It’s strange, the feeling you get when you see your world crashing down around you. Almost like a numbness but more blank. Like someone dosed you with morphine but you feel completely awake. Or perhaps more like the drug surgeons use on patients during surgery. What was it called again?

“Miss Kingston?” Principle Barker was staring at me with his scary, beady eyes. His brown hair piece was too light to match the natural hair he still had around his ears and his pale skin had a thin layer of sweat but it wasn’t hot in his oddly large office. He was a mouth-breather and I could see a small gap between his two crooked, front teeth.

“Miss Kingston? I know this is a hard time for you but I do need you to go back to your class.” I really wish he would just call me Naomi. And … was he serious? The guy just told me of my mothers’ death and he thinks I’m up to going back to calculus just to stare off into space while our brain-dead zombie of a teacher reads his newspaper and the rest of my class do whatever they want. Which usually involved something any “good” teacher would put an end to immediately? But, oh-no, not Mr. Lee. That guy would rather burn in hell forever then give out a detention or give a lecture about why it totally stupid to smoke reefer in school or anywhere else or why its very idiotic to make-out with someone in front of an entire classroom of immature teenagers.

“Miss Kingsto-” Principle Barker began but I interrupted him.

“Yes, sir.” I mumbled the words and stood up abruptly. I stormed outta there with the ugliest scowl I could conjure on my face.

I wasn’t going back to calculus. No way in hell.

The secretary gave me the “I-think-she’s-crazy” look and I growled under my breath as I walked by. Who cared what that fat, blonde, bimbo thought anyway!

The halls were, thankfully, empty. The plain gray lockers seemed to glare back at me and the dirty tile floor looked a little more grimy than usual. The fluorescent lights seemed to shine brighter than ever and I found my eyes squinting. My face burned like some janitor thought it’d be funny to turn the heat up ten-fold just to spite me. My too-small sneakers made loud noises whenever they came in contact with the flooring and I wondered if they were always this loud. I found the girls restroom faster than I expected.

I pushed the door open the practically jogged in, quickly checking under the stalls for feet and I thanked whoever might be listening that there were none. I slowed down then. Took my time catching my breath that I had somehow lost. But really I was gasping, nearly hyperventilating. My palms were sweaty and my finger tips were shaking uncontrollably.

But here’s what’s really weird: that I’m reacting like this at all.

Why should I be crying over some woman who neglected me until I was ten and social services finally decided to step in? I mean what’s the point? I never even knew her middle name for C****t’s sake!

But I do know her first name…

The words slipped in my mind before I could stop them. Uncontrollable thoughts, one of the most annoying things in the world. And it’s true; I do know her first name: Rachel. Her name was Rachel James. And I used to be Naomi Grace James but now I’m Naomi Grace Kingston, adopted daughter of Theo and Lisa Kingston, older sister to Hailey and Vicki Kingston, best friend to Nicole Hensley and Katie Hughes, girlfriend to Bobby Mercer, swimmer, average student, black haired, blue eyed, bad artist, failing chef, and crappy basketball player. That’s who I am. And that’s who I’ll stay. This will not change me. This will not disrupt or alter my lifestyle. I will go on as me.

Naomi Grace Kingston