessed that by now, but you're so busy with your own agenda, you walk around like a blind person. There's so much you don't know, Blaire. So much more to life if you would only open yourself to it, but that'll never happen, will it? Because you jump to conclusions. Is it because you want to be the hero? Or maybe martyr is the better word."

Blaire's lips curl around her teeth as she pokes me in the chest. "You're disgusting!"

The girls by the water fountain are staring at me with wide eyes and open mouths. The meaner ones of the pack smirk. Guys from the football team elbow each other and shrug, a mixture of amusement and confusion on most of their faces.

A rush of nausea causes me press my fist against my stomach. The tips of my fingers burn with the need to let my claws out. How did we get here? This morning's walk to school seems like eons ago. Now Blaire and I were going to be the topic of conversation on everyone's wagging tongue for who knew how long.

And Blaire still isn't through with me. "You know what, Amaya? I wish you'd never come here."

More gasps. I want to simultaneously tear someone's throat out and find a cave to hole up in. Preferably for the next six or seven months. Maybe until college starts next fall.

"You don't have a clue, Blaire, and I'm over being yelled at." Not to mention being the day's entertainment for a large segment of the student body. My fox growls again, but whatever. I'll just have to deal with the gossip mill and whatever other fallout materializes from this epic load of crap later.

I turn my back on Blaire and push through the throng of suddenly busy students toward the library. I breathe deep, trying to find my Zen all the way to my happy place. Finally, I'm there, and my shoulders begin to unwind. Backpacks unzip and close again, a student snaps her gum loudly, and someone taps a pen on a table. Behind the desk, the copier whines and spits out a stack of paper. As I stroll through the row of tables searching for a seat, the familiar scents of aged books and the garish perfumes of my classmates fill my nose. These are the sights and sounds of the library that soothe my senses and calm my fox.

Most of the tables are already filled. Except for one. When I see who else is sitting at the table, a chunk of my Zen chips off and floats away into oblivion. I'd rather be back fighting with Blaire in the hallway.

"Amaya, there's an empty chair next to Gretchen," Ms. Albert says.

Stolen novel; please report.

I groan inwardly and lumber over to the table by the wall. Of course Gretchen and I have to share a guidance counselor because apparently my annoyance quotient is not yet high enough today. I plop down into the seat. Why can't I just have a moment of peace? I narrow my gaze, hoping she'll take a hint and leave.

Yeah right.

Gretchen flips her hair over her shoulder, her vibrant pink lips twisting up into a grin "So, what happened? Got a text that you and crazy tits got into some big screaming match over your upcoming date."

I grab the second tablet on the table and press the power button, pressing my lips into a thin line. "Drop it. It's none of your business."

When Ms. Albert claps her hands, everyone turns to face her as she begins to lead us through a lecture on the application. She goes over details such as why it's important, the amount of schools that use it, and where we can put extra information like volunteer work we've done. My pencil taps vigorously against the table. Why do colleges expect us to do so much on top of earning high grades and staying out of trouble? I should get a scholarship just for keeping my kitsune under wraps.

"Now start to fill out the application. I'll circle around so if you need help just raise your hand," Ms. Albert says in her so-kind-it's-almost-unbelievable voice. I'm sure she would have given me the benefit of the doubt about my date with Bax. Unlike knee-jerk Blaire.

I look down the application screen and sigh. Thank the gods I have something productive to do right now. I'm not sure how much more instruction I could have listened to. But my stomach sinks the moment I load the online college application. This isn't going to be as easy as I'd hoped. Libraries I know. Books are friends. But this electronic monstrosity on my tablet nearly defeats me before I even begin. My fingers curl on my tablet, pressing too hard and I know it's my fox expressing her frustration along with me.

How in the world am I supposed to answer some of these questions? Parents? Well dead, if you must know. Education? By the seat of my pants and officially, whenever I could catch a class. My favorite activity? Staring at a certain boy whose brother is a world-class dick. Yeah, they'll just love those answers. This app is seriously ticking me off.

