Emily wasn’t really that special, she was just one of those strange girls that just stood out. Not on purpose, mind you. She just did.

I had met her on the first day of high school, and I invited her to sit with me during lunch. It wasn’t because I particularly liked her, but because she looked so lost. She had a vacant look in her eyes, a fearful look. It reminded me of a wolf I saw in the zoo once, slinking past, with an almost maddened expression in its eyes. I remembered feeling sorry for the wolf. I had never guessed that humans would have it.

Yet she did. She seemed wolfish altogether. She wasn’t graceful, but she was sturdily built and sure-footed. But her face was gaunt, with hungry grey eyes and a smile plastered on her face, not as if she were trying to deceive, or at least not us.

When I saw her, I knew she was doomed. She was too different. No girl would admire her; even I wondered why I bothered letting her sit with me. But I did, beckoning her over. She sat next to me with dignity, politely looking over my friends with a mild expression.

They ignored her.

They didn't ask for her name or anything, but continued on with their conversation loudly. I cast an embarrassed look at the girl. She just sat there quietly, a pensive look in her eyes. She barely talked at all. It was three weeks that I knew her until I had heard her voice. And then I was surprised. Instead of the weak timid voice I had expected, it was strong and rich.

She was a queen.

And so our friendship (if you can call it that) developed. She had a strange sense of humor and quickly became one of the girls, though she was never really one of us. She was a loner surrounded by people. When we talked about cute guys, she would listen in, politely, but not really with any interest. There were several rumors that she was a lesbian, but nobody was really sure. At least, I could never tell. But she was nice. She would listen to us and didn’t seem to mind hearing about any of our problems. And she would never tell.

She was also smart. During classes, we would receive our grades for our homework, groaning and whining. She only looked at the homework once, then slowly peeled it open so that the grade faced her. For her, it was always a big fat A+, though sometimes, if she were unlucky, it would be just an A. Once, her eyes got wide when she saw an A- for an English paper she wrote. We thought this was silly and laughed at her. We were lucky when we got B’s. Of course, she knew this. She would smile, embarrassed, and then hide her paper away. She would never admit that she was smarter than us and never discussed her grades with us, though we knew hers just the same.

She was always like that. Always predictable. She never wore make-up or did her hair, and she would show up at school wearing the same kind of clothes that she always did: an ironed t-shirt, ironed jeans, and we even joked that she had ironed socks. She laughed at that, although I think I once saw her try to crumple up her shirt and make it look messy. But I might be wrong.

There was only one real time that I remembered her being unpredictable. It was with Lewis. Lewis was a pest. In class, he would sit behind us girls and try to snap our bra straps. Outside of class, if possible, he was even worse, cat-calling us, as if we had nothing better to do but to go with him. Emily was sympathetic to him, and if we yelled at him, she would tell us off.

One time, in late October, he went a little too far. He walked up to her nice and pretty, offering to hold her books. She, being rather silly in our opinion, let him. At first he was okay, but then, after a couple of minutes, he bolted off with her books.

Her notes fluttered out of her bag and into the mud.

Then it was a blur. I remember her tackling him, screaming at him. And I know that some of my friends tried to separate them. Then campus police came.

She ended up in the principal’s office, but she was not in trouble. She was a good student, and he was the one at fault. Even so, she was remarkably subdued the following week. That was the first week I noticed her wear make-up. Or at least I think she wore some. She didn’t wear any after that week.

Besides that, things were pretty normal. Classes were hard, but she seemed to get A’s, no matter how hard the teacher was. We would laugh at her and she would blush. She would offer to tutor us, but we always ignored her, looking instead at the seniors and wishing they would take us to the dances.

There was only one time when I remember her ever getting a B. It was for a paper in our English class. Our teacher was a monster. Once she had been a creative writing major, but after failing to publish her book, she gave up and started teaching. I don’t know why. She was never happy with any of our work, and she wasn’t really a good teacher either. Most of the class received D’s on their work. I was one of the lucky ones – I got a C- average for the class. But poor Emily, when she saw a big B scrawled over a paper, she turned white.

“What’s the matter, Emz?” said one of my friends. She was sitting behind Emily, and leaned forward to see. Emily snatched the paper away. “Oh come on, it can’t be that bad.”

