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By Emily Smith
I had to sit with her,
Every other seat was full.
She was different.
Her long plum hair covered half her face.
Her blue eyes were dark and cold,
As if she hated me.
She always carried a gun.
Everyone knew, but she was too scared to use it.
She was too weird.
As she pulled out her gun my heart pounded.
Could she hear my thoughts?
Would she actually kill me?
What did I do to her?
I heard her load it.
With her finger on the trigger, she pulled it.
The water splashed upon my head, ruining my hair.
“Gotcha!” she exclaimed.