Kill Switch by Penelope Douglas

together this afternoon, too, kind of comforted me. Like I had
a place.
Lunch. I let out a breath. It was the part I was dreading the
most. Even though the entire morning so far was a running
contest for “most awkward.”
The whispers in Algebra.
The awkward silence in French.
The laughter in the science lab when the class president
introduced herself and offered to be of any help she could in a
really loud voice like I was deaf instead of blind.
The nervous verbal exchange with the P.E. teacher who’d
forgotten to accommodate for me in her basketball lesson plan,
so she ended up putting me on the treadmill for thirty minutes
all by myself.
It was to be expected, I guess. I was the only visually
impaired student, and I was the mayor’s daughter. People were
curious, while others were just unaware or flustered as to how
to interact with me. I supposed the learning curve applied to us
all.
“Whoo-hoo!” Loud shouts descended down the hall, and I
turned toward the noise, hearing a door swing open and closed
a few times as it banged the wall.
Students jostled on both sides of me, squeezing between
me and Rika and forcing us farther apart as they tried to get to
wherever they were going.
Finally, she took my hand, leading me away. She hadn’t
taken my hand all morning, and my mother had made her
aware that I didn’t really like that. I preferred to hold on to
them, not the other way around.
Plus, it made me feel like a kid.
“Ow, ow, ow!” someone howled, and I jerked my head
toward the noise, wondering what was going on. It was lot
noisier at this school.
My thumb brushed the cuff of Rika’s shirt as she held my
hand in her slender one, and I continued my slow steps