The holidays and the turn of the year are always a time of great reflection for me as I reminisce about the year and contemplate the passing of another……. oh what the heck, let’s just get straight to the contest shall we??
This week marks the publication week of Jennifer Hubbard’s spellbinding YA debut THE SECRET YEAR, which is about a high schooler, Colt, who was secretly dating a rich girl for a year, and no one knew – not even her boyfriend. When she dies in a car crash he discovers her diary, which is full of memories and unsent letters that describe how much she cared about him and reveals the things she didn’t have the courage to tell him while she was alive.
It’s a poignant and unforgettable novel about love and loss, and, per Booklist, “is a fine addition to the pantheon of YA literature.” Really really amazing, heartbreaking, moving, and etc. Though books don’t have a ratings system, THE SECRET YEAR is intended for an older young adult audience and as always all the parents out there should use their own discretion.
So. For the first time IN BLOG HISTORY (er, well, for this blog’s history anyway), in honor of THE SECRET YEAR we will have a writing prompt contest!
Your prompt: Write the most compelling (fictional) teen diary entry. It may be a diary entry or an unsent letter, but it should be in a teen’s voice.
That’s all you gotta do.
Let’s start with the prizes.
The GRAND PRIZE ULTIMATE WINNER of the THE SECRET YEAR Teen Diary Writing Contest Extravaganza will win:
– A signed copy of THE SECRET YEAR (pending winner’s proximity to the US of A)
– Their choice of a query critique, partial critique, or 10 minute phone conversation/consultation/dish session
– The pride of knowing OMG you are like the greatest writer for teens ever.
Runners up will receive a signed THE SECRET YEAR bookmark (pending finalists’ proximity to USA), plus a query critique and/or other agreed-upon prize.
Now for the rules. Please note that all rules may and probably will be amended at my sole (and fickle) discretion.
1. Please enter one teen diary entry not to exceed 500 words in the comments section of this blog post. E-mail subscribers: you must must must must must (must) enter in the official contest thread. Please do not e-mail me your entries! If you need help leaving a comment, please consult this post.
2. You may enter once, and once you may enter.
3. Spreading the word about the contest is not only encouraged, it is strongly encouraged.
4. Snarky comments, anonymous or otherwise, about entries, the weather, the Na’vi tribe of blue people, and/or Mike Tyson will be deleted with relish. You will find the nearest free speech zone approximately 500 pixels away from this blog.
5. Please please check and double-check your entry before posting. If you spot an error after posting: please do not re-post. I go through the entries sequentially and the repeated deja vu repeated deja vu from reading the same entry only slightly different makes my head spin. I’m not worried about typos, nor should you be.
6. I will be the sole judge of the contest.
7. You must be at least 14 years old and less than 137 years old to enter. No exceptions.
8. I’m on Twitter! You can find me at @nathanbransford and I may be posting updates about the contest.
9. The deadline for this contest is 4:00 PM Pacific Time on Wednesday January 6th. Finalists will be announced Thursday morning, and you will have the opportunity to vote on the winner, which will be announced on Friday.
To get you in the teen diary spirit, here is a brief excerpt from one of Julia’s unsent letters to Colt in THE SECRET YEAR:
Dear CM:
I can’t stop thinking about you. I’m supposed to see Austin tonight, and I’d rather chew on sandpaper. If I have to listen to one more story about how wasted he got, or the magic chemical mixture he invented to clean a smudge off his car seats, I’ll hang myself. Why do I stay with him? You never ask, but sometimes I wonder if it bothers you that I’m with him. Maybe you’re even glad. It lets you off the hook. I told you once that you wouldn’t want to be my boyfriend, and you didn’t argue with me.
The thing about Austin is, we have a lot in common. We both like dancing and partying, and it’s fun until he gets too drunk. Sometimes on Sunday afternoons, I go to his house and the family’s sitting around with the Sunday paper all over the place, and maybe we play a game or something, and it’s nice. I belong there. With Austin, everything fits. With you, I never know.
Good luck! May the best teen diary writer win!
UPDATE: Time’s up! Thank you so much for entering!
Cory Clubb says
Dear D,
There’s nothing on TV. I’m tired, but can’t sleep. I’m nervous about tonight. There’s something lurking in my closet, something dirty brushing filth and scum all over my wool sweaters and freshly cleaned shirts, like that yellow one I wore when Dan and I had that long kiss under the Dodge Street Bridge, a tingle of touch and a shimmer of excitement.
It was raining that night, well like Dan said it was more of a drizzle. Why does he argue with every little detail? I guess it doesn’t matter. His honest take on the small things captures me. (As does his tight jeans.) Even though we don’t always see things the same way, I still lay here and long for his arms around me, defending me. What’s it like for him? I may never know. What I do know is my current boyfriend, Kyle, has never kissed me the way Dan does.
But now, as my clock’s red numbers turn past midnight, it’s John’s time. He’ll be creeping out of the closet soon. Why did he want to hide in there, before he…it’s probably the reason I can’t sleep, those revolting eyes watching me. I knew John was a freak the second the bitch introduced him. The way those eyes glazed over me and Sissy that first time, made me want to throw up.
Yet the deal stands: Me instead of Sissy.
Although, what I do tonight may change things forever.
Wish me luck.
-Cate
Anonymous says
Dear Computer,
Shot out the neighbor girl's window with my dad's pellet gun today. Big mistake. Cops came. They wanted to search my room for the pellets, but Mom wouldn't let them in so they're coming back with a warrant.
