My mother pulled an old school photograph from the envelope.
A group of teenagers stood in the picture. In the center was a girl named Jessica. I remembered her. She had been the first person to call me a witch.
Beside her stood a thin, dark-haired boy.
At first, I didn’t recognize him.
Then I noticed his eyes.
The same gray eyes I had woken up beside every morning for eight years.
The photograph slipped from my hand.
“No…”
Michael lowered his head.
“My name was Michael Bennett back then,” he said. “After my mother remarried, I took my stepfather’s last name. I became Michael Reed.”
I stepped backward.
“You were there.”
“Yes.”
“You recognized me from the very first day we met?”
He silently nodded.
It felt as though the walls of the room were collapsing around me.
My mother began to cry.
That day, Jessica and her friends had locked me inside the locker room. They took my bag, drew pictures on my face, and laughed at me.
