"Shit, stupid fuc — god damnit—" I slam my textbook shut and throw it across the floor, staring after it in flustered irritation before sighing and going to pick it up again. This routine has been repeating itself for the whole lunch hour, which I have spent pointlessly trying to study underneath a set of stairs in the least populated part of the school. I've got a Math test next period, and the class has become completely hopeless at this point. At the beginning of last month, maybe I could've been able to figure things out if I set my mind to it, but after a month of sleeping in class we're so far in the course material that no amount of me reading the textbook seems to spark my brain to life. The numbers turn to gibberish on the pages, transforming into Mrs Lawson's pitiful expression as she puts my test face down on my desk yet again. I groan, slamming my head against the wall behind me and shoving the textbook back into my bag just as the bell rings. After heavily considering breaking one of my arms so I can be sent home from school, I begin the trudge of shame towards my classroom, my bad mood increasing tenfold when Percy falls into step next to me.

"You ready for the test?" he asks, and I shoot him a look.

"Don't patronize me, Walker," I say bitterly, his cheery attitude sucking the life out of me. We turn into the class and take our seats.

"You know—"

"The day I let you tutor me is the day I lose all dignity," I say, and he just shrugs as we put our bags under our chairs.

"Your funeral, McGill."

The test goes as terribly as anticipated; despite my incredible cheating ability, I know I'll still fail for not showing any of my work (and for writing curse words in number form on a few questions). I feel burnt out when the bell rings, and I tug my backpack from under me, shoving my books and pens into it haphazardly.

"Remember, everyone, next week you'll all get your midterm grades sent home!" Mrs Lawson shouts over the bustling heads.

I whip my head towards Percy. "When are our grades being sent home?"

"Wednesday, I think," he says, and both of us stand up, heading for the door.

"And," I try to act nonchalant, "how are they being sent?"

"They print out your transcript and mail it home," Percy says, eyeing me sideways despite my attempt at an unassuming look. "But DJ and Steph will be getting letters too, so I'm sure grabbing yours from the post will raise suspicion."

He's right. Jesse isn't that daft, and I'm sure DJ will be waiting for her letter like a military man's wife. I'm sure she'll be talking about the midterm reports at dinner tonight. Same with Steph. Both of them love talking about what they're doing at school and what the latest assembly was about.

But I'm no amateur, and the gears in my brain are already working on an ulterior solution to my problem. Percy is glancing over at me again.

"I don't like that face. That's your scheming face."

"I don't have a scheming face," I say innocently. Joey's picking us all up today, so we both head out to the parking lot. "This is my regular face."

"You have three faces," Percy states firmly, and I watch as he brings out his fingers to count on, "you have your resting face, which is usually irritated or judgemental or skeptical, but all within the realm of narrowed eyes and furrowed brows; you have your smartass face, which is usually employed when you're making some sarcastic comment or hostile jab at another's expense and involves a smug smirk and taunting eyes; and you have your scheming face, which is thoughtful, but with a clear hint of malevolence twinkling behind your carefully crafted look of innocence."

"All right, Fitzgerald, take it down a notch," I say with an eye roll as we break out of the school's front doors, but I can feel my cheeks heating up at his comments. Does he really think I'm that much of a bitch? I've got three faces, and all of them are cynical or belittling. Is that how everyone here sees me? I could handle intimidating, but now the only person that I'd maybe consider as more than an acquaintance is telling me I've got no redeeming qualities. Despite the little daggers in my heart, I put on a face of annoyance — my first face, I suppose. "All this little speech has told me is you've got some stalker tendencies I need to watch out for. Why don't you spend a little less time analyzing my micro-expressions and a little more time fixing your hair."

I see DJ and Steph climbing into the family minivan, and I break away from Percy as he runs a hand through his messy hair. He scrunches his face up, but smiles nevertheless.

"Whatever it is you're thinking, don't!" he calls after me, and I turn to give him what I imagine is a mix between face number two and face number three before hopping into the back of the van.

*

I figure I should have a couple of buffer days before my grades are due home, in case they start printing out the letters before Wednesday. I spend the next day loitering by the office, examining windows and filing cabinets and forming a rough plan in my mind. I scheme all weekend, drawing little maps on scrap paper and considering all angles to my issue. The office is always bustling in the mornings and at lunch time and even after school, so there's no way I could sneak in during the day. Therefore, my plan becomes a little more intense, and Sunday night I lay in bed wondering if it's all really worth it. Maybe I should just come clean to Jesse, maybe he would understand.

