His Broken Angel's Dying Secret

The heavy rubber doors of the yellow school bus folded open with a loud hiss.

Claire Hansen stepped down onto the concrete of the Port Sterling High parking lot.

The crisp autumn wind hit her instantly. She shivered and pulled the edges of her oversized knit sweater tightly across her chest.

She used the motion of adjusting her heavy backpack to press the heel of her hand hard against her stomach.

A dull, throbbing ache radiated behind her ribs.

She swallowed hard. The metallic taste of the anti-cancer medication she took that morning rose in the back of her throat.

She forced the nausea down. She could not throw up on her first day.

Claire caught her reflection in the dark glass of the bus window. She paused.

She checked her cheeks in the reflection. She had carefully blended a soft, subtle layer of peach blush across her cheekbones. It was just enough artificial color to successfully hide the dead, translucent pallor of her skin without drawing any unwanted attention to her face.

She took a slow, shallow breath. She forced the corners of her mouth up into a sweet, harmless smile.

She turned and walked toward the loud, crowded brick building.

The main hallway was a chaotic tunnel of slamming metal locker doors and shouting teenagers.

Claire kept her head down and her smile fixed. She pushed through the crowd until she found the main office.

The secretary behind the desk took one look at her transfer papers and smiled warmly.

"Straight A's across the board," the secretary said, handing over a printed schedule and a locker combination. "We love having model students like you at Port Sterling, Claire."

"Thank you," Claire said softly.

She turned to leave. A sudden wave of dizziness hit the back of her skull.

Her vision blurred for a fraction of a second. She reached out and gripped the wooden doorframe to steady herself.

She waited for the hallway to stop spinning. Then she let go and walked to her locker.

Her fingers trembled slightly from weakness as she spun the metal dial. The lock clicked, but the old door stuck.

A girl with bright blonde hair leaned over and smacked the top of the locker with the base of her palm. The door popped open.

"You have to hit it right on the hinge," the girl said. "I'm Willow Carpenter."

"Claire," she replied, placing her notebooks inside.

Willow immediately launched into a rapid-fire breakdown of the school's social hierarchy. She pointed out the football players, the cheerleaders, and the kids to avoid.

The loud, shrill sound of the warning bell cut Willow off mid-sentence.

"I have to get to AP Literature," Claire said.

She navigated the crowded halls until she found room 204.

Claire pushed the wooden door open. The loud chatter inside the classroom died instantly.

Every head turned to look at her.

Mr. Cecil York, an older man with a gray beard, stood at the front of the room. He motioned