Meanwhile, got to study for the AP physics test. Ballistics is part of physics, right?
In other news, Rachel's coming over this weekend. Sweet. This could be the weekend.
Am I evil? Yes I amn.
Terminate.
Tara says
Dear diary,
Oksana left today. Dad's parting words were "Never believe a mail-order bride when she says I love you." He was so chin-trembling, tear-stained-cheek sad watching her tear up our lawn that I wanted to cry just looking at him.
Oksana, on the other hand, was throwing her luggage around and cursing him in Russian. I wasn’t sure how safe it was for either of us standing by the living room window with so much glass around.
Dad always said she was different. I thought he was referring to the Belarusian catalog she came from, but his tears were genuine.
He whispered, “Sorry about the eggs.” This morning, Oksana accused him of deliberately making runny, undercooked eggs. It escalated to an accusation of salmonella poisoning. Finally, she revealed the real reason for the argument.
Dad and I both know that she keeps this house so clean you can eat out of the sink, drink from the toilet, and perform surgery on the kitchen table. And neither of us thanked her for it. I guess I stopped noticing what she did for us when I began expecting it.
Dad thinks she'll come back. Every time she's left us, she's come home apologetic after the mall closed. I haven't told him that this time is not like the previous ones. I saw her take the kitchen timer. Who takes a kitchen timer with them when they leave? People who move.
Just before she left, she paused in her ranting and looked at me. Her expression softened like she was going to cry too. Could it be that Oksana, the step-mom with the maternal instincts of a broom, was going to miss me? That's when she waved good-bye to me slowly, three times with one hand, and got in the car.
As she backed out the driveway, I think I surprised her as much as she surprised me by mouthing the words "thank you."
chris says
Diary…
I almost addressed this entry to God, since it feels like my last few entries have been prayers. Then again, I don’t feel like I know how to pray, and I’m definitely not sure God would listen if I tried it.
I guess I’ve officially entered the numbness stage. I haven’t cried at all today. I stared at the wall for an hour trying to make myself cry, but nothing happened. And I really don’t care anymore. My history test is tomorrow and I haven’t studied and I don’t care, even if it means I don’t get an A this year. What good does it do me if I know the last paragraph of the I Have a Dream speech??? I don’t have any dreams. All of my dreams left with him.
463 days. That’s how long we were together.
2 days. That’s how long it’s been since he left.
Am I dead yet? The only way I’m sure I’m still alive is because I have to pee every 25 minutes.
Steph called just now and said I should write down all the bad things about him that I can think of. She said she did that one time after she got dumped and it helped her get over it. So here it goes…
BAD THINGS ABOUT HIM
1. He’s gone
2. ???
Thanks a lot Steph. You just reminded me how perfect he was. He never did anything wrong. NOTHING! I felt alive when I was with him. He knew me better than anybody has ever known me and he never … STOP IT! I’m supposed to be writing all the bad things about him, and all I can think of is the good things.
Okay, then, God. If you’re up there or out there somewhere, and you’d actually listen to me, then can you explain why you let him leave? Why would you let me fall in love with somebody who was going to walk away when everything was perfect? Wouldn’t it have been just a little bit easier to have kept us from ever meeting in the first place? Don’t you think that would’ve been better?
I have to pee again.
Rusty says
I emerge from the bathroom with my day pack, a sleeping bag and a duffel bag of clothes. I have $150 in my pocket, which Mom pulled from Dad's wallet before leaving me stranded here. Actually, I have a little more than that – I brought along $27 for the trip.
Mom also tossed me a cell phone charger, but that won't do much good because it only works in a car. What I could use is a car.
And a map that shows Klamath, California on it. This one, from an Automobile Club, doesn't. And why would it? Who stops here?
I'm sitting down on a log to call Ash in the Trees of Misery (my name for it) parking lot. More to the point, I'm sitting in the shadow of a giant blue ox. A 49-foot high Paul Bunyan stands beside the ox, beckoning tourists to gape at the absurdity of it all.
~~~
I'm wondering whether my 'rents are circling back to get me. Maybe it's against the law to leave your 17 year old loitering by the highway? Still, Dad seemed pretty pissed off, and I would rather not see him for a while. Or talk to him for that matter.
I have never hitchhiked. My 'rents used to do that, back in their day, but nobody trusts strangers anymore. In fact, I have never been anywhere except to San Diego and summer camp on my own.
I am nowhere near home.
~~~
A dude in a black Aerosmith t-shirt, with scraggly sideburns down to his chin, approaches me and my new home on this redwood log. He's in his 20s and has a goatee that makes me think he's a carpenter or a drug dealer. I'm guessing it's the latter.
"Hey," he says, "what on earth is this place? Are you getting any signal?"
I shake my head sideways and gaze down at my day pack.
"Whatever," he says, and walks off.
I'm usually a little friendlier than that, but I need to figure out what to do. I get up and walk to the gift store.
I buy licorice and bottled water and then try to figure out how many miles it is to the next town south of here. Let's see, it's 360 miles to San Francisco. And then it's another 450 miles or so to San Diego. Crap. Eureka is 60 miles away but there's something a little closer called Orick. I must have blinked when we passed it in the RV.
A fat Blue Jay lands on my redwood log. He seems just about as real to me as the characters guarding this oasis. Clearly this fellow makes a good living cleaning up after tourists. I'm tempted to fling him a Red Vine, but he's probably more discriminating than I am.
