It's been a week since my suspension and I'm glad I made it through without an incident. The day began like any other, a routine that was starting to feel almost normal. I walked into school wearing my new clothes—jeans that actually fit right and a crisp white shirt Mrs. Blake had ironed for me the night before. I held my head a little higher than before, even if my stomach still fluttered with nerves.

Classes passed uneventfully. I focused on my work, keeping my head down, but in history class, something strange happened: I raised my hand. When the teacher called on me, I answered correctly about the causes of the Civil War. My cheeks flushed when I heard a murmur of approval from a couple of classmates.

It wasn't until the afternoon, just before the final period, that the day took a turn. I headed to the bathroom, clutching my notebook tightly. I'd been hoping to avoid the crowded hallways, which always felt too loud and too suffocating. The door creaked as I pushed it open, and the sound of laughter and chatter met me.

Inside stood a group of girls, huddled around the sink. They were laughing in that easy, carefree way that made it seem like nothing in the world could touch them. When I stepped in, they all stopped talking and turned to look at me.

"Hey, you're Emily, right?" one of them said, stepping forward. She had dark hair pulled into a sleek ponytail, and there was something about the way she carried herself—confident, like she belonged everywhere she went.

"Yeah," I said, feeling flattered and nervous all at once.

"I've seen you around," she said. "I'm Tasha. These are my friends, Mia and Lexi."

The other girls nodded, giving me small, friendly waves. Tasha's gaze lingered on me, and I felt my face heat up.

"You seem cool," Tasha said. "We were just hanging out. Want to join us?"

The way they smiled at me was disarming, and for a moment, I didn't know what to say. It wasn't often that I got invited into anything, much less something like this. I nodded, leaning against the sink and clutching my notebook like a shield.

The conversation flowed easily, though I felt like I was treading water, trying to keep up. They talked about classes, boys, and weekend plans, their voices overlapping with easy familiarity. I chimed in here and there, hesitant at first, but then more confidently when Tasha laughed at one of my jokes about Mr. Yates's monotone lectures. The knot in my stomach loosened, and for a moment, I felt like I belonged.

Then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, Tasha reached into her bag and pulled out a cigarette. She lit it with a flick of her lighter, the sharp smell of smoke filling the small bathroom. My stomach tightened as I watched her take a long drag before passing it to Mia.

The cigarette made its way around the circle. Each girl took a puff like it was no big deal, like it was something they did every day. When it landed back in Tasha's hand, she turned to me, holding it out with a sly smile.

"Want to try?" she asked.

My heart thudded painfully in my chest. I glanced at the cigarette, then back at Tasha's expectant face. "I don't know..." I stammered, trying to buy time. The room felt smaller, the smoke thicker, and the weight of their stares heavier than I could handle.

"Come on," Tasha urged. "It's not a big deal. Just one puff. Everyone does it."

The other girls giggled, their eyes fixed on me. I felt my palms grow clammy as I hesitated. The fear of being the odd one out gripped me tighter than my common sense. Slowly, almost without realizing what I was doing, I reached out and took the cigarette from Tasha's hand.

It felt foreign and wrong in my fingers. I stared at it, trying to steady my breathing. "What do I... how do I...?"

Lexi chuckled. "You just breathe in a little and then blow it out. Easy."

I brought the cigarette to my lips, my hand trembling. The room seemed to hold its breath along with me. I took the smallest drag, and immediately, the acrid smoke hit the back of my throat. I coughed violently, doubling over as tears sprang to my eyes. The girls burst into laughter, and Tasha clapped me on the back.

"Not bad for a first try," she said, grinning. "You'll get the hang of it."

I forced a weak smile, my throat still burning. I held the cigarette awkwardly, unsure of what to do with it next, when the door swung open with a loud creak.

Mrs. Harrison, one of the hall monitors, stood in the doorway. Her sharp eyes scanned the scene, taking in the girls, the smoke, and the cigarette still in my hand. My stomach dropped.

"Emily Saunders," she said, her voice cold and clipped. "What exactly is going on here?"

Panic surged through me. The other girls moved quickly, their hands darting to hide the other cigarettes behind their backs. Tasha leaned casually against the sink, as though nothing was out of the ordinary. But I stood frozen, my eyes wide and my hand still holding the evidence.

Mrs. Harrison stepped further into the bathroom, her eyes narrowing. "Put that out," she snapped, pointing to the cigarette in my hand. "Now."

My fingers fumbled as I dropped it into the sink, hastily running water over it. The sizzle of the extinguished ember echoed in the sudden silence.

"Everyone, out," Mrs. Harrison ordered, her gaze sweeping over the group. Her tone brooked no argument.

