I'm Not Her

I’m Not Her

JL Paul

Copyright © 2014 JL Paul Smashwords Edition

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

All characters in this book are entirely imaginary and any resemblance to persons living or dead or actual events is purely coincidental.

Chapter One

September, present.

The first day of school.

Senior year.

Finally, freedom was around the corner.

But I wasn’t all that enthused. I had no desire to participate in the fun and exciting events that were to take place throughout the year. I could care less about Homecoming or pep rallies or basketball games. I just wanted to finish – get it over with.

Ugh.

I drove into the back lot of Stonewall Academy. Fancy name for a not so fancy school. Oh, it was small and nice – a lot nicer than some of the public schools in my old hometown, but nowhere near as fancy as my former high school. Not that it mattered much. School was school.

After finding a parking spot, I exited my car, hoisting my new backpack over my shoulder. It was purple, a deep, pretty purple, and it contained all the standard new supplies that students require on the first day.

Sighing, I brushed the hair out of my face as I ducked my head and marched inside. I’d thought for sure that the day would be dark and dank and rainy. Never had I expected the first day of school to bright and sunny and warm. It was supposed to be grim.

Swiping at the navy skirt my mother had had to purchase as part of the Stonewall Academy uniform, I adjusted my navy blazer with the Stonewall crest right above my left breast. At least the required knee socks were navy…

I rolled my eyes.

Heads turned and chatter grew as I walked into the building. A new student on the first day of school usually drew lots of attention – especially in a tiny town and an even tinier high school.

The school wasn’t quite full yet, although there was a din of slamming lockers echoing throughout the halls. A distinct smell of fresh paint hit my nose as I walked toward the administrative office, following the paper sign posted on the walls to direct freshmen and new students.

I turned a corner, walking as close to the wall as possible, and followed the arrows. Early arrivers turned to stare, open-mouthed, at me but I refused to make eye contact. I didn’t want to make friends. Making friends meant talking and talking meant confiding. What would any of these kids say if they knew my most desperate, dark secret?

They’d be scared. And rightly so. I was scared, too.

When I arrived at my destination, I pushed open the glass door and joined the other students lined up in front of the tall, reception desk. A harried, middle-aged woman, smiled as she answered questions the best she could, addressing each student as honey or sweetie. She paused every few minutes to answer a phone call, her voice sugary sweet and astonishingly genuine.

After consulting the schedule of the rather short freshman in front of me and sending him on his way, she smiled at me, the wrinkles around her eyes warming her appearance.

Hi, honey, she said. What can I help you with today?

Clearing my throat, I set my backpack on the counter, digging the slip of paper out of the front pocket. I handed it to her, a slight tremble in my fingers.

I’m supposed to meet with Mrs. Williams, I said. I’m Rachel Hanin.

Okay, Miss Hanin, the receptionist said, lifting the phone receiver. Have a seat. I’ll let Mrs. Williams know you’re here.

I sat on one of the hard, plastic chairs, my backpack between my feet. The office wall that faced the corridors was entirely made of glass, giving both the occupants and the passersby full view of each other. The busses must have arrived for the halls were growing more crowded and the gapers were many.

Miss Hanin.

My head snapped to the desk where the receptionist stood, smiling. Opening the half door, she indicated that I should follow her. I did so, feeling as if I was marching toward a judge and jury. Would I be sentenced? Or set free?

In here, the receptionist said as she tapped on a door and opened it. I stepped past her and into a small, neat office with a large bookshelf full of books.

The door shut behind me as a tall, beautiful African-American woman stood behind the desk. She had to be in her mid to late forties but her dark brown skin was smooth and her eyes were warm. Her tailored business suit wasn’t snobby or uppity, but professional and casual. She extended a hand across the desk, a genuine smile on her face.

Hi, Rachel. I’m Mrs. Williams.

I shook her hand, some of the anxiety fleeing my stomach.

Please, have a seat, she said, gesturing at a chair in front of the desk. We both sat, me clutching my backpack. She opened a file on her orderly desk and folded her hands on top of it. I know you’re probably very nervous about being here, and I understand that. I don’t, however, understand what you’ve gone through. I’d never presume to know what you’ve been feeling for the past four months.

