ra Vance, was a

whisper that barely carried over the scratching of pencils in our AP Histor

nd keep my eyes

oodie that probably came from a church donation bin. Her hair was a tangled mess, and she c

her stories. Stories of a sprawling mansion with a personal steam shower, of designer clothes her mother bought h

e saw digging through the cafete

y t-shirt in the girls' locker room sink, scrubbi

ted her like a bug to be squashed. They'd laugh when she walked

ilt her fantasy walls higher. Her lies weren't just lies