I shoulder my way through the throng of people in the halls, trying to make it to my locker. I push past the last group that's just standing there, and sigh. They really need school hallways to be divided into three sections. Walking one way, walking the other, and just standing to talk. It would make my life, and thousands of student's lives better.

I open my locker, cursing when my nail catches on the edge of the door. I put all of my textbooks back. The benefit of finishing all my homework in class is that I never have to carry anything home. That is, except my novels. I pull the stack of classics from the top shelf and gently place them in my backpack. They are my babies and deserved to be treated as such. Surveying my locker one last time to make sure I'm not missing anything, I zip up my backpack.

I slam my locker door shut, wincing at the noisy shudder of metal hitting metal. I jump when I see the face of the school's resident mean girl leering down at me. Elissa Parish. Her words are infused with enough venom to kill a grizzly, and her stares are icy enough to freeze hell.

She twirls one curled lock of auburn hair around her manicured finger, a fake smile plastered on her face all the while. "Hello, Kyla. How are you today?" Her words are infused with a sickly sweetness, but the cold burn of her gaze says otherwise.

I ignore her, attempting to walk by her to go to Mrs. Richter's class. I have free period next, but I enjoy helping the English teacher.

I should have gone the long way. Elissa ever so calmly reaches her arm out to block my path. She widens her cruel eyes in mock surprise, a perfectly plucked eyebrow edging its way towards her hairline.

"Where could you possibly be going?" She puts a finger to her lips in thought. "It isn't like you have any friends to catch up with." She laughs, the sound of it harsh and cold. That's the thing about Elissa. She appears to be perfect at first glance; a leggy brunette, captain of the cheerleading team, a skillfully made up face. But her picturesque exterior hides the ugly truth of her personality from the world. I'd call her a witch but that'd be an insult to the witches, so let's just say she's a jerk.

She continues. "I thought that we could hang out. You're smart, and dear Mr. Balentino gave us such a long essay before winter break."

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. The essay is due on December 20th, which is three weeks from now. She has plenty of time to do it herself, but of course she'd rather bother me to do it.

"You could help me with it." She drops the sweetness act. Her sharp eyes narrow at me, and her voice lowers, to a pitch where I can barely hear it. "I mean, you wouldn't want anything to happen like last time, would you?"

Last time my head made the acquaintance of a stained brown toilet bowl in the girls bathroom. I had to hold my breath as the cold water splashed its way around my face, carrying who-knows-what along with it. Elissa didn't do it herself, oh no. The queen of Hamilton High couldn't possibly get her hands dirty. She'd much rather delegate the task to one of her many lemmings.

I sigh. "I'd rather not Elissa. Who knows what might happen if you turn in an A paper instead of your usual F? Mr. Balentino might go into shock. We can't have that."

As Elissa sits processing my words, I spin around and make a beeline for the library. Mrs. Richter will have to grade essays herself today. I need the comfort of yellowing pages and faraway lands, in a place where Elissa wouldn't dare to go, for fear of ruining her perfect image. A paradise for all nerds like me. The library.

Inside the library, Ms. Delgato smiles at me. I'm in here so often an imprint of my butt is tattooed on the window seat. I wave at her then go browse the shelves. I grab a tattered novel, the print on the spine too faded to decipher, and replace it with a bookmark from my pocket. Taking my spot on the window seat, I immerse myself in the book.

The bell sounds to signify the end of the school day as I turn the last page. I look around for my bookmark and replace the book on the shelf, tucking the mark into my pocket for safekeeping. I wait inside the library door, waiting for the sound of teens leaving for the day to fade.

When the roar of noise slows to a trickle, then disappears completely, I exit the library and the school, starting the half mile trek to the thrift store. The only good thing about living in such a small town is that everything in Fallmont is close together.

***

I open the heavy wooden door, listening to the telltale creak of old hinges. As my foot crosses over the doorway, I take a deep whiff of the heavily perfumed air from inside the thrift shop. Lavender. It always reminds me of my mother, even if this shop doesn't look even close to anything that she would have approved of. Glancing around the room, I spot the familiar hole in the faded red carpet that I inflicted the one time I wore stilettos, and the clusters of brightly colored concert posters and old band tees on the walls.