I nodded, swallowing hard.

I have received reports from your former principal and from your psychologist, and they’ve both stated that you bear no responsibility for what happened in April.

Once again, I nodded. I’d been through this spiel before.

I’d like you to know that the only people who know about…the incident are myself, my assistant principal, and the guidance counselor. I don’t mean that no one knows what happened – I’m sure the entire country does – but, only the three people I mentioned know who you are. I’m not saying that some of the students won’t recognize you or your name. They might. And you need to be prepared for that. But, I want you to know that, if you have any problems, please see me right away.

Okay. Thanks, I muttered.

Rachel, she said, leaning forward. I want the same thing that you and your mother wants – for you to have a normal school year.

I nodded, my neck beginning to ache a bit from all the head bobbing.

Please, Rachel, give yourself a chance, she continued. You’re young and have your future to think of. I’d like to see you get involved in clubs or activities. I see that, at your prior high school, you were active in student government, played volleyball, and were inducted into the National Honor Society. You participated in a mentoring program and headed a book drive last Christmas. Impressive.

Everything she’d mentioned seemed far away – as if someone else had done it in another life.

Maybe you don’t want to participate in the same things, but perhaps you’ll find something here that will inspire you.

Okay, I said, fidgeting. The first bell sounded, increasing my anxiety. The last thing I needed was to walk into a class, late. Every single eye would be on me, judging my clothes (even though I was dressed in the standard Stonewall Academy uniform), my shoes, my hair style. I wanted to get to class early and select a seat in the back, where it was safe.

Would you like a guide to show you around school? she asked. We have student ambassadors that assist the freshmen and the new students…

No, I interrupted with a weak smile. But, thanks.

Okay, she said, leaning back in her chair. Well, then, I suppose you should go find your first class. Just remember that I’m here if you should need me.

Thank you, I said, jumping to my feet.

I practically fled her office, hurrying through the door and entering the throng of students greeting their friends or opening their lockers.

The school was much, much smaller than my last school. It was two floors with a library smack dab in the middle of the first floor. An addition had been added in the past few years where the foreign language and social studies classes were held.

On the second floor, in the center, were the science classes with a fairly new lab accessible to all classes.

It was a nice, clean school with large windows and gleaming white boards. The teachers wore skirts or dress shirts. The cafeteria had a salad bar. The bathrooms were free from graffiti – or, it had been cleaned off during the summer (hard to say).

My first class was AP Econ. I found the room easily enough and slipped through the door, scurrying to the back of the room. Settling at a desk, I observed my classmates, noticing that they weren’t all that different from the kids at my old school. The only difference I noted was that everyone was required to wear a uniform.

Mr. Barringher, the Econ teacher, shut the door as soon as the bell rang and started to call role. When he reached my name, every head turned to gawk at me when I raised my hand. I stared back until eyes dropped and returned to the front of the classroom.

A skinny boy with short, cropped hair and thick glasses blushed as his eyes met mine. He looked to be about twelve and his uniform pants had ridden up his leg enough to reveal scrunched, navy socks and skinny ankles. He fiddled with the large watch on his thin wrist as Mr. Barringher began going over the classroom rules and the syllabus. Opening a new notebook, I copied the rules in neat handwriting. Some habits die hard.

Every class was the same – rules, syllabus, course aims. Several familiar faces popped up in some of my classes which shouldn’t have been surprising. It really was a small school.

Lunch time was awkward. Never before had I been faced with the problem of figuring out where to sit. My old life was full of friends and acquaintances and a rowdy, loud cafeteria table had never been hard to find. But now, after purchasing my lunch, I stood, tray in hand, surveying a sea of strange faces. I considered being extremely pathetic and eating in the bathroom or something, but decided against it. Instead, I carried my tray to a table with an empty end. At the other end sat the skinny boy with the glasses, and a rotund boy with shaggy hair that I’d recognized from my Literature class.

