This is sort of a short one...
"Hey, Renesmee, wait up!"
I didn't have to turn to know the voice. It was Mrs. Malagwa, my art teacher, the only person at Brenton who insisted on calling me 'Renesmee.'
I turned and smiled at her. "Is there a problem, Mrs. Malagwa?"
"No, no problem." she panted, out of breath, though she'd only jogged a few steps. I waited for her to continue. "The Valentine's hari Dance is coming up," she said. "And anda have such artistic ability. We need lebih members on the Decorating Comittee." she held up a sheet that was half filled with signatures.
Ah, the dance. I was...
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