A light rain sprays the Trees of Misery.
Carolyn V. says
Dear frap-tac-ular diary,
So I was sitting there in computer lab today when who should come up and talk to me but Hottie-hot guy himself – Turk Winston!
He was like, “Hey I just bought one of those. So how do you like that new mouse?”
And I thought, Holy chimpanzees! Hottie-hot guy is talking to me.
That’s when my mouth took off without my brain and started saying things like, “Oh my gosh! How did you know I got a mouse for Christmas?!” And “ I totally love him. He’s white with pink ears and sooo cute, except for that rash he’s got on his butt. Does your mouse have a rash anywhere on him, like his butt or something–“
Jamie , my bbf, who was standing behind said Hottie-hot guy started waving her arms like she was starting a competition for a car race. And I was like – What? – in my head, because I was talking to Hottie-hot guy and he was talking to me! Hello.
Except I noticed I wasn’t shutting up and more and more words were spewing out of my mouth.
Why didn’t I stop speaking?
“So, what kind of ointment do you use on your mouse?” Yes. I found an ending point to my vomit-ous words.
“Um–” Turk just stood there with his mouth wide opened. “I meant…that mouse.” He pointed to my desk where the school’s new wireless mouse for the computer lay under my hand.
“Oh.”
Yeah. I said oh. Stupid, stupid mouth.
And after all that talking about mice, butts and ointment, you would think I could think of something clever to say. Nope not one intelligent word. I just sat there with my face super hot and one of those straight smiles you see on a runner up of a beauty pageant contestant’s face.
Turk said, “Okay, bye.”
Not, “See ya later.” Or even “Don’t worry about it, I could have made that mistake too.” Nope, just “Okay, bye.”
WORST DAY IN COMPUTER LAB EVER!
Beth Terrell says
Joey likes to vomit. It’s his thing, you know, like some kids like to whistle, and some kids like to throw rocks. At meals, Mom keeps an empty quart milk carton beside his plate so he’ll have something to throw up in. It looks gross and smells even grosser, but after awhile you get used to it. Last week, my friend Cindi asked why I never asked her to stay over for dinner, and I made something up about how my mom is into health foods and I wouldn’t subject my friends to her millet and wheatgrass lasagna. Sometimes it scares me how easy I can lie. But some things you just can’t explain.
After dinner, Joey gets his favorite plastic plate out of the bottom cabinet. It’s the same color as his eyes, a light blue the crayon box calls cornflower. He sits on the kitchen floor, Indian-style, and spins the plate, sometimes for hours. Sometimes, like tonight, I sit beside him with a plate of my own and spin it with him. I can tell it makes him happy, because he starts this little humming thing. Like a chant, almost. “Woh, woh, woh,”
Mom watches, and when I get tired of spinning the plate and put it away, she always does the same thing. She pats my hair and says, “You’re a good sister, Lizbeth.”
I don’t say anything, because I know it isn’t true. There are lots of things I don’t say. I don’t say, he acts weird, and he makes weird noises, and I wish he wasn’t my brother. I don’t say I wish he would die.
All I can do is make myself smile and watch my little brother, who is seven years old and as cute as a cartoon cherub. My little brother, who I almost sort of love, except that he’s the reason I will never be popular and probably never even have a boyfriend.
“Woh, woh, woh,” Joey says, spinning his plate and rocking. “Woh, woh, woh, woh.”
Krista G. says
Haven’t written in this thing for almost four years, but I thought it was a good idea, since…well, since tonight’s the big night. The night I get to harpoon me some shark.
So this is kind of like a suicide note, I guess, except opposite. It’s a murderer note. No, not a murderer note–an executioner note. In two and a half hours, I’ll be an executioner. Hermes will be dead and his company will be gutted–and Mom will be avenged. And I’m the one who gets to avenge her. I should be excited. I should be ECSTATIC. So why are my hands shaking as I’m trying to write this?
Stupid pen. I’ve been trying to scratch out that last sentence for the past two minutes, and now that I’m just moving on, the stupid thing starts working again. I AM excited. I am. I’m glad that Mom won’t have died for nothing.
Dad bought me a new dress for tonight. It’s black, from that little shop up on Durango. He said we could afford it. You only go to the Last Banquet once, right? That’s what he said, anyway. I should go put it on.
Except.
Seth asked me out on a date. A shark. Asked me out on a date. Me, the Shark killer. I told him no. What else could I say?
Bug09 says
Dear Nobody,
I stuck my finger down my throat today, but I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t force myself to puke the way she does, the wasted calories trying to hide themselves in the bathroom garbage.
I had thought that maybe she had stopped, but now I know it was just the dreamer me trying to convince the realistic me that everything is ok. It’s not. Just ten minutes ago I walked into the bathroom and found the puke on the toilet seat again. The house smells sour, pungent; it’s not just the bathroom she’s affected, just like it’s not only her that this sickness affects. It’s everyone.
There are days, mornings when I don’t want to go to school, that I stand and take a long look at myself in the mirror. I see my reflection—she looks the same as usual: wild, dark hair that needs taming, blue-grey eyes, dimples. But some days, she looks fat, and I think, if only I could lose ten pounds…
She did it and got away with it. I bet I could too. If I could do it, we would be identical again. I wouldn’t be referred to as “the bigger one” or “the one with the fuller face,” anymore when people try to tell us apart. We could be best friends again, looking at Cosmos and not talking about how hungry we are.
