The metal cools me for only a second, but then it’s hotter than my skin and I’m worried I’ll burn myself. I concentrate on lifting my head till it’s sitting upright on my neck once again. The hallway tilts. I open the locker door and focus on the jacket hook, my books, my little corner of the universe. I breathe.
In first period, Mick from Copenhagen is talking to me, but I’m too busy to listen because I’m writing my resignation letter from school.
Dear Principal Wasserman,
Thank you so much for this educational opportunity. Unfortunately, I will not be able to continue here at MVB High because it is overrun by imbeciles.
I cross this out and write,
because of an unfortunate epidemic of imbeciles.
Unfortunate epidemic of imbecility?
I say to Mick from Copenhagen, “Which sounds better to you? ‘An unfortunate epidemic of imbeciles’ or ‘an unfortunate epidemic of imbecility’? Or do you think it sounds stronger to say a place is ‘overrun by imbeciles’?”
He laughs, and lines like the sun’s rays frame the corners of his eyes. “Libby Strout. I’m amazed by you. You turn the hell out of me on.”
At least that’s one person.
As far as days go, this is pretty much the worst one ever.
You think it’s funny to harass women?
You think bullying is funny?
Eating disorders aren’t funny, asshole.
I want to go, The whole reason I fucking did this was not to piss you people off.
I’m also getting a lot of:
That was hilarious. You’re fearless, man.
Good one, dude. You’re awesome.
And:
Nice lip, Mass. What’s the other guy look like? Oh wait—the other GIRL.
Hey, Masselin, don’t piss off [insert name of tiny freshman girl], she might kick your ass.
The only good news is that I can’t tell who’s yelling things at me as they pass me in the hall.
Caroline Lushamp holds my hand between first and second period, and when someone shouts at me she says, “Just ignore them.” Suddenly, she’s the sweet Caroline of years ago, and I concentrate on the feel of her hand in mine.
Throughout the day, more printed-out articles show up in my locker. I try to tell myself to look on the positive side—at least my peers are using the Internet for something other than social media and porn. But honestly, it’s not very comforting. By fourth period, it’s clear that everyone, even the janitors, knows me as the Girl Who Had to Be Cut Out of Her House. I’m Indiana’s high school version of Typhoid Mary. In each class, I sit alone, like fatness is catching.
Moons ago, when I was getting all that hate mail, my dad talked to an attorney who told us to hang on to everything just in case something terrible happened, like I was murdered. That way there would be a paper trail to possible suspects.
News reporter: Do you feel worried? Do you fear for your safety?
Me: You know, I’m glad you asked that. Maybe I should be scared right now, but I honestly think the people writing these letters need to be pitied more than feared. It’s been my experience that the people who are most afraid are the ones who hide behind mean and threatening words.
I stuff the articles in my backpack. I don’t think anyone at MVB is planning to kill me, but you can never be too safe.
I return to the cafeteria even though this is the last place on earth I want to be. I walk in, and six hundred heads turn at once. Six hundred mouths start buzzing. Twelve hundred eyes follow me as I walk. I feel my breath abandon ship like it’s saying Every man for himself! Good luck to you, you’re on your own. I move on without it, taking one step, two steps, three steps. I’m counting them the way my trainers and counselors taught me to do.
It is thirty-seven steps to the round table by the window, where Iris, Bailey, and Jayvee De Castro are sitting. I clutch the back of the chair, and it feels so solid and comforting that I almost remain standing, gripping it with all my might. But then I lower myself into the seat and say, “Well, that was fun.”
Bailey says, very low, because, let’s face it, the people around us are trying to listen, “I’ve known Jack Masselin since seventh grade and I can’t believe he would do this. I mean, okay, he’s not exactly a model student, and there was that one time junior year—his junior year, our sophomore year—when he and Dave Kaminski kidnapped a freshman and locked him on the roof outside the second-floor boys’ bathroom—”
“Walt Casey.” Jayvee shakes her head, and her bob makes a swish swish sound. “Poor Walt.”
Iris freezes midsip. “What’s wrong with Walt?”
“He’s just … off.” Jayvee frowns across the cafeteria at a boy I assume must be Poor Walt Casey, sitting by himself. As if he’s trying to illustrate her point, he starts picking his nose.
Bailey keeps right on. “But I mean, if you’d told me something like that happened and asked me to guess who was behind it, I never would have guessed Jack Masselin. Never. There are a lot of other people I would have guessed before him. Dave Kaminski being one, and Seth Powell. And the Hunts, of course, and Reed Young and Shane Oguz and Sterling Emery …” On and on, naming every boy in the history of the universe.
“I think he’s really sorry he did it.”
They look at me.
“He wasn’t thinking. He did this stupid thing and he feels pretty bad about it.”
Iris goes, “You’re defending him?”
“I’m just crawling around inside his skin.”
Jayvee says, “Atticus Finch.” She holds up a hand so we can high-five. “If it was me he did that to, I’d go super-ninja on him.” Jayvee would go super-ninja on anyone who pissed her off.