Until I get to the part that asks me about career interests. Ah yes, now here we go. Time to dream. I check all the boxes related to art careers. Wouldn't that be amazing? To do what you love and get paid for it. To be able to support yourself and not always have to look over your shoulder. To be free to live at least part of your truth to the world.

When a screen prompts me to upload documents to create a portfolio, I lean down to my backpack and pull out my sketchbook. Thumbing through the pages of my sketchbook and taking pictures of the pieces I want to add to my portfolio with the camera on the tablet, I'm reminded there's more to life than being worried about what others think of me. That I have purpose and passions, and being on the school's gossip radar is only temporary until the next big drama drops.

Which could easily be as soon as next— "Hey! What the hell, Gretchen?"

She snatches my sketchbook, and before I can grab it back, she flips through my drawings. "Holy crap. You're talented."

My arms cross in front of my chest where my heart is beating way too fast to be healthy. "Although that may indeed be the case, way to be subtle. You're such an arrogant bitch."

She waves off my sarcasm with her usual imperiousness. "These are excellent, especially the ones of foxes. I like this one of Sam, too." She wiggles her eyebrows at me disgustingly. "You dirty bird. You're wanting a brother sandwich, aren't you?"

Stone the crows. I forgot about that drawing. My hand whips across the desk. "Give me that back before I strangle you." She has no idea how literal I'm being. Or how loud my fox's snapping jaws are in my ears.

"But they're so gooood," she whines.

"You're starting to piss me off, Gretchen. None of this is for general consumption. You're being so disrespectful right now. Give. It. Back."

She finally closes the book and slides it over to me. "My cousin has a webcomic. I'll give you his email. Maybe you could draw for him and get your art out there."

I shove the sketchbook in my backpack and count backwards from ten to release the pressure because the offer is actually pretty nice. "This is just something I do for fun. My dad hopes I'll be a lawyer like him. Maybe I will. Hard to make it as an artist these days, and that high-sodium ramen they serve in the cafeteria isn't my cuppa."

"Oh come one. It's not that bad. It's normal ramen you can buy in the supermarkets."

I wrinkle my nose. "There's no comparison to the ramen shops in Tokyo." As soon as it's out of my mouth, I nearly facepalm myself. Now, whose being snooty, Miss Fancy Pants World Traveler?

Gretchen waves her hand dismissively. "I wouldn't worry about what you'll earn. Money's way overrated. Just do what you want."

With a Louis Vuitton purse and a pair of five-hundred-dollar Roberto Cavalli jeans, being poor is not her struggle. Time to change the subject since I'm stuck here until the bell rings. "So, enough about me. What are your interests, Gretchen?"

Her eyes dart from table to table before she leans over conspiratorially "Well, I dance. Ballet."

My eyebrows shoot to my hairline, not expecting her answer. Or for confident Gretchen to blush. "What? Are you serious? You seem more like you participate in beauty pageants."

She brings a finger to her lips, making a shushing motion. "It's a secret, but I've auditioned to train at a school in New York. I wasn't as good as others at the audition, but I'm hopeful."

Gretchen goes on to explain her rigorous daily practice. I can't imagine waking at four in the morning, stuffing my aching feet into constraining slippers, and drilling for hours, pushing my body to the limits, only to do the same thing again when I get home from school. An image of my human body giving out, revealing my fox-self onstage before thousands of people, flashes in my mind and I shiver violently.

"Your art is really good. I think you actually have a shot of making it in the field."

I scroll back to the application, coming across an option for career in digital arts and media. While being a dancer and living in the eye of the public is too dangerous, working behind a computer while the world focuses on my artwork is right up my alley. But my heart sinks. Graduation. College. A career. My teeth sink into the meat of my cheek. I won't be around alive long enough to experience any of those activities, but my heart I wish I could truly find my place in this world before my life comes to an end.