The other girls filed out quickly, murmuring apologies as they brushed past her. Tasha gave me a brief look—a mix of pity and amusement—before disappearing out the door. I stayed rooted to the spot, my stomach churning.

Mrs. Harrison didn't say anything for a long moment. Finally, she sighed, her expression softening just slightly. "Emily, what were you thinking?" she asked, her voice quieter now but still firm.

"I... I don't know," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. My throat felt tight, and I could feel tears threatening to spill over.

She shook her head. "come with me" she said.

The walk to the principal's office felt like a death march. My heart pounded in my chest, and my palms were slick with sweat as I followed the teacher down the hall. Every step seemed to echo, each one dragging me closer to the inevitable lecture I knew was coming. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed faintly, casting a harsh glare that made the polished linoleum floor gleam like ice. It felt like the entire school was watching, even though the hallway was nearly empty.

When we reached the office, Mr. Peterson was already waiting. He stood by the door, his arms crossed, and his expression was a mix of disappointment and frustration. His neatly pressed suit and perfectly combed hair only made me feel more disheveled and out of place.

"Emily, come in," he said, his voice calm but firm. The kind of voice that didn't need to shout to make you feel small.

I stepped inside, the door clicking shut behind me. The room felt colder than it had the last time I was here, the faint smell of lemon cleaner lingering in the air. Mr. Peterson's desk was impeccably organized, with neatly stacked papers, a nameplate, and a small potted plant that looked as disciplined as he was. The chair across from him felt more like a throne of judgment than a place to sit, but I sank into it anyway, avoiding his gaze.

He settled into his own chair, folding his hands on the desk, and let the silence stretch for what felt like forever before he spoke. The ticking of the wall clock behind him filled the void, each second adding to the weight in my chest.

"Emily, I'm going to be honest with you. I'm very disappointed to see you here again so soon after your suspension. Can you explain what happened?"

I swallowed hard, my throat dry. "I was in the bathroom, and some girls were there. They... they offered me a cigarette, and I..." My voice trailed off, the words sticking in my throat. Saying it out loud made it sound even worse, like I was trying to excuse something inexcusable.

Mr. Peterson sighed, leaning back in his chair. "Emily, I know you've been through a lot recently, but making choices like this is not the way to handle things. Smoking on school property is a serious violation of the rules, not to mention extremely unhealthy. Do you understand that?"

I nodded, my eyes fixed on the edge of his desk. "Yes, sir."

"And do you also understand the position this puts you in?" he continued. "You're already on thin ice after the incident with Trevor. This kind of behavior is only going to make things harder for you."

Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes, and I wiped them away quickly, hoping he wouldn't notice. "I'm sorry," I whispered, my voice barely audible.

Mr. Peterson's expression softened slightly, a flicker of empathy breaking through his stern demeanor. "I believe you, Emily. But 'sorry' isn't enough. What matters is how you move forward from this. You need to make better decisions, not just for yourself but for the people who are trying to support you."

I nodded again, my throat too tight to speak. His words hit harder than I expected, each one a reminder of how much I was letting everyone down.

He tapped a pen against his desk, the rhythmic clicking filling the silence as he seemed to consider his next words carefully. "Here's what we're going to do. I'm not going to suspend you this time, but there will be consequences. You'll spend the rest of the week in after-school detention, and I want you to write a reflection about what happened today and how you plan to make better choices in the future. I'll expect it on my desk by Friday."

"Okay," I said quietly, relief and dread washing over me in equal measure. Detention wasn't as bad as suspension, but the thought of sitting in that silent room every day for a week felt like a heavy chain around my neck.

"And one more thing," he added, his tone shifting slightly. "I'll be reaching out to Mrs. Blake to let her know about this incident. She's been a strong advocate for you, and I think it's important she knows what's going on."

My stomach sank at the mention of Mrs. Blake. Disappointing her felt worse than anything Mr. Peterson could say. She had been one of the few people who believed in me when it felt like no one else did.

"Emily," Mr. Peterson said, his tone gentler now. "I know you're trying to figure things out, and I'm rooting for you. But you need to take responsibility for your actions. Can you do that?"

"Yes, sir," I said, finally meeting his eyes. The disappointment in them was hard to face, but there was also a glimmer of hope, like he was giving me one last chance.

He nodded and stood, signaling the end of our conversation. "All right. You can go now. Remember, detention starts tomorrow. Don't let me see you in here again for something like this."

"I won't," I promised, though the words felt hollow in the moment. They were just words, and I knew actions were what mattered.

As I left the office, my mind raced with thoughts of what Mrs. Blake would say when she found out. The sting of guilt was sharp, like a thorn pressing into my side, but beneath it was a small ember of determination. I had to do better. Not just for her, but for myself. Somewhere deep down, I knew this was my wake-up call, and I couldn't afford to ignore it.