She doesn’t realize the pain it causes everyone. If she did, I don’t think she would do it. But, I know this is the dreamer me talking again, the realistic me getting drowned out, but I don’t think I care anymore.
Ryan says
Wasn't going to enter but after getting a good laugh from other people's entries, I dug out an old journal for some material and whipped this up real quick. Makes me want to take my wife out for a teenage date night this weekend. Classic stuff.
Dear Journal
Today was the worst ever. Yes, I’m writing about Becky again. The reality of things with Becky is this: There is no reality with Becky! I know she will always be there for me but I wish she could be WITH me too. My friends would think I’m such a dork if they read this. First I was tied in knots and didn’t know what to do. Then, I just did it.I told her how I felt. It was like an explosion. Now, it’s over. How can that be? It’s not over; it never began. So….maybe this is the beginning! Yes,that’s it. The school year has just started and I have three classes with her. She didn’t think I was a dork; it just surprised her. That’s all. It just surprised her. Tomorrow, I will say nothing. Just “Hello” for at least a week. All she gets is a “Hello” for making me feel this way. I hope she’ll be OK with that.
Francis Herrand says
Thursday Feburary 12, 2004
Why does this happen to me? Everytime I have a good moment my parents drag me back to cutting myself. I can't believe how much pain I go through with them. Maybe all this is a sign. Do I belong alive? After what happened today… I dont think so. My father came home drunk once again. But this time, my mother wasn't home. I don't think I've ever felt a greater physical pain. My whole body is filled with bruises…. But that's nothing. Do you know what it feels like to be stabbed in the heart everyday at every moment? Or as if you had a knife inside slicing your heart slowly so you can feel as it divides inch by inch? Well I know a greater pain. A pain that can never be matched or cured because you can never forget when your own father beats you senseless. Or when your own mother tells you you're worthless and the biggest mistake she's ever made. Sad part is that, after a while you start to believe it and you think… why am I alive? So you search for a way out of the pain and in the end you'll find there's two ways out. You can either stop the pain along with your heart or you can find a greater pain and watch you blood drip. If you're choice is the second, later in time you'll find that not even that can stop the pain you feel inside. All it does is ease it. But the little pain that is left resides in your heart until it's unbearing. Once again you find yourself right back where you started. So what's your next move??? What will mine be??
b.stewart says
Dear Jen,
I want to promise you, I guess, and explain. I don't want to kill myself, really. It's just – okay, Mom just tried to hug me, and I – well, I did whatever I do when she tries to hug me, and she got that look on her face that always makes me feel like I should just crawl into a hole and die. That that would be better.
I just want to escape that look. And things like it.
It's not like I could even do it if I tried again. After that first time when I was seven Mom told me about this kid in her neighbourhood when she was a kid who tried to do it THREE times before he was twelve. Jumped out a window. When that didn't work, laid down in the middle of the street. I guess his third attempt worked, 'cause Mom's never told me about that one.
I think she told me all that to make me feel better, but it just made me feel like a failure. Like a stupid, scared little boy.
It's Mom's bad luck, I guess, that they had me until I was six. The brain does most of its development before the age of five, so … yeah. When she found me, I didn't remember her, or my real name. Mom tells me that the people who took me loved me. I guess back then when I was little and trying to kill myself, I didn’t believe her. I’d have panic attacks in the night and she would hold me and tell me she would never let anyone hurt me, ever again.
But she already had. There was nothing that could keep it from happening again if it had happened already, even if she really loved me, she'd already let it happen once. I would ask, snot running down my face, how she would do it? What if the bad people came here with a gun?
I would stand in front of you, she said.
I never told her about the images in my head, the nightmares, because she would have no way of knowing she’d failed me. No parent can ever really reassure you, I guess. And my mother didn’t have the imagination necessary to realize that standing in front of a gun for me would do nothing but force me to watch my mother die before that gun was turned on me.
And sometimes when I dream, I’m still David.
That's what … that's what I need to get away from, Jen. That's why I don't, like, try things with you. And it's something I really need to escape if I ever actually want to … live. So I guess I need to find things that will almost kill me. And be fun at the same time. Maybe that will be enough.
And I guess I hope sometime you'll help me with that. I just need to figure out how to ask.
– Pete
Emily Hinchey says
Dear Diary,
I spent the night of the homecoming dance babysitting.
The Farley kids were my dates. Mandy, my best friend, was supposed to help me babysit, but Josh asked her to the dance last minute. Mandy can’t stand Josh, but I’ve liked him since last year. I’m an inch taller than Josh, though, so he probably thinks of me as Amazon Woman. Whatever. At least the Farleys pay well. I’m saving up to be on the tennis team.
I started babysitting at six o’clock, about the time Josh was probably picking up Mandy. I imagined they were sitting down at a nice restaurant when Twin #1 had a diaper blow-out and the six year-old began dropping from the second-floor landing onto the sofa 15 feet below.
The twins were watching Snow White– I was trying not to envision Mandy and Josh sharing dessert– when Cali (the six year-old) tried sticking her leg through the railings. Of course, it got stuck. I once heard that peanut butter gets crayon off the wall, so I figured it might work for stuck limbs, too. The Farleys buy chunky, though, and it was too thick and sticky to make things slippery.
At this point, Cali was screaming bloody murder and Mandy and Josh were probably arriving at the dance. That’s when Rob, the oldest Farley and a freshman at my school, came home. He was on break from bagging groceries at the Piggly Wiggly. He’s kind of cute, but a major nerd. He tried pulling the rails apart while I yanked on Cali’s leg, but the girl’s got big knees.
