Who would have written in my journal but me? But that's my hand writing...or is it?

I rip the page out and crumple it in my hand. I judge the shot and SWISH! well, not actually, but I do make the garbage can basket. This immediately makes me feel cool, even if it's just for a moment.

I settle back in my chair as I clear my mind and just write...

44 minutes later, the bell rings, and once again we are herded like cattle to our classes. Moooo!

I hear Andrew's laugh, and I hear him mutter, "Moo," under his breath. I whip my head around, but I don't see him anywhere. I continue walking, slightly weirded out by this feeling that I am being watched.

I make it into fourth period with no other sign of Andrew, until, "Class, we have a new student. This is Andrew."

"Sh*t!"

"Rose! Watch it! At least pretend to be normal.We don't want to scare off the new student."

I mummble to myself about what I'd really like to do to the new student, but I pull out my notebook again, and as I'm about to go over what I had just written I feel a tap on my shoulder.

"Did you get my poem?"

Of course it's from Andrew. But how was it in MY handwriting? He just laughs and looks forward, and then i begin to hear them. There are voices in my head. Well, one voice. I push it to the back of my mind, reading over the page I wrote last period.

Beware the bright eyed stranger;
He knows not the sorrow he brings.
Keep that which you value most away;
or His "help" will lose these things.

I'm puzzled, until I reread it. D*mn. It's right. Andrew equals stranger. I held his hand, and he took my scars. Well, isn't this dandy.

I hear the voice again, "What do you want Andrew!" I snap at that buzzing person in the back of my brain.

"I'm sorry."

I write a note, "Don't be, you were only trying to help. I need you to explain what the h*ll is going on though."

He responds, "It's only fair."

It's my handwriting.