The Alchemy of Forever

but I soon realize I’m completely turned around, and turn on my heel in the opposite direction. A bell rings, and I jump, panicking. Unless I can figure out where to go, I’m going to be late. Everyone will stare at me.
    I pass the girls’ bathroom and gratefully duck inside, locking myself in a stall and closing my eyes till my breath has returned to normal. Digging in my pocket, I find the map I had sketched out the night before. Suddenly, I realize where I am.
    More composed, I leave the bathroom and find my way to the biology classroom. I don’t think the classes will be difficult. Cyrus, for all his faults, was an excellent teacher, giving me a solid education in mathematics, sciences, and literature. I could easily solve chemical equations, debate the finer points of Socratic discourse, or expound on the entire history of Greece.
    I reach the door of the classroom and freeze—where should I sit? I spot Noah near the front and wonder why he would drive me around, bring me cupcakes, and then ignore me at school. My many years of living have not made the actions of teenage boys any less enigmatic. Still, I start to make my way toward him—he is, after all, the only person I know—but the teacher stops me. “Ms. Morgan,” he says in a gravely voice. “Please take your assigned seat so class can begin.” I stop in my tracks and look where the teacher gestured.
    There are two empty seats near each other, and I move toward them hesitantly. “Any day now, Ms. Morgan,” the teacher prods. I take a breath and flip an imaginary coin, choosing the seat in front of a pretty girl with long, shiny brown hair. She gives me a smile, but her eyes are cold. I glance once more at Noah before sitting down, the girl following my gaze. With a start, I realize this is Nicole Harrison, the girl Kailey wasn’t friends with for whatever reason.
    The other students already have notebooks and textbooks open on their lab tables, and I follow their lead. Kailey’s notebook is filled with doodles in the margins: flowers, portraits of other students, abstract patterns. Art was clearly where she excelled.
    I turn to a fresh page and write the date, October 18, in my old-fashioned script. I stare at it for a moment and realize I’ve got to try to copy Kailey’s handwriting, which is, to my discerning eye, atrocious. I turn to a new page and start again, letting my hand relax and relying on muscle memory to approximate her stylized printing.
    “Cellular respiration,” the teacher writes on the white-board behind him, then begins the lecture. I dutifully copy down the phrase, but my mind starts to drift almost immediately.
    How am I going to make my escape? I realize now that I can’t just disappear. The Morgans would no doubt issue an AMBER Alert, and my face would end up plastered all over every major news outlet in the state. An AMBER Alert for a teen girl in the Bay Area would likely catch Cyrus’s notice. I silently thank the officer who picked me up yesterday.
    No matter which train of thought I follow, I keep coming back to the same conclusion: The Morgans will need to think Kailey is dead. It’s the only way to stop anyone from looking for Kailey ever again. Should I fake another car crash? A fire? Plant a suicide note saying I’ve leaped from the Golden Gate Bridge?
    Bile rises in my throat at my callous planning, although in an odd way, I know that staging an accident is the kindest thing I can do for the Morgans and the truest way to respect Kailey’s memory. Beyond that, all I can do is promise myself that Kailey’s is the last body I’ll ever inhabit. I will stay in it for as long as possible, till the last damned breath it’s able to breathe. It feels paltry, and it is, but it’s all I’ve got.
    A buzz from Kailey’s iPhone, wedged in the back pocket of my jeans, brings me back to the present. The clock on the classroom wall tells me class will be over in a few minutes. The teacher is droning on, and I wonder how any of the students are able to stay awake. Glancing around, I see a sea of sleepy, bored eyes.
    Surreptitiously, I pull the phone from my pocket and glance at it underneath the desk. It’s a text from Leyla.
    i miss you! are you actually here today?
     
    Not really, I think as the bell rings.
    By lunchtime I’m exhausted and on edge. The classes are easy, but the social dynamics are not. I never know where to sit or who to talk to, and my teachers seem baffled every time I know an answer.