The familiar atmosphere calms me instantly. I'm in here often enough that the small shop feels like home and the employees all recognize me. Today the cashier happens to be the owner, and Marley is no different. The 20 year old woman looks up from one of her ever-present romance novels to greet me with a smile. "Hey, Kyla! What brings you to our neck of the woods?" She asks. I grin back at her. Marley knows perfectly well that I live two blocks away. She's just poking fun at me for not coming more often. I'd say once or twice a week is more than often enough though.

I ease into the familiar banter. Second Chance is one of the few places I feel truly at home. "Just coming in to check the new clothes you got, Marley. You know I'm always here when the new shipments arrive. Where else would I get clothes that cost less than a McDonald's burger?" I ask teasingly. She knows that I don't mean it, but it's been a running joke between us for years.

"Well you've come to the right place. You need any help getting into the storage room? I'm pretty sure that you know where the key is, but you never know..." Marley asks. She's already reopening her book and getting comfortable in her chair behind the register.

"No, I've got it," I laugh. "It's not as if you would have actually got up and shown me where it is anyway. You'd probably murder someone if you were forced to leave your chair and that book."

Marley laughs along with me, still not taking her eyes off of the page. She really is obsessed with those novels. "Sometimes child. What did your parents teach you, making fun of a poor lady like me." I wince at the mention of my parents. Unaware of my reaction, she shakes her head and waves her hand at me, as if shooing me into the room.

My parents disappeared two years ago, but the pain of losing them is still fresh, coupled with the fact that I never got any closure. Both of them disappeared without a trace, leaving without any of their stuff or bags. The police say that it's very common for runaways to leave everything behind, to avoid looking too conspicuous when they travel. That's what my parents are to them. Runaways. Not missing, not abduction victims. Just runaways. People who hated their life so much that they chose to leave it all behind. I've chosen not to believe it. Why would they leave their 14 year old daughter, on her birthday too? Was I not good enough? Am I the reason they're gone? I've always believed they were abducted, or killed. Anything is better than them running away from me.

Marley doesn't know any of this though, so I can't blame her for her comment. Not a lot of people do. In fact, only my school and the government knows. The government needed to know so that I could be legally emancipated. I wasn't going into foster care, or leaving the house where I grew up.

Sighing, I walk through the tasseled curtains to the door that opens into the back room, and open the antique mirror that hangs on the wall. Marley refitted the mirror into a slim cabinet years ago, as a way to keep customers she doesn't trust from getting into the storage room. Obviously I'm not one of them. Untying the key from its place, I unlock the door and step inside the "warehouse." Marley keeps trying to get me to call it that, but honestly it's more like an over-sized closet, filled to the brim with dozens of piles of used clothing. There really isn't a system of organization in here, which messes with my desire to have everything organized, but the same sort of things always seem to be dumped into the same general area.

It doesn't really matter though. I don't need to know exact sizes, which is helpful. I'm not sure I could find them in the chaos even if I did. All I need to know is the type of person who would wear the item of clothing. I don't come here to find clothing that I'm going to parade around town in. I wish, but no. You see, I can't wear this used clothing. I could put it on, sure, but if I looked in a mirror, I wouldn't still be myself. Instead, I'd be whoever had owned the shirt, the jeans, the headband. A tall 14 year old girl? Sure. A pimply-faced 17 year old boy? It's happened, and it sucked. I've even been a 30 year old woman once. All I need is to put on their clothing. It comes in handy sometimes, but sometimes I really just wish I could just put on the clothing I bought without morphing into a stranger. Some of it's pretty cute.

Brushing off the brief moment of self pity, I walk over to the pile where I can normally find some teen clothes. It's easier for me mentally if I stay close to my own age when I morph. I grab the first thing I see and end up with a jean jacket. I focus for a second before the vision hits me.

A girl with long wavy brown hair and tanned skin. She smiles at a man, her father, and I get a flash of snow white teeth. "I can give up the jacket, Dad. It's no big deal, we need the money more than I need a stupid fashion accessory." She turns away so he doesn't see the tears stinging her large green eyes. Her mother bought her the jacket, before she died. It's the last thing she has to remember her mom by.

I rip my hand away from the fabric. I'd love to have the opportunity to look like her, but I could never wear that jacket. It meant too much to the girl for me to use it as just another one of my appearances. And besides, I'd never be able to enjoy looking like her because of the story behind it. I put the jacket down gently and glance at the pile for another piece of clothing to investigate. Hopefully something less meaningful. My eyes rest on a sleeveless red blouse and I pick it up.