Between Cali’s screams, Rob mentioned he was in my AP Spanish class. I knew that, but he thought maybe I didn’t because I’m always staring at the back of Josh’s head. He asked if I’m looking at the birthmark on Josh’s neck, because it’s shaped like a lima bean. I had always thought it looked more like a heart.
Rob thought Vaseline might work. As he greased up Cali’s leg, he asked if I was going to try out for the basketball team. Just because I’m tall, I told him, doesn’t mean I have to play basketball. He told me not to get all defensive and that Julia Roberts is 5 foot 11. That made me smile. It’s a big fat lie, which he must know, because he’s got pictures of Julia all over his Spanish binder. Just to be nice, I told him I’d think about trying out. When Cali’s leg was greased, Rob pulled on the railings again, and she got free.
Mandy came over then, all upset because Josh had picked her up an hour late and didn’t even dance with her. As she whined about her evening, I realized Rob had left without saying goodbye. I’ll have to thank him on Monday for getting out Cali’s leg. Maybe I’ll sit by him. That way I won’t have to look at Josh’s lima bean birthmark all through Spanish class.
Cheryl says
Dearest Stupid Diary,
Must this happen every freakin' day? I mean, come on, how witless are they all? Why won't they just leave me alone?
My day started like every other school day. The kids at the bus stop hooting and hollering, jumping this way and that, waving the ole middle finger around, and laughing. Same old same old.
All because I can't see them. Well, I can hardly see them. Everything is a blend of colors. I see the movement, but I can't make out one single face. They think it is funny to do these things to me. They are such babies. I think they have nothing going on in their brains. Such a waste of space.
I HATE my glasses and I won't wear them, not even for one second. They are big and plastic and hideous. I told my mom I hated them, but she didn’t even hear me. She has no idea I don't wear them outside of the house. I will never wear them. I would rather suffer the consequences than be seen with a hunk of plastic on my face. Why is it that I choose to be tormented rather than wear glasses? It’s because they make me look like an owl. A huge old hoot owl. Not happening in this life. Ugggggggg.
So my day goes as usual. I can't see the board and I flunked my math test. Yawn yawn. I don’t really care. And then some kids were giving me the finger as I walked past them. Nice, really nice. They don’t know that I can see when they are like FIVE INCHES IN FRONT OF ME. But I pretended they didn't exist.
I wish I could just move away and never come back. Move to a place where I fit in, where nobody was mean. Live in a place where I feel comfortable. Where I am not ugly. I wish I was beautiful. It would solve all my problems. I don’t think I am actually ugly. I am just nothing. Boring and blind. I don’t feel boring inside. I just act it on the outside.
I think I am going to break my glasses, or throw them in the trash. Maybe my mom will let me get contacts. I have money saved. But I know I need a lot more.
OK, going to bed now. Just so I can do it all over again tomorrow. Maybe, just maybe, they will realize that it is just not funny doing the same thing every morning!!!!! And maybe, just maybe, I will shock them all tomorrow.
Signed,
The Ugly Hoot Owl
Jamie says
Dear Diary,
New Years Day – Any Year.
Isn’t New Years Eve supposed to be grand? We are all supposed to celebrate new possibilities and beginnings? Instead this New Years Eve only highlighted the dark end to a chapter of me…….
Last year I was stuck babysitting an eleven year old! I shudder to even think about it, watching all the Star Wars movies, ALL of them!!! Of course little Michael never had a bedtime when he was being babysat!!! I hate that! I only watch him because his parents pay unbelievable, they kind of have to with a bratty kid like Mike……
Then there was the going back to school and hearing all the great things everyone else did. Everyone did crazy wild things at all the crazy wild parties.
Thank God, this year I’ve really come out of my shell, this year things have really come together for me. Or at least I thought so…. sometimes I’m so stupid……
Before School let out I was invited to the huge party that Sheldon was having. Sheldon’s not even in high school anymore and I got invited to HIS party!!! Not by Sheldon directly, but through a friend who knows someone who is good friends with Sheldon which was totally good enough!!
I knew this meant ditching my friends; Chris, Janet and Leanne were planning for months to drink themselves silly in Leanne’s basement while Leanne “watched the house”. I didn’t care – if they talked more to the right people maybe they would have got invited too!
It would have been the best New Year’s Eve, if I hadn’t been sooooo stupid on Boxing Day. Why did I do it? Why did I do it???
I always act so dumb around that boy, that college boy, just because he’s in college he thinks he is something special and he’s always wheeling me whenever he’s home, telling me I’m so much prettier then the college girls and he misses not seeing me. Why do I believe him? Why do I think he is special?
After that Boxing Day Bash I went for a drive with him. WHY??? Why did I let him pull over on that gravel road and why did I give in this time? What was different about that night?
Why on a gravel road!?! Where anyone could and DID find us! Where drunk, dumb Luke could stumble on us and see everything and tell everyone!!!! So my first time could be blabbered to the whole world!!!
I will never to the end of my days forget walking into Sheldon’s and everyone rushing to me, “So you did him hey?” That is all I heard. Thank God my real friends wrapped their arms around me when I showed up at Leanne’s. I’ve been so awful to them lately and they still held me while I cried… I only hope that next time that boy comes to town I run the other way!!
Oh God…. I hope I’m not pregnant….
