She was eighteen today, roaming the halls of Merdin High like it was a hunting ground for sexy boys. Yeah, she knew her perfume was a venom, killing anyone who was near enough to smell the Chanel No. 9 with a hint of adulthood. Her Ma gave her the spritzer as an early birthday gift.

"Here, Libby, this is for you. You are a woman now. You must smell pretty so that one day you can meet a handsome boy who will want more than your panties on the floor."

In English with the windows down, a cool breeze combed Libby's hair.

That blue-eyed teacher walked in, adjusted his tie, and greeted the class.

Libby had a plan today. After all, it was her birthday.

"Settle down, class." Mr. Hugo said. "We're going to be discussing figurative language today."

The class booed and groaned.

Libby winked.

Mr. Hugo ignored this, and continued. "Can anyone give me an example of figurative language?"

Libby raised her hand.

"Yes, Ms. Moon?"

"The sun shone through the trees," Libby began, "and hit the sparkling water. I dipped my toes in to feel the cool liquid reach over my foot and onto my smooth leg."

Mr. Hugo cleared his throat.

The room became quiet like a road on Christmas Eve.