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The cool fabric sends a shiver down my back as I pull it over my head. A second later I slip my black hoodie on.

Then I lie back down and stare at the ceiling. I don’t like the quiet because I don’t like to be alone with my thoughts. My brain replays a never-ending war of emotions. It’s too loud. I remember things a little too well. I can picture moments in time from when I was little in perfect detail, but they aren’t happy. I don’t remember my mom, and Grandma never talked about her. My mom made a lot of bad choices, and sometimes I wonder if Grandma was punishing me because she couldn’t punish my mom anymore. I was someone she could take her frustration out on.

When I was little, I used to think I was a bad kid becausewhat mom doesn’t love her own child? What did I do to make myself so unlovable?

I shake my head and get up. I need to do something, anything other than what I’m doing right now.

My messenger bag sits at the corner of my bed, and I grab it. I take out my copy ofJourney to the Center of the Earth. I thumb through the pages, skimming past my ugly handwriting in the margins until I find a page that’s fairly empty. I start writing down the heavy thoughts. My writing isn’t fancy or articulate. It’s messy and disjointed. I write down all the things I’m afraid to say out loud. I write down my hurt and anger, and then when I’m done, I close the book and pretend my feelings don’t matter again.

It might seem silly, but it helps me calm down.

There’s no point in sticking around for the rest of the household to get up. I might as well get breakfast and leave for school early. That’s the one plus side of taking the city bus to school. It comes three times an hour on the weekdays.

I head to the kitchen to see what I can find that’s quick and easy. Laura is a fairly organized person, and everything has a place in her kitchen. I have to admit the pantry is impressive. She has everything from cereal to quinoa in plastic containers, all labeled and put on the shelves to create a uniform look. I grab one of the protein bars she has and turn to leave.

“You’re up early,” Laura says. She’s decked from head to toe in her running gear.

My hand flies to my neck, and I stare at my shoes. “I have something I need to get done before school starts.”

Laura checks her watch. “Well, I need to take a quick shower, but I can drive you if you don’t mind waiting a minute. I need to head to the gym for my spin class anyway.”

“No. I’ll take the bus.”

She blinks, surprised by my quick reaction. “I really don’t mind.”

“I don’t have time to wait. I have to head out now,” I say.

“Okay,” she says. “Maybe tomorrow then.”

I give her a slight nod and shuffle past.

“Have a good day,” she says.

“Thanks,” I mumble right before I’m out of earshot.

The ride to school is peaceful. There’s only a handful of people on the bus, and no one is awake enough to talk. The bus driver doesn’t even say hi. It’s as ideal as it gets. If anything, it’s too short. I’d rather stay on the bus like that than enter into the zoo of teenagers we call a school.

Reluctantly, I reach up and tug on the cord when we near my stop.

“Stop requested,” says the bus’s automated voice.

The bus rolls to a stop, and I hop out the side door.

There are a few people here already, mainly teachers. I don’t understand how they all can wake up as early as they do. I would never get up this early by choice.

Once inside, I walk to the library because it seems like the least likely place for other people to be. Reading is another thing I don’t often do by choice, but I like the quietness of the library.

I sit at one of the far tables and fold my arms over it, resting my head. Time never seems to pass fast enough, but today it does. Before I know it, the hallways are bustling with students, which is my cue to head to my first class.

I stand, making sure my messenger bag is strapped over my shoulders, and start weaving through the rows of books. I turn the corner and slam right into a girl with a stack of books a mile high.

She shrieks, falling to the ground and scattering the books.

“Sorry,” I say, but it’s barely above a whisper.

“It’s okay. It was my fault.” Her face burns red, and she’s quick to start patting the ground around her. “I need my glasses.”

I kneel down to pick them up. “Here,” I say, placing them in her hand. Then I grab the books, stacking them in my arms.