They call her “Crazy Cassie.” I'm not sure who started calling her that or when the name first stuck, but it did. I sat at my desk and glanced in her direction. Her foot tapped relentlessly against the drab gray carpet of the classroom. She shivered, and her rhythm stumbled, but then she picked it right back up. Her ebony hair dripped from her scalp like an oil spill, and her eyes, just as dark, sagged. Her pale skin seemed almost translucent, and her thin lips were cracked and bloody.

The other 7th graders and I always speculate on why she is the way she is. The general consensus is that she’s sick with something. We all sat as far away from her as we could, just in case we were right.

I took pity on her, though. I showed her kindness, even if only from a distance. Despite the filth, she was very beautiful, and I've never seen her hurt a fly.

Today, I decided I wanted to solve the mystery behind Crazy Cassie. I decided I would finally talk to her and figure out the answer to the question we all wanted to ask.

The bell rang, and I was out of my seat twenty seconds later. I picked up my backpack and strode towards her. I tried to plaster on a friendly face, but I'm not sure if it hid my apprehension. Before I could even reach her, she was gone like a ghost. She practically ran out the door and through the old corridor.

“Cra- I mean, Cassie! Wait up,” I raised my voice so she could hear. I took long strides after her, almost running but not quite. Perhaps she didn’t hear, or perhaps she didn’t want to hear. Soon she disappeared within a sea of students all trying to escape from the school. Still, I persisted. I finally made it out of the heavy double doors and spotted her down the road.

I followed after her, this time sprinting. She looked back at me, and her face drained of the little color it held. She broke into a run as well.

I huffed as I closed the distance and finally caught up to the unathletic girl. I tugged on the strap of her bag. She stumbled back and fell.

“I just wanted to ask you something,” I said, heaving while helping her steady herself. She was frightened, but I eventually got her to calm down. I looked into her big sleepy eyes and took a breath.

“Why are you like this?”

My name is Cassandra. I hear the whispers and rumors that surround me, but I don’t care for them that much. If they knew, they’d understand, but I won’t tell. The boy that always stares at me in class chased me down today.

He asked me, “Why are you like this?” And today, and only today, did I answer.

“I see things I'm not supposed to see. That's why I can see you.”