Quiet Girl.

I am the quiet girl. Has anyone seen Dehlia? Who? You know, the quiet girl.

I am a shell. Pretty to look at,  but empty.

I am Dehlia Vertoulli, and I am of little consequence.

Monday, January 5th.

Everyone hugs in the halls after the long winter holiday. They present late gifts to each other. They remark on the new clothes and hairstyles. They smile. And I put my bag in my locker, grab my books, and head to class.

"Ms. Vertoulli," Mr. Deschampes exclaims, "You're here early."

I nod and take my seat. I deftly lay out my books, papers, and calculator. "Sir, could you run through DeMoivre's theorem once more?"

As students filter in, I feel more and more pairs of eyes on me. I glance up, and they glance down. They know what's happened. Surely, not from my family, or lack there of. But from the EMT's daughter or the coroners wife. That's how these things work, even when you're a nobody.

After the lesson, I ask to go to the library.

I sit among the rows of our schools vast library, slip on some headphones, and slip away from this world, untill the bell jerks me back.

Spanish.

"Senorita Vertoulli, dónde está tu libro español?"

"No se, se me olvidó." I seem to forget a lot of things lately.

Senorita Frank tuts and tell me to grab one from the cabinet in the back of the room. I catch more wayward glances.

I am studious. I have a 3.9 GPA. My ACT put me at a solid 29. Yet, I cannot remember the lunch I packed last night. It sits in a brown paper bag, on the top shelf in the fridge. And I sit in the corner of the lunchroom, eight feet from the nearest person, with an apple and half a bottle of Mango Melon Sobe.

That evening I tossed my winter coat on the couch, ate what was supposed to be my lunch, grabbed my backpack and headed down to the lake. 

When I say lake, I mean lake. I takes about three hours to walk around it. We... I have a small boat with an outboard motor, only 15hp, on a dock just down the hill from the back door. It's nice. I begin walking to the west and stop under a nice hickory. I pull out my homework, headphones and sketchbook and get to work.

By the time my iPod dies, the sun is setting and my fingers are turning red. I pack up and head home. Lucky for me, just as I'm settled inside a silver Cadillac pulls up outside. I try to make is look like I've been inside for hours, flipping on lights, kicking my shoes off, setting my laptop up in the kitchen, so that Lana won't know I've been down by the lake. When my ruse is comfortingly set up, I hear the doorbell sound.

The door opens before I have a chance to do it myself. "Hello, Lana."

"You really should have that locked when you're by yourself, dear," the 5'11" Osage Indian woman says.

"It's good to see you too."

"Yes, yes. So, how was the first day back?"

I ignore her question and gesture to the couch, "Care to come in?" She bustles her grey pant-suited self in and sinks into what was my father's chair by the fireplace. "Would you care for something to drink? Milk, juice, water?" I amble into the kitchen.

"Water would be great, dear, thank you." Her voice is flat, like she is reading a script for the first time. I return with water and ice in a tall glass and a bottle of Sunny D for myself. "So, Dehlia, how was the first day back."