I've already been lying to him for weeks, I'm in too deep to dig myself out now. The way he reacted at Steph's party when I told him I was doing fine in Math, I can't ruin that. I can't disappoint him any more than I already have. It's just one grade, one grade and I can live in peace.

At one in the morning, I throw my covers off of my legs, revealing an all black outfit I put on about two hours ago. I grab my bag, checking that I've got everything I need before slowly pushing open my door. The house is quiet, and I make no noise as I descend the kitchen staircase and slip out the back door, blending into the dark night. I don't feel nervous; in fact, my brain flips steadily through my thoughts, organizing them into order of what must happen first tonight. I go through the plan however many times it takes me to step onto the school grounds. In the darkness, the building looks more like an abandoned prison than a middle school, but I digress; I easily hop the fence to the parking lot and start the creep up to the east side windows, which are low to the ground and close to the office. I count from the right until I find the one with the faulty latch. I pull out a crowbar from my bag that I stole from Les's shop, and I shove it into the window edge until it pops open. It's one of the windows that doesn't open all the way, but I skipped dinner, so luckily I'm able to squeeze through after shoving my bag inside. I slide off the radiator on the other side of the window, and hop to the ground with a soft thud, picking up my bag and pausing for a moment to listen for any sounds. Once I'm sure it's clear, I start down the hallway.

The building is eerie at night. There's a constant buzzing that I can't find the source of, and the only light comes from the red glow of the EXIT signs hanging in intervals down the corridor, as well as a faint, ghastly hue from the moon shining through the windows. I keep close to the wall, and once I reach the office I slow down, once again listening for any movement from within. My breathing is shallow, and I can feel my heart pounding, but I slowly open the office door and slip inside, immediately dropping to my knees by the filing cabinet and letting my bag fall beside me. My hands move quickly, pulling out a couple of pins from my bag and maneuvering them around in the bottom drawer's lock until it clicks open. I slide it silently forward, pulling out a flashlight and using it to search for my name among the files. It's not there, so I move up to the second drawer to repeat the process. My name is close to the back in this one, between McAdams and McLellan, and I pull out the file, which is thinner than all of the others by a mile. There's only one sheet of paper inside, titled 'Alexandra McGill - Semester 1 Midterm Grades,' and I examine the print. Lucky for me, it's done by hand, and I scan downwards, briefly glancing at my other grades, which are all B's with an A in English, before seeing the dreaded F staring back at me beside Math. I pull out my pen, flattening the paper against the filing cabinet and carefully transforming the F into a very convincing B. I examine my handy work before deeming myself satisfied and placing the paper back in my file. I make sure I'm back between McAdams and McLellan before sliding the file back into the cabinet and sliding it shut. I breathe out a sigh of relief that gets caught in my throat when I hear a distant door shutting, and my neck snaps towards the source, which sounds like it came from the opposite direction I entered the building from.

The windows in the office don't open more than an inch, so I have to act fast, jumping to my feet and haphazardly shoving my things back into my bag before slinging it over my shoulder and lunging for the door. I hear what sounds like rolling wheels coming from my left, and so I head right, shutting the door behind me a little louder than I intended. The rolling stops as I freeze in place, and I hold my breath.

"Hello?"

"Shit," I whisper, having no choice but to break into as quiet a run as I can manage as the wheels begin rolling, a little bit faster now, in my direction. "Shit shit shit shit shit."

I reach the window just as someone comes around the corner, but I pray the darkness hides me as I throw my bag outside and squeeze myself through after. I land hard on a rock, scraping my elbow and wrist but paying it no attention as I hop up, shut the window, and break into a sprint for the nearest alleyway. I check my shoulder as I go, and think I can maybe see the outline of somebody passing by the row of windows, but then again it could be a trick of the light. Nevertheless, I don't let myself breathe normally until I've made it back to the Tanner residence, at which point I sneak back inside, tiptoe up to my closet, and lie awake staring at the alarm clock on the shelf next to me, which shines a green light on my face. My eyes flicker past the time, which reads 2:15, and to the date. February 18th. I sit up a bit, grabbing the clock and pulling it closer to make sure I'm not seeing things. I'm not.

It's my birthday. I cry myself to sleep.