April 9, 1999

I sit in the back of the classroom gnawing the eraser off of my pencil – a disgusting habit I’ve been trying to kick. But today impatience overrules discipline and the concentration required to not chew the eraser eludes me. In less than five minutes, the bell will ring and I will board the school bus home. Once there, I will join an elite group of players selected to beta test the newest and most technologically advanced massively multiplayer online roleplaying game. The game is called Superheroes of the Apocalypse and features 3D graphics, customizable avatars, group campaigns, and in-game chat. Or so I’ve been told. The game was released today to a select audience of which I was included solely because my stepfather is a contract lawyer with clients at a software company and he is constantly trying to score points with his reclusive stepdaughter. Unfortunately, the other players are not high school students and have had an eight-hour head start on me. Hence, my now eraserless pencil.

Finally, the bell rings and I leap from my desk.

“Ana, can I speak with you for a minute, please?” asks Ms. Wilkins, my Freshman English teacher.

I take a deep breath and trudge to her desk. I turn in all my assignments and ace every test, but she considers it her personal responsibility to get me to be more social.

“Yes, ma’am?” I clench my fist to avoid drumming my fingers against my thigh.

“I’m concerned about your final presentation. The other members of your group have informed me that you aren’t participating in the discussions.”

No, they didn’t. The group discussions so far have consisted of them discussing their personal lives and then promising to call each other later to “figure out” the presentation.

“I’m sorry, ma’am. I will try to speak up more.”

No, I won’t. The other two girls in my group never stop talking about their boyfriends and their parties long enough for me to get a word in.

“Please do. The purpose of this assignment is for you to learn from each other’s interpretation of the text. Everyone’s opinion holds merit.”

Except mine. No one cares what I think.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Now hurry up. You don’t want to miss your bus.”

Finally, something we agree on. I dash down the hallway, crossing my fingers that there will still be an empty row on the bus.

I’m not that lucky. Most rows are filled with giggling girls or joking jocks. Some are just filled with backpacks and backpack owners with defiant glares daring me to ask them to move over. As I near the back of the bus, I see two rows only partially occupied. One by Austin Bennet, varsity football player and every fourteen year old girl’s dream. Surely, he is saving that seat for someone. Someone that’s not me. In the other seat is Jake Ryan, a sixteen year old sophomore who recently transferred from somewhere up north. Rumor has it he was held back because he spent a year in juvenile detention. So those are my choices – probable public rejection or possible mugging. There really is no contest here. Possible mugging it is.

“Can I sit here?”

My voice is barely above a whisper. Jake grunts and moves over. As I sit down, several faces look in my direction, no doubt amazed at my bravery. But there is no bravery involved. At fourteen, I have no valuables on my person. Humble pride is all I’ve got.

The curious faces quickly lose interest as the bus lurches forward. I avoid eye contact with my seatmate while counting down the minutes until we reach my stop. A forty-five minute bus ride is all that separates me from Superheroes of the Apocalypse. As the anticipation builds, my left leg starts to shake and I fight to control the nervous tick. I try to shift to a more comfortable position and my hand brushes against Jake's leg.

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“Sorry,” I mutter. I’m rewarded with a terse nod.

Just as I’m thinking Jake’s social skills make me seem like a cheerleader, the bus shudders to a stop and smoke begins to fill the inside. Suddenly, the emergency door is wrenched open and everyone shuffles out, pushing me along with them. As I follow the crowd to where they have gathered on the shoulder, rumors have already begun to circulate. The engine exploded. The bus driver was smoking and dropped her cigarette. And, least likely of all, a student in the front row spontaneously combusted.

“Everyone move away from the road, but don't wander off,” the driver says, attempting to control a busload of restless teenagers. “We are just having a little engine trouble. I’ve radioed for assistance and another bus will come pick us up as soon as it finishes its route.”

I look around. There really isn't anywhere to wander off to. A few houses, a cornfield, and infinite trees are all that can be seen. One of the many joys of living in rural America. I consider my options. By road, my house is about seven miles away. A half hour drive with all the bus stops in between. Add to that nearly an hour for another bus to be here to pick them up and I won’t be home until after five. On the other hand, about a half mile into the woods is a storm gully which leads directly to my backyard. I could be home by four.

I've always had a talent for disappearing into the background and that talent serves me well now. I look around for the bus driver and see she is currently being berated by Darla Middleton, soon-to-be head cheerleader. I’m guessing this whole ordeal has caused her to be late for a spa appointment. I seize the opportunity and dart for trees.

The half mile I estimated seems to be closer to a mile and I am about to turn back when I finally reach the oversized ditch. This part of the gully is deeper than the one in my backyard. I'm guessing about nine or ten feet compared to the six-foot gully I played in as a child. Also, the sides are much steeper than the one I used to box sled down. However, a few things work in my favor. First of all, it hasn't rained in weeks and the gully is mostly dry except for a small stream in the center. Secondly, there are tree roots which form a ladder down the side. I sit on the ground and ease myself over the side until my foot finds the first root. Luckily, I have yet to reach the girly stage in which I care about things like getting dirt on my clothes.

I'm about halfway to the bottom when I slip, landing on my bottom in the mud. I guess it wasn't as dry as I thought.

“Careful,” says a voice from behind me. “You wouldn't want to get hurt out here. No one around to hear you scream and all that.”

I turn around to see Jake standing a few feet away with the closest thing I've ever seen to a smile on his face. A serial killer grin, perhaps? I mentally amend possible mugging to possible murder.

“Wha...how did you get down here? Did you follow me?”

“Follow you? Give me a break. But like you, I have better things to do than wait around for another bus.” He offers a hand to help me up and I reluctantly accept. “As to how I got down here, there's a slope about twenty feet that way. I practically walked down.” He points behind him.

“Oh,” I say, trying and failing to wipe the mud from my shorts.

“We better hurry if we're going to get home before the storm.”

“Storm? What storm?”

He rolls his eyes. “Don't you watch the weather? Or look at the sky? There's a massive anvil cloud just west of us. Should be here within the hour.”

“No, I don't watch the weather because I'm not fifty. And I guess I was too distracted by the smoke billowing from the school bus to look at the clouds.” The first drop of rain hits my face and I start off in the direction of my house.

About ten minutes later, I am immediately drenched by the relentless downpour. On a positive note, the rain has completely washed the mud from my clothes. I try to run but the tiny stream has quickly become a river and my splashing only succeeds in getting me wetter. I think I hear Jake laughing but I can't be sure.

Lightning strikes somewhere nearby and I yelp in surprise. Jake's hand on my shoulder prompts a second squeal.

“This way,” he says, leading me to the side of the ditch. It’s shallower here and less steep so climbing up is easier than my earlier descent.

“I can't get to my house from here. I'm going to have to go back down.” I live in a gated community and the storm grate was the only way in from this direction.

“I know. But this storm is getting deadly. We need to take shelter until the worst is passed.”

I take a longing look in the direction of my home and follow the potential serial killer wherever he might lead. Okay, I’m pretty sure he’s not a serial killer. He’s been going to Grandeville High all year and no one has turned up missing…yet.

“So where is this alleged shelter?” I look around and see nothing but soggy trees.

“There’s a hunting cabin not far from here. Should be empty since it’s off -season.”

“Won’t it also be locked?”

He flashes me a smile and keeps walking. I walk with him, reminding myself that breaking and entering is entirely different from murder.