Mr. Gonzales walked in, so she quickly handed me the photo, then stuffed her bag under her desk.

I turned to face front and center. For some reason, Mr. Gonzales didn’t like it when I sat with my back to him and talked to Brooklyn during class. Weird.

He plopped some freshly printed papers on his desk. “I’ll give the first person who guesses correctly what we’re doing today ten extra credit points on the pop quiz.” He winked, letting us in on the clue.

While most of the kids sank in their desks, Brooklyn raised her hand with the enthusiasm of a cheerleader on X. I looked back and grinned. She was such a nerd.

“Are we having a pop quiz?” she asked, a disturbingly happy smile on her face.

He pointed to her like a game show host. “Bingo! Ten points to Miss Prather. Class, take out your pencils and clear your desks.”

A hapless moan filled the room as students followed orders. I stuffed my backpack under my desk, remembered I needed a pencil, dragged it back out, and repeated the process. With a quick glance behind me, I realized the football players weren’t complying. They were just sitting there. Isaac’s head was still down, his shoulders hunched over whatever he was working on. Brian Klein wasn’t doing as told either, but he never did.

Seeing my chance to get close to Isaac, I raised my hand. “Would you like me to pass them out, Mr. Gonzales?”

“Sure.”

I was careful to start on the other side of the room, and while normally one would simply count out the required amount for that row and have the students pass them out, I went from desk to desk, handing out the quizzes hurriedly so Mr. Gonzales wouldn’t feel the need to suggest I do otherwise for time’s sake.

Most of the students took them with a grimace, but the football players just sat there, neither accepting nor declining the paper offered, so I laid them on their desks and moved on. Brooklyn cast me a knowing grin when I passed her, and nodded her head in encouragement. I planned it just right, and Isaac was my last stop. I tried to hand him the paper, but he didn’t look up from what he was doing. How could I accidently-on-purpose touch his hand if he didn’t take the paper?

I decided to tap him on the shoulder, though that wouldn’t help me get a vision. He was wearing his letter jacket, and in order for me to see anything, the contact had to be skin-on-skin. But he still didn’t look up. Running out of time, I decided to try to push the paper under the arm he had draped over the desk. The one he was using to shield his activity. I scooted it under his elbow, tapping it further—when he grabbed my hand and pinned me with a hateful stare.

Electricity shot up my spine. I tried to step back, but he had a death grip on my wrist, and while I didn’t get a vision, the sight before me was enough to stop me dead in my tracks. He was carving into the desk with a pocketknife, the deep gashes resembling barbed wire. When taken line by line, the vandalism looked like nothing more than sharp angles and thick, angry lines. But when taken as a whole, I had to admit, I was a little surprised.

He’d carved my name, each letter looking more like a first-grader did it than a straight-A high school student. I realized he was still glaring at me, his grip tightening with each passing moment. I tried to pull out of it, but he squeezed his fingers around my wrist so hard, I was certain he would break it.

I gasped and looked back at Mr. Gonzales. He was busy reading a message on his desk and didn’t see what was happening.

“Isaac,” I whispered. I didn’t want to get him in trouble—he was a good friend—but his grip was really strong. “Please let me go.”

Instead, he jerked me closer until my nose was almost touching his. I noticed a smudge on his forehead, a dark crimson stain. Then his expression changed, became almost apologetic. He was holding the knife with his other hand, his fingers locked around the blade itself until droplets of blood decorated his artwork.

“Isaac—”

“They want you dead, Lor,” he said, a hint of panic in his voice.

I couldn’t say anything. Any words that formed in my mind got stuck in my throat, and all I could do was stare into Isaac’s frightened face.

“Isaac!” I heard from the front of the room. It was Brooklyn. She must’ve seen what was happening and came running down the aisle.

That caught Mr. G’s attention. He stood and started toward us, but it was Brooklyn’s outburst that startled Isaac into letting go. He stumbled to his feet, shock on his face as he looked at the knife in his bloody hand like he’d never seen it before.

“What is going on?” Mr. Gonzales asked. He stopped short and gaped, his gaze traveling back and forth between Isaac’s hand and his carving. He had good cause to look shocked. Isaac was one of the nicest guys I knew. He would never hurt anyone on purpose, despite his enormous size.

Still gazing at his hand as though wondering whose it was, Isaac dropped the knife. It bounced with an ominously loud thud on my name, then tumbled to the floor. Before anyone could say anything, Mr. Gonzales picked up the knife with his thumb and index finger, handling it like a crime scene investigator might, then took Isaac by the arm and led him out the door.

“Everyone stay quiet and seated. I’ll be right back.”

But the moment the door closed, the room burst into an uproar of conversation. Half the room was asking me what happened, and the other half had rushed over to see the desk.

Brooklyn shooed them all away and led me back to my own desk, saying, “Boy, Syd wasn’t kidding about her boyfriend acting strange.”