"Seriously, who can't afford one extra year of retaking the SATs these days? You just had to be a show-off and upset poor Loretta!"
When I opened my eyes again, I was back on the day Loretta Fox was slipping pink pens into our classmates' pencil cases, one by one.
...
The day before the SATs, the classroom was quiet. Most students had gone home for last-minute prep. Only a handful remained, hunched over practice problems.
I lay slumped across my desk with my eyes half-shut, tracking the figure creeping through the classroom with the edge of my vision. Loretta Fox.
She moved in a low crouch, tiptoeing between the rows of desks.
At each seat, she unzipped the pencil case, slid out the black pen, and tucked a pink one printed with a strawberry bear in its place.
Henry Delgado, her childhood sweetheart, stood lookout at the door, watching her with an indulgent grin.
This was her idea of a surprise.
In my previous life, the moment I noticed, I stopped her and went out to buy a whole box of black pens for the class.
And what did I get for it?
Not a single thank-you. Instead, every last one of them pinned the blame on me, accusing me of ruining Loretta's generous gesture.