A girl with auburn hair and short stature. She swings on a porch swing in front of her house leisurely, smartphone in hand. She is texting with a large smile lighting up her freckled face, her midnight blue nails tapping an uneven rhythm on the screen. I see who she's texting through her eyes. She seems to be very familiar with them. A friend, then. An enemy wouldn't give her such a smile. She blushes, her porcelain cheeks turning rose. Ah. Someone she wants to be more than a friend.

Pulling myself away from the vision, I smile. This is the sort of item I want for an appearance. Nothing too strong associated with it, and the feeling is positive. Plus, I get the added bonus that it's cute. Too bad no one will ever get to see me in it. I fold up the shirt and set it on a nearby rack of clothes. Walking over to the women's pile, I look around for a shirt. I need more looks that could pass for an adult, and I'd rather not get any extra body parts, like the one's I get when I become a male figure. I shudder. I'm not doing that again. I don't see a shirt, but I do see a black skirt that I pick up.

A woman with glossy black hair sits on the bench in the pouring rain, water dripping off her umbrella and her crying face. Looking up ahead, she glances at the oak coffin, its wet surface mirroring the grey sky that the occupant will never see again. She sobs harder when she sees the photo placed beside it, a wedding picture of her and a tall man. She turns away and buries her face into the person's shoulder next to her. "It's okay sis. Let it all out," the man says reassuring her. She wrings the tissue in her hands over her skirt. Her brother wraps her in a warm hug. "We're all here for you Jo. All you have to do is say the word." He picks up her wedding ring from off of her lap before it falls and hands it to her. She looks down at it, a fresh wave tears trickling to her chin, and gets up. She walks to the coffin, lays the ring on top, then runs to her car and locks herself inside, bawling.

I quickly pull myself from the vision. Great. Two out of three pieces of clothing that I can't buy, infused with the spirits of the poor and mourning. What's wrong with me? Why couldn't I pick some simple clothing, with only the thoughts of a summer's day, or a dance, or something that wouldn't make me feel bad about wearing it. The visions were associated with emotions that are too strong for me, and now I'm tired. When I overexert myself like this, the only thing I can do is go home and take a nap. I sigh and pick up the red shirt. Might as well get something good out of this trip. I bring the shirt to the register and see Marley's face wrinkle into a confused frown.

"Only one top? Something wrong, girly? You normally come out of the back room loaded down with three bags full of random stuff. And today you have one normal top. Not even a boys top! Not even ripped!"

"I have a small headache, I'm sure I'll be fine," I lie to reassure Marley. If she starts worrying about me when I don't spend a ton of money on clothes, imagine what would happen if I told her what I use the clothes for.

"Well ok then girly. You rest up and drink plenty of water." She hands me the shirt. "You feel better soon, and then when you do, come back and get your usual haul of clothes. For now, the shirt's on me."

I give her a tired smile. "Thanks Marley. You've always got my back."

"Don't mention it. Now get girl, your headache isn't going to get any better flappin' your gums with an old lady like me."

I open the heavy wooden door again, giving an exaggerated fake wince for Marley's sake at the sound of the bell, and start walking home. I should feel bad about lying to the kind woman, but I couldn't tell her that I was tired out from the strength of my visions now could I? She'd send me to a mental hospital in two seconds. I hate lying to Marley but I know it's for the best. If someone finds out about what I can do there is no telling what would happen.

I admire my surroundings as I make my way home.

I slow my pace as I finish the half mile stroll to my house and approach the wrought iron gate. I sigh. Why is having a power so complicated? I open the metal mailbox with the key from my key ring and walk up to the front door. I reach up to unlock the door and freeze. I don't need to unlock the door. The front door is already unlocked. Somebody is already in my house.

A/N: Thank you so much for coming to read the rewrite! I probably won't be updating the first one anymore, and you will definitely see some changes within the books.

There are less characters, for one. The story is much more streamlined, and the events happen at a manageable pace: not super fast or super slow. 

I'll be updating this story as I have new chapters. Not @WhispersConfusions fast, or anything. but I'd say pretty regularly. I want to have the story finished by the last day of October so I can do the sequel (which is already planned out) in November.

Hope you guys enjoy the rewrite :)