Emily Hinchey says
Woops… sorry for the duplication. Didn't think the first one worked.
britfit says
Dear Diary,
We're safe. Ben and I left home yesterday once Dad was at work, and Mom asleep. She's always asleep now, so that part wasn't tricky.
After Mom's… accident shall we say? She hasn't been the same. So how am I supposed to tell her my secret? I won't. I can't.
So Ben is looking for a job, and I'm… well I'm writing everything down. I never saw myself in this position, but I plan to conquer any lingering fears and jump into whatever lies ahead.
Thank goodness I have this book. It's the last present my parents may have ever given me. There's no lock, and the pages are stained after I spilled my coffee on what I thought was a waste of gift.
Now I hold this spotted, faux- leather book in great esteem. It may be my means of survival for these next several months.
Always,
A hopeful Jenny
dan radke says
To whoever finds my body, this is an account of what happened.
I got a call from my friend Joe. Well, maybe not a friend, I was surprised he had my number. Anyway, he called and the first thing he said was, “Woohoo, Danny-boy, you messed up.”
He asked me about something bad I wrote in a yearbook. But I wrote in ten yearbooks today, and thirty this week. I couldn’t figure it out. Then he read me a passage-
“I loved it last night when you said you could feel me in your stomach.”
Then I remembered. I wrote that in Stephanie’s yearbook. I like Stephanie. I mean, I don’t like-like Stephanie. But she’s a cool chick. Only thing is, I hate her boyfriend, Sam. Sam made fun of me and punched me in the stomach once during freshman year.
And that’s when Sam himself got on the phone and read me another passage.
“And to your boyfriend- Sam, I’m going to gouge out your eyes and fuck your skull. I’m not so fat anymore, am I you lanky son of bitch?”
Then he started yelling and stuff. I really meant the whole thing as a joke. It was first period when I wrote it and I was still sleepy.
The guy is kinda big. He’s like, the tallest guy in our school. 6'10 I think. He plays varsity basketball.
“How would you like it if me and my boys came over and you can try fucking my skull?”
I’m not much of a fighter. Especially of people that are a foot taller than me.
“Or maybe we’ll give this to the principal? The cops? This is a written threat.”
I told him I should probably be punished to the full extent of the law.
“I’ll think about it. You may see us later, faggot.” Then he hung up.
It’s been an hour so far. My parents aren’t home, and none of my friends want to come over.
I think I’ve lived a full life.
Danny
Rowena says
August 19, 2009
Why is everybody asking me about starting high school when I just wanna enjoy the last two weeks of summer? Ever since my mother started graduate school, she became so in tune with the school year beginning and ending, and, of course, with just two weeks left of summer, she had to ask. I honestly, am ambivalent. I grew up on the beach and in the ocean, with a mother who never acted like a mother, and with books and video games (to keep me company). I love mostly everything about my life and starting high school is just not that exciting to me. Plus I have a weird feeling that things are going to change.
I’m happy that my mother has something that she’s working towards and that seems to really matter to her, in contrast to how she had seemed so aimless during my whole childhood. I was the little girl with homemade Valentine’s cards that were finished five minutes before I had to leave for school and then when I got home from school she was nowhere to be found. She always came through at the last minute and then she disappeared, as if the stress of doing motherly things drove her to drink or sparked a need to be alone. I learned how to find her—she was either at the yoga studio, at the bead store, or at the bar. I always prayed that it was never the last one.
So on top of asking me about school, she also let me know that my dad is coming to visit this weekend. Argh! I never really grew up knowing my dad, but everybody seems to love him, even my mom still after his inconsistent presence in our lives and after nearly 10 years of not being in the same city with the man. He plays instruments and produces records for famous musicians, all of whom are African American and made music that was labeled “Rhythm and Blues,” “Soul” or simply “Black music.” I grew up listening to Sly and the Family Stone, the Temptations, Smokey Robinson (with and sans The Miracles), and, my personal favorite, Diana Ross (with and sans The Supremes).
I didn’t know what to say at the point so I tell my mom that I needed to take a shower. My dad coming to town always stirs up a mixture of feelings and emotions. I love seeing him, but couldn’t help but also resent him for not sticking around, for being so handsome and charming that for a very long time, my mother could not seem to get over him. He was always so fun and loving that I often forgot about the bad things until he actually left again.
TKAstle says
So, Dad,
You should know Mom's making me write this. Duh. Sometimes it's such a pain having a psychologist for a mother. Did she do this kind of stuff to you, too?
Anyway, blah, blah, blah, right?
I guess I should start by telling you what I know. I know you didn't mean to die. I know it wasn't your fault. You weren't the one who was driving drunk. I also know you never would have wished this kind of hell on anyone. Ever. If you're still out there somewhere, I know you still love me. (That is if you even remember me.) I know all that crap, but there's so much I don't know that sometimes what I do know doesn't make any difference.
Will I ever be happy again? Screw 'happy.' Will I ever feel even remotely close to normal again? Will I ever make it through one whole day without crying? Will I ever see you again? Are you alive somewhere or is death the end of everything?
And, I don't mean to burst anyone's bubble or anything, but did you know that your wife and your son have forgiven that _____ who killed you? (I won't say what I want to call him. You'd be disappointed in me.) Don't worry, though. I'll never betray you like that.
Writing this is supposed to be helping, but I'm just getting more and more pissed the longer I write – so I'm gonna stop.
Before I do, I guess I should tell you that I miss you so freakin' bad ALL the time. I really did not know a person could hurt this much and still stay alive. So, hah, I guess it would make Mom happy to know that at least I'm learning *something* from all this _____.
