ELOISE
The bell for fourth period rang, but the hallways of Oakridge High didn't sound like their usual chaotic self. They sounded like a death march.
I was currently huddled in a secluded corner behind the trophy case near the history wing, my phone gripped so tightly in my hands it was literally shaking. The small, throbbing bruise Caleb had examined in the library only an hour ago was now the least of my problems.
Someone—I had no idea who—had just uploaded a photo to the school’s public forum.
It wasn't a photo of me. It was a photo of the notebook I had carried in my backpack during the first week of senior year. The raw, jagged lines of my handwriting were painfully clear across the digital screen, burning into my eyes with every reload.
It was a poem. A bad one.
I had w
