Chapter One: Chestbursters and Ibuprofen

"Shit." The twisting and turning sensation building in my gut along with the cold tiles bruising my knees was not a fun situation. My gut's rejection of my lunch had subsided as soon as it came. Or rather, left. It felt good, getting it all out. Sick, I know. The bathroom door swung open. "Hey, Emma! You alright?" My lab partner called. She didn't really care. Ms. Lang probably sent her to make sure I wasn't dying. "Yup! All good here," my reply doused in copious amounts of sarcasm.

Uh oh. There it is again. The feeling, I could only assume, thank God, was similar to a baby xenomorph moving through my body…And into the toilet we go. I can tell my face is red from all the, ya'know, stomach-lining-burning acid I'm expelling at the moment. "If you want, I could go get the nurse or something."

Oh that's right. Maggie's still here. Honestly, I figured she would've left after confirming I wasn't a decaying corpse in the school's restroom. "Oh no, you're good! Thanks for checking in on me, though." I reel back and flush the toilet for the second time. "KK! Just making sure you weren't dead or anything." I feel like it.

Maggie leaves, her Birks flapping against the tile. I manage to hold myself up with the handicap bars. Yes, I ran to the handicap stall to die, sue me. I keep my hand on the black and white stall walls as I make my way to the sink. I lean on the cheap porcelain, gathering and composing every last shred of myself.

I hate this.

One moment, you're fine and peachy. The next, you're emptying your entire gut of all nutrients. My hands are cracked and dry. The chipped, black nails that drive me insane are there too. I really need to fix that. I look up and, in nice words, am greeted with the most disheveled looking teenager you've ever seen. I would have cared, if I wasn't so exhausted. These past months have been rough, but hey, that's highschool. Or some cheesy shit like that.

I walk out of the bathroom into Sophomore hall. The blue lockers are all different, changes of shade reveal the new from the old ones. The school got new ones before I was even in highschool. There are stray kids at them, some hurrying, some not. It's midday, 4th period, and each tells anyone with eyes completely different stories. At locker 206, there is a blonde boy who was on his phone, snapping back his girlfriend. But upon closer inspection, he was hiding a juul stick behind his phone. Effective for a hall monitor, however, I've done the same thing. So, better luck next time, babes. Next up, we have the brunette at locker 239. She is in a rush, or at least I think. The back wall of her locker has a mirror suspended, reflecting back a beautiful, fair-skinned girl. Her thick, shoulder-length hair drapes over a nice round, yet toned, face. She is perfect. 239 even has an agenda-whiteboard on the door. "A.P. Calc Exam" written out for Friday. Pretty and smart. Interesting. Not something you see a lot here at Soldry High. Or at least, not something I see often. I've always been aware of an elite level of students in the school, but they are usually too busy with honor societies, student council meetings running into other periods, and getting the teachers off topic during class because their only personality is being a secret deviant. No, I don't hate all the preppies, but I have good reason to be bitter. Why? Simply because. Not 239 though, she was gorgeous and looked like someone I would love to ki-woah. Excuse me, inner monologue, I seem to have forgotten that I just hurled my entire gut out. Anyways…moving on from 239, we have 268.

268 has another girl at it. She's in an obvious rush and when I get closer she takes notice of me. "Hey, Emma!" What the hell? She knows who I am? Well that's too bad 'cus I got nothing for her. "Hey! You doing okay?" I ask, walking back to the lab to save Maggie from her inevitable "F" for today's participation. She never knows what to do. I'm the only reason why she is passing. Sometimes I fantasize of skipping fourth to watch her crash and burn from afar. But, chem is the only class I really like, so she wins those credits. "Uhh," 268 looks down and fingers through the color-coded binders on the bottom of her locker. "Yeah, I just had a morning. Y'know?" No, I have no idea what you are talking about. But I figured I would amuse her, "Yeah, I hear ya." I make my way around the corner that her locker is close to. My locker, set in a perpetual state of peer-pressure from the lack of membership posters stamped on it, is number 282. Poor thing. I refused to join the vex team this year so, unlike the normal one poster, this one has been barren since August.

I enter the three numbers that hide all of my personal belongings from the world and stare at the chipped, blue paint in the back. As the metal unlatches I notice my head is pounding. The pain starts behind my eyes and it progressively moves to the top of my head. Reaching up to the illegally kept Ibuprofen in the back top section of my locker, I down a double-dose of what is recommended, grab my art folder, and head back to the chem lab. Walking down the halls isn't so bad when all you have to tolerate are stray kids playing on their phones playing hooky. I get to the chem door and knock once, my signature move that my teachers are well familiar with.

At the very beginning of the school year, I had made the glorious decision to break my left pinky in a skateboarding accident - don't ask me how - and had several complications. Partnered with my awful upkeep, the swells would sometimes burst and cause a bloody mess. It was two whole months of extra recovery time. The trips to the nurse for band-aids and wraps was never-ending and painfully frequent. The eyeroll I would get from my teachers in my mid-day classes, upon entering late, was the best thing ever.

I see the boy who sits closest to the door get up to open it for me. He does and I shut it behind me. I take about two steps and then-