Love (even more than I ever told you),
LeeAnne
Stephen says
November 12
Today I figured out God’s real name.
It’s Whim.
Destroyer of Dreams fits better. But Whim sounds more poetic and might even be a little bit clever and I think it shows initiative on my part. Maybe if Whim sees I’m really trying here he might give me a break. That’s not asking much. Not after today.
And, yes, this is about Becky. When is it ever about anything else?
Fourth period. Geometry. (This is somewhat ironic, considering what happened. I think “ironic” is the right word.) We were supposed to be solving problems Mr. Griner had scribbled on the blackboard, but it just seemed like busywork to me. Something to buy time so he could finish grading yesterday’s quiz. He looked pretty out of it today. Very un-teacherly. Hung over maybe.
I could have solved the problems easily enough. But instead, I unbent a large red paperclip I’d found in my pocket and started using it to etch away at the top of my desk, not really thinking about what I was doing. I was thinking about Becky.
I was trying to figure out what she meant when she said “yeah” the other day. It was pretty much the first word she’d said to me since school started, and technically speaking she didn’t really say it to me, but I couldn’t help but wonder if there was more to her "yeah" than simple agreement with my complaint to Mr. Griner about giving us too much homework.
So I’m scratching away at the desk when the paper clip sticks against a stubborn spot and then suddenly springs back, flying out of my fingers in a parabolic arc over my left shoulder.
Without thinking or even looking, I twisted to my left and reached out to snag the paperclip. Apparently, the very moment the paperclip had sprung away from my desk, Becky had stepped into the aisle.
So…instead of grabbing the paperclip, I grabbed Becky’s ass. Not a good kind of grab, like I’ve daydreamed about. But a weak, embarrassing half-pinch. She spun around and yelled “hey” and glared at me. I opened my mouth to explain, but her eyes had already shifted to my desk. She was looking at the unfinished etching. That’s when she said “pervert” and stormed away.
It was supposed to be a skateboard. I don’t know why I was etching a skateboard into my desk. I don’t skate. I never have. I never will. Skateboards are for children and stoners. The thing is, I’d only etched two back wheels and the deck.
So…yeah. It looked exactly like a penis. A big, fat, erect penis.
Good one, Whim.
Patrice says
Wed. 4/16
She watched me today. Freakin ace. It’s been twenty-seven days since she said it. Twenty seven days of losing races, messing up cosines and waking up in a sweat. During warm up, McGill was going on, as usual, about what he got last night but I was barely listening, knowing she was there, just on the other side of the glass in the teachers’ lounge. School was long over and I was the only reason she had to be there. I went through the motions, stretching best I could, mostly staring at the asphalt and waiting for a solution to pop into my brain. Even before I cornered the track and saw her there, I could feel her on me, over the crest of my shoulders and down my spine, my torso, my sore hamstrings. I could smell that honeydew gum she chews.
I’ve thought of dozens of different ways to approach her, but they’d make me out to be an immature jerk. It’s hard enough for me to talk to high school girls, forchrissakes. Maybe I should just try to get detention.
Sometimes, at night, I think about what it would be like with her. I think about my mom finding out, and for a few minutes I force myself to forget the whole crazy idea, but those words still torture me. While McGill was bragging about Liza, I watched Ty and the other guys latch onto his every word, like its the closest thing to an experience they’ll ever have. Then, I started thinking about that microphone around her neck and how every time she puts it on, I stare at the buttons on her blouse. When she reaches for symbols high on the white board, I concentrate on the outline of her waist. The backs of her calves. She knows I’m watching and she knows I’m wanting.
Twenty-seven days ago. She pulled up the chair next to my desk, her body just a breath away, too close for a teacher. With a deliberate grin that confused me, she said, “I want what you want.”
She owns me.
sarah says
I, Rebecca Smith, being of sound mind and body, do hereby make, publish and declare this to be my Last Will and Testament.
If my mother, Camille Hannah Smith, does not predecease me, I bequeath to her all my possessions, except for the following items to be given to certain parties. If my mother does die before I do, all items are to be auctioned off on ebay (except for items mentioned below) and moneies raised are to be given to William Travis High School for a demon hunting club. The world will need all the help it can get.
As for the items to be handed out otherwise…
To Tori Hodges, my best friend in the entire world. I wish we had met sooner. I leave you my charm bracelet. May it not fail to protect you. I also leave you contents of my secret stash beneath my bed. Try not to spend it all in one place.
To Caleb Jackson, my love – I already gave you something that no one else will ever be able to take. Of course, when Mom, or Tobias, or even Dottie reads this, they will make into a personal whipping boy for "deflowering" me. Tori would probably just say "way to go, lover boy."
To Tobias of no last name. I leave you a swift kick in the pants. That was all you gave me. I also leave you a right hook. Hopefully, Caleb will supply these to you. And a sound beating from Micah, Rem, Punch, and Judy. They do like me better than you, you a-hole.
To Dottie Smith, my great-aunt, I leave the secret to cooking corn on the cob. Google “Alton Brown corn on cob”. You are a great cook otherwise, and I don’t know what else to leave you.
To Mrs. Petersen, the drum corps, the swim team, Mr. Putin – may you burn in the fiery pits of Hell and be forced to watch the worst reality TV shows ever made over and over and that Micah, Rem, Punch, and Judy were the ones to deliver you there.
