Disclaimer: I do not own Speak. The author of Speak is Laurie Halse Anderson.

Author note: Hello readers! As you can see I really enjoy Speak, (hint: fan fiction) I love the format of it, the style and the witty, dark humor. I'm aiming to write a good, interesting, and funny, part 2 to the original book of Speak, and this is my attempt. Please review.

WELCOME BACK MERRYWEATHER HIGH

It is my first morning of high school. My sophomore year. I have seven new notebooks, a sketch- pad, charcoal pencils, and a mild stomachache.

Its weird not having to wait at my corner for the wheezing school bus. I grew fond of it. It was the one thing that never let me down. It always showed up at eight 'o clock time, never changed its route, or took a detour, always went the same path. Pretty predictable. Too bad I'm not referring to my life.

Mom decides it best to escort me to school today. She's worried.

I want to tell her I'm fine. I can take the bus, go on to work, they need her, but I don't. I can't. My throat feels on fire again. It feels sore like before. I'm scared, or maybe just selfish. Either way they both fit hand in hand, right? I could be both.

Mom: "How you are feeling, sweetheart? Are you nervous?" [Tightens grip on steering- wheel, knuckles turns white, shifts in seat.]

Me:

She looks more nervous then I feel. I want to reverse the question on her. I doubt she'll take it well. If there's one lesson I learned, (and quickly, might I add), never infuriate her while she anxious. It'll just end badly.

Mom: "Melinda, look at me."

Oh no, she uses that voice again. That voice that says, "do what I say, or face the consequences." When I was a kid, she used that voice a lot; last year she did it too. I do as she says, I look at her. I don't want mom to repeat herself, I don't want to be dragged back to the past. I look at her, but do I talk? …No

Mom: "You can do this."

I nod my head once. The encouragement is a fresh start. A great way to kick-off the school year. I would have preferred it on a post-it, but I guess vocalizing is just as good. I wouldn't mind Scat singing… that might be interesting. I'll definitely listen.

I arrive at Merryweather high in good timing. Mom wanted to walk me to the front door, but I told her not to. I'm glad she's taking an initiative to empathize with me, not so glad the empathy goes overboard. I think I can manage without the dramatics. I feel safer without it. It's scary. I'm trying not to feel scared anymore,

She complicates that.

The older kids (which includes me this year) are allowed to wonder the halls until the bell rings. I don't. I can't. There are too many people around, and they're all staring at me.

I'm the female lion with the leg injury. Chow food.

The end of last year wasn't so bad. People talked to me, but now….

Its like they're all waiting for something. Something for me to say, do, even. I lower my eyes to my fingers nails. I'm mute today.

I feel a tap on my shoulder, Its Rachel/Rachelle. Last year, I wanted more then anything to talk to her again. She use to be my best friend, until the party, the day I called cops, the day my life changed… forever. Things that were fun weren't so fun for me anymore; sleep was the core of my existence, my hobby, my friend, and my enemy. Where was Rachel? I need her. My throat burns.

Rachel/Rachelle: "Um…So sophomores huh?"

Me:

Rachel/Rachelle: "How come I didn't hear from you during the summer? I called."

She glares at me, intensity in her eyes, and redness in her face. Is she mad again? Do I care? Maybe I should talk. An argument is definitely no way to start the day. I have no strength for it. My palms sweat.

Me: "I was really busy."

I expected her to call me a lair, a freak, but she doesn't. Her head hangs low; she looks like she's ready to cry. If this is a movie, I'll be the villain.

She smiles. It's not a fake smile like the one I've been practicing all year round (and perfected by the way), but a genuine one, honest. I frown and lowered my glaze. Yup, I'm undeniably the bad guy.

She's yabbering away. I try to pay attention, except I keep missing big glops of it, it goes something like this: "Mel, I blah blah blah, you know?" "It was so blah blah blah" "Maybe we should blah blah blah sometime?"

What am I suppose to say to that? I try to listen harder. Tuning things out is like second nature to me, besides the habit of lip slaughtering and nail mangling.

Rachel/Rachelle: "I want to be your friend again."

Apparently I've been sent to an asylum, I must be drugged. There! I see it! The padded walls. I wonder where's the nurse with my food, I'm hungry.

Rachel/Rachelle: "Yeah…so do you want to go? I mean I can totally understand if you say no."

Me: "What?"

Rachel/Rachelle: "Here's a better idea, lets start by sitting at lunch together."

Mr. Neck: "What are you girls still doing in the hallway? Hustle to class."

Saved by a fellow psychopath… I must be lucky

I turn to walk to class.

"Sordino!" luck ran out.

Mr. Neck: "Don't expect to get by in my class because of your misfortune. I want your assignments in on time and you in my class daily. No excuse. They didn't give my son an excuse for the job and he deserved it. They treat Americans like…. Why are you still staying here? Get to class!"

I run out of his sight. How can they allow him to stay here? I need to tell David Petrakis that Neck is at it again. He's smart, maybe he has an idea to get rid of him. One can only hope. Bring on the lawyer.

Mr. Neck… can you say sayonara?

OUR TEACHERS ARE STILL THE BEST…

Hairwoman is gone. Left. Moved. I heard she got a job teaching juvenile delinquents. Supposedly criminals get a better understanding of symbolism. I heard all corruption has a symbol—they must be pros. I bet all their crimes had a symbolic meaning to it. Hairwoman is probably jumping for joy.

