I picked up my smooshed timetable – wrinkled because I’d sat on it – and left. He was clearly asking me to leave, and I was too scared not to, even if it meant missing the great clothes-changing. I glanced down my timetable as I walked to the cafeteria – the only building I remembered seeing – and my heart stopped. My world was over. I fell to my knees and yelled out loud.

“No!” I screamed, my voice echoing in the courtyard. A couple good-looking boys passing stared at me as if I was a freak, but I didn’t care. My world was over. I had to go home. I took out my iPhone and dialed the number that would save me.

“Kris?” I yelled, as soon as he picked up.

“Yoongie, you don’t have to-“

“You sick son of a , get me out of here! You never told me!”

“Honey, calm down. What’s wrong?”

“YOU HAVE TO ACTUALLY LEARN IN THIS SCHOOL!” I screamed, my voice coming out in one long whine. I couldn’t help it. I was stressing bad.

“What?”

“DID YOU EVEN LOOK AT MY TIMETABLE?!”

“No…but I thought it would be-“

“It’s not just the Performing Arts, and so it suggest in the title! I would be fine with the Arts! BUT I HAVE CALCULUS!”

“Oh…honey, I’m so sorry, I didn’t…”

I hung up, and threw my iPhone away from me. I was fuming. I can’t handle school – I dropped out when I was sixteen to pursue my dream. I even divorced my parents. I’m supposed to be independent, and independency does not involve school!

I coll