I sat, opening my carton of milk, watching the boys from the corner of my eye. Both faces had reddened as they toyed with the fruit on their trays.

Gazing around the cafeteria, I tried to figure out the caste system. There didn’t seem to be a ‘popular’ crowd or a reject table, unless, of course, I was sitting at the reject table. The possibility was real.

There were several tables loaded with boisterous boys, boasting loudly about their summer exploits. Other tables featured girls gossiping, comparing nail polish, raving over some boy band or actor.

Yeah, it was the same as my old school, except, I wasn’t part of any of it.

Excuse me, do you mind if I pop a squat?

Looking up, I attempted a smile at a pretty girl with curly blonde hair and expressive blue eyes.

Sure, I said.

She sat across from me setting her tray down. She didn’t have much, just a carton of juice, an apple, a banana, and a cookie. Opening her juice, she took a short sip.

You’re Rachel. You’re in my Spanish class. Hola, she said, grinning.

I grinned back. And you are?

Chantal, she said setting her juice on the tray. She carefully peeled her banana and then used her plastic knife to cut it into small chunks. Chantal Phennel. I’m the school nutcase.

I lifted a brow. What?

She shrugged as she popped a piece of banana in her mouth. Well, it’s not official or anything, but everyone thinks I’m weird. I thought I’d tell you myself before anyone else does. It’s better that way.

I don’t think you’re weird, I said as she sawed at her apple with the knife, cutting little chunks as she had with her banana.

Thanks, she smiled. But you don’t know me well.

I suppose you have me there, I said.

Where you from? she asked.

Southern part of the state, I said. I like it here, though. Small towns are charming.

She snorted. Small towns are boring. There’s nothing to do unless you drive to the lake. You can only really do that when the weather is warm.

Oh, I said. I picked up my ham sandwich and took a bite. It wasn’t bad at all – actually really good.

I know it’s tough for new people so I’ll be happy to help you out, she continued to rant, selecting a chunk of apple and popping it into her mouth. She chewed carefully and for a long time, finally swallowing and taking her time selecting another chunk.

I have issues, she said when she spotted me staring. She shrugged. See, the school weirdo.

Everyone has issues, I said, returning to my sandwich. Some people just hide them better than others.

I’m not hiding my issues, she said, talking a tiny sip of her juice. I don’t care what other people think.

I wished I could share her views, but I was a coward. I couldn’t even face up to what had happened in April. I couldn’t talk about it, not even to my shrink, and I couldn’t accept my responsibility, but that was only because everyone kept saying it wasn’t my fault.

She was my twin. I knew her better than anyone else. She confided in me her deepest secrets. So, how hadn’t I known?

So, are you here of your own, free will, or are they making you come here? Chantal asked.

Blinking, I stared at her, sandwich paused in midair. What?

Shrugging, she carefully selected a piece of banana. Sometimes, people are sent here when they don’t do well at other schools. Or, if they get into trouble. Not horrible trouble, mind you, but for minor things. I guess the powers that be think that if they rip a teenager from his or her friends – the ones who are supposedly a bad influence – and stick them here, it reforms them. Or, something like that.

I… I muttered. No, I just came here. My mom thought it was a good school.

Chantal nodded. It is. There are only a few nutcases here. I’m one of them, obviously.

I was starting to believe her.

But, most of the people are okay. You have to apply and stuff, you know, she said.

Actually, I hadn’t known. I’d had no control over my academic life since April. I’d been pulled out of my school after the incident and had home schooled for the remainder of my junior year. It was only when my mother announced that we were moving over the summer did she finally tell me where I’d be going to school.

You must be a good student, Chantal continued, taking another of her tiny sips. You have to be a good student. Even us nutcases have to be good students.

Shaking my head, I couldn’t clear the confusion. What did she mean?

I set my sandwich on my tray and nibbled a carrot stick, making a mental list of questions for my mother.

Oh, it’s almost time to go, Chantal announced, counting the chunks of fruit she had left. She popped another chunk of apple into her mouth before standing, taking tray in hand. "What