I was just about to shout Hooray, then remembered I was trying to keep a low profile. And to think I wanted to be a detective— Sherlock Holmes inspiration—Arthur Conan Doyle was a good writer. If only I had a cigar…. No. Smoking pipe…way cooler.

My new English teacher at least has a face I can see. A new face. I'm glad. She won't treat me any differently; she'll just know me for me. Maybe she might think I'm a freak, but at least not a freak with a traumatic experience. I can handle that.

I make an attempt to listen in her class. I can't.

What's the next best thing? … Clothing?

And that's just as confusing as her lesson. She wears a black and white checkered shirt, (I guess to match her black and white hair…so—Cruella De Vil), red- cropped dress pants and big brown cowboy boots. She reminds me of a Crossword puzzle; I suck at those.

I suck at a lot of things. Especially chemistry. Ms. Keen decided that teaching biology was out of her element. Get it! Quick chem. joke.

I sit in the back to watch Ms. Keen up front. She looks different. I think she lost weight. Not much, I'd say she's ten maybe fifteenth pounds lighter than before, but I wouldn't bet on it. Black can make a person look really thin. She's dressed down in it today.

I see David Petrakis, my freshman year lab partner. He notices me, I wave, and he smiles, looks down at his sneakers, and then sits up front.

I guess he wanted a change in partners. I don't blame him. I wasn't a good one.

CENTER STAGE

This is it. The moment I've been dreading. They're all staring at me.

Everyone heard. Everyone knows…

I rush to sit at a table, any table, and lower my head. Maybe if I pretend not to see them they'll all go away… Fat chance.

I feel someone sit beside me. It's Heather. Heather was the new girl last year— moved from Ohio. She was my only friend too, that is until she ditched me. She thought I was too depressed; her exact words were "When you get through this life-suck phase, I'm sure lots of people will want to be your friend. Look you can't eat lunch with me anymore." I wonder why she's sitting with me today? I still think life sucks. I bite my lip.

Heather: "Hey! Mel it's been a while. How are you? Don't answer that. I haven't been a very good friend, I'm sorry. I was the new girl here and you've been nothing but nice to me. "

I can't believe I ever wanted her back as a friend. She talked way too much. I prefer the silence.

Me:

Heather: "I messed up big time with the dance. They put me in charge of the decorations, remember? Oh well, yeah, and I was so close to being kicked out. And I shouldn't have stopped being your friend. That was really uncalled for. I now understand why you didn't want to help me in my time of need. I feel incredibly guilty"

If I talk will she go away?

Me: "What do you want?"

Heather: "I don't want to be a Martha anymore. They make me do all the work. Hey, I have an idea. Me and you can—"

Me: "I'm not interested."

Heather: "Well what do you think I should do? I can't stand to be by myself. I'm so lonely."

Now she knows how it feels. I don't tell her that of course. She'll just start a scene. Probably throw something. I check to make sure she has nothing in her hands. Nope…but do I take that chance?

Me: "I'm pretty sure you'll find your place…you're you. Just… act naturally."

Heather halts in her 'I'm so lonely rant' to think about what I had just said.

Heather: "Act naturally...That's a good idea."

She looks really happy. I'm glad.

If that's all it took for some peace and quiet, and my peace of mind—then she can take my advice; I'm not using it.

I get up and sprint out of the lunchroom in a flash. All conversations stop, everyone's head pops up to look at me. I hope I don't trip. That would be embarrassing.

SANCTUARY

Home economics is my next class, and I feel helpless. I wanted Art with Mr. Freeman. I felt free in his class. He believed in me.

The classroom is at the far end of the building, next door to the art room. The windows are small, but the breeze coming from it is pretty intense. The room had to be facing in the coldest direction, because the sun is nowhere in sight. If it wasn't for the ceiling lights, I doubt I'll be able to see my own hand. Everything in the classroom looks neat. No dust, no dirt, no nothing. Everything is in order. I want to scorch the floor with my sneakers. Get a few crumbs on the table. This has to be the cleanest place in the entire school. And I don't like it.

I'm late to get a seat so I park besides David Petrakis. He starts fidgeting. I look for an extra seat I might've missed. There is none. Sorry David…. but it looks like your stuck with me. A small smile forms on my lips. I'm evil.

Mr. Copper is good-looking. Tall and dark with fiery eyes that glowed and pierced, a wealth of black hair, and a nose that is straight and charming. He looks flawless. He walks in circles around the room like a Victoria secrets model on a runway. I would've compared it to a vulture circling its prey but even that wouldn't have come close.

Then he pauses, broadcasting a regal certainty. Scratch model. He must be a king.

He puts a hand under his chin "Is this my economics class?" he asks.

Everyone gawks at him. Scratch king. His voice sounds like he has a mouth full of paper.

"I guess this is my class, everyone that is here belongs here…right?" A few people from the back shout "No, we don't belong here!" "We're your free period!" "You sound weird, Are you from outta space?"

He ignores them all and pretends not to hear anything.

Mr. Copper: "I transferred from Laker's High school in Huron county, Michigan."

"I heard that Andy Evans goes there now!" "I heard he had to repeat his whole twelfth grade year again."

Laughter suddenly fills the room and I can't breathe. I open the window wider and inhale. David brow furrows, he looks concerned. I exhale slowly and wipe the blood from my lips. My head hurts. And I'm so ready to leave for the day. Cutting school on the first day might be considered bad, but when it comes to my health, I like to reconsider.