My other friend, who was sitting next to Emily laughed. “I bet you’ll be the only one who passes this class. You know when the teacher is tough when Emz gets a B!” We all laughed at that. Emily said nothing.

She was quiet and nervous for the rest of the day, and a couple of times, I tried to make her feel better and told her my score for the essay, which was a D+. She just smiled and shook her head.

The next day, she was looking better. Instead of wearing her usual t-shirt, she wore a cute turquoise turtleneck. Her hair was up in a French braid, and she wore make-up. Several girls complimented her on how pretty she looked – I’m not sure if she blushed. She was made up rather well.

She laughed and listened to us talk about boys and music, and actually looked like she was enjoying herself. But then, in the cafeteria, the topic turned to our English class, and she stopped smiling. Instead, she looked downright nervous. And then, sensing her nervousness, the topic turned to her.

“Didn’t Emily get a B?”

“Yeah, I think she did. Right Emily?”

This was too much for her. She walked out and left.

“What’s her problem? She’s going to be the only one who passes the class.” More laughter. My eyes followed Emily out of the cafeteria and then I looked down at her food. She had barely eaten any of the burrito she was given. Wrapping it up in napkins, I said goodbye to the others and hurried to follow her.

It took a little while to find her, but she was in the girl’s bathroom. She was standing very quietly away from the door, staring at the paper towels. Her arms were wrapped around her in an almost protective manner and quiet sobs echoed from the tiled walls.

I was dumbfounded.

“Emily?” I asked.

She turned to me quickly, her eyes red and watery, black lines of mascara running down her face. She sniffled and tried to wipe back the tears, but only managed to wipe the make-up layer off. “What are you doing here!” she cried. And for the second time, I saw the same fear play in her eyes. And then I saw something else.

It was not mascara, but it was black and it was on her cheek. There had been so much make-up put over it that I couldn’t have noticed it before, but now that some of it had been wiped off, a thin blue layer was showing.

“Emily?”

She turned to the mirror and then realized what I saw. “It’s not what you think,” she said quickly. “It’s not what you think. Oh God… It’s not what you think.” She began fumbled through her purse, taking out some make-up and throwing it on the counter, the cases clattering. Then, with shaking hands, she picked up some beige make-up and began slathering it all over her face.

“It’s not working,” I said. “You have to undo it first.”

“Oh shut up!”

But next time when turned to the mirror, she saw her reflection and burst out into tears.

I had her lean onto the counter and slowly dabbed off all the make-up. A dark blue bruise was on her cheek, right underneath her eye. And I knew why she had make-up. I only wondered why I hadn’t guessed before.

She was still crying, but I would wipe off her tears, adding even more foundation. “Who did this?” I asked softly.

“It’s my fault really,” she began saying. “If I had only studied the topic more, this would have never happened. My parents always said I could do better.”

“What do you mean?” I asked. An uncomfortable feeling rose up my stomach.

She shuddered. “My parents, they want me to do better. You can’t go to a school without high grades. You need to have a 4.4 to get into some of the Ivy League schools! And I’m really smart. I should have done better.”

“So your parents did this to you?” I was having trouble controlling my voice. I wanted to scream and burst out in tears. Here was the smartest girl ever and…

The bruise was now almost completely covered up. She sniffled more. “You won’t tell anyone, will you?” she asked.

I thought about it, then shook my head. “But you should,” I added. She laughed at that and then began to apply the mascara.

“You shouldn’t worry about anything,” she said. “Next time I’ll do better.” She gave me a weak smile before we went out to class.

She did do better next time, but I couldn’t help but notice her scared eyes flickering to the grade scrawled over every one of her papers, followed by a look of relief. And I didn’t laugh. It was the most unfunny thing I had ever seen. And sometimes, while the others laughed, her eyes would flick to mine, still embarrassed. We never talked about what happened again, but we remembered it all the same.

That year, to nobody’s surprise, she got straight A’s, followed by a cheesy award ceremony. She took the award, blushing and smiling nervously. And I saw her parents there, clapping as hard as anyone else.

I never knew if she had told anybody about what they did to her, but she didn’t seem to mind. And who knows? Perhaps she was right. She usually was.