To Micah, Rem, Punch, and Judy – all of no last names. I know you did your best to save me. In a better time, you might have. Try not to end the world without me.
susannah says
I saw him again last night. We’ve barely hung out since I’d got back from orientation, and he promised a fun night—he met me at work at eleven and we went to some club over near Essex. He knew the bouncer so I got right in, even though I’m sure he knew I wasn’t 21. I feel like I notice that all the time now, what a baby I am, especially after my epic UNC fail where it was blatantly obvious there’s nowhere I belong less than with a bunch of college people.
I don’t think I got the whole idea of a “meat market” until I got in there, but it did seriously look less like people and more like a bunch of chest/arm/stomach slabs to be ordered up. And so fucking loud! It totally wasn’t my scene and I don’t think it was his either, but the best part—really the only redeeming part about the whole experience—was the music, just good songs, one after the other, so we just danced. We haven’t danced since the first time we met, and it was even better than I remembered. At the party, I was freaked out just being close to him, but now it’s perfect. And there was no one watching and waiting to see what would happen, there was nothing but us, like he didn’t see anyone but me. Even though there were obviously so many other girls there, he barely ever looked at them, even when his friends were blatantly talking about them.
After we left, we went out to his car, and I’d thought I’d try to talk to him about what had happened in North Carolina, and our relationship, and everything, but… yeah. Even after what happened last week, I wasn’t scared—I knew he wasn’t really going to try to have our first time be in his car-and it was so incredible when he shoved back his seat and pulled me on top of him. It seriously took all the willpower I had not to tell him that yes, I wanted to, that the next time we were together and had the chance, I wanted to. And part of me still does, but I feel like if we slept together it would mean too much: like we’re really in love and this is a serious relationship. I always sort of assumed the first guy I slept with would be someone I was really serious about, but that isn’t how I think about him. I mean, I like him so much and he’d be sweet to me and not be a dick afterwards and would stop any time I asked him to—but I still basically lie any time people ask about him, especially my parents or Rosie. I don’t even feel comfortable going out with him and my friends because it always seems totally apparent that he’s older, even though I never notice when it’s just us—
mywriteside says
My dear inanimate friend (Yeah, I know! Big word for a small town girl),
Well, I made to another new year! No, I won’t complain about being without a boyfriend for another year. I’m sure that’s what every other teenage girl is whining about right now. I’m just happy that I survived! This means there’s only one semester and one year until I am out of here! Thank God too! Most of the teachers around here are making me anxious.
I already knew a long time ago that I had no hand eye coordination, but my gym teacher seems rather determined to break my spirit so I can throw a goddamn softball properly. “Like this,” the teacher will say just before demonstrating the proper throw, as if it were SOO easy.
I think the teacher has lesbian tendencies. She is very much in love with the other girls in my class. I suppose it could be that they are on the softball team, and she is the coach. Ugh, that teacher is just like a horrible parent: selecting favorites, and then making the other siblings just like the favorite.
So anyways, softball. How is this ever going to help me in reality? I’ll file it with ‘Calculus’ in the folder LEAST LIKEY TO HELP ME IN REALITY. I will proudly state again: Only one semester and one year until I am out of here.
I’m sure you’re very curious as to whether I’ve made any resolutions this year. I made three actually: finish that novel I started way back when I was fourteen, apply to college, and get into college. Every piece of that still feels like a pipe dream.
I brought the college idea up to my parents again last night. They seemed wary, and didn’t feel I needed to travel far to get an education. They pushed for a local tech college, which was popular for large animal veterinarian students to attend. I loved animals, but I decided I needed to follow my love of words. My parents keep telling me, “I just don’t think we’ll have the money.” I hear them, I absorb what they tell me, but I still want to pursue what I want versus what is financially right. However, I don’t plan on looking into a private, religious-affiliated college. I don’t really feel like selling them my first born to pay off the debt.
I decided to start a new fashion this year, which I guess can be counted as a fourth resolution (I’m a fan of odd numbers. They reflect my odd personality). I’ve started wearing skirts over my jeans. Seems to piss off the locals. I can’t figure out what it is, but they seem upset with the confidence I develop when I actually wear something out of style to them. The truth is, I love my skirts, but I freeze my butt off in the winter wearing them. Jeans seemed logical.
Auditions next week for the musical ‘Annie.’ Wish me luck.
StarChaser says
Sorry I was gone so long. Mom made me load the dishwasher and dump the trash. OK. Now where was I? Oh, yeah….
I reached inside his underwear [it felt humid inside, like being in the natatorium when a swim meet’s going on] and just grabbed IT.
As you know, I’d never touched one before. I was expecting “hard” and “a roundish head,” but what surprised me was “alive.” It had a heartbeat. It twitched in my hand.
I squeezed it to see if it would change shape, and he groaned. At first I thought I’d hurt him cas he pulled away from me. But a couple seconds later he was back, jeans and tighty-whities gone, and handed me a little package.
OK, I’ve seen condoms on TV shows but have never been up close and personal with one. He caught on I didn’t know what to do and took it from my hand.
As he rolled the condom onto himself, memories flooded back of health class last year when our counselor rolled a black one down a banana. At the time, I laughed, thinking it looked like the stupidest thing ever, like Mr. Hankie with a raincoat.
But I didn’t laugh this time. I thought it would kill the mood. And I didn’t want to kill the mood.
He hovered over me, like a sword to a sheath, and pushed. Even though his fingers had prepared the way, it killed to have him even a little bit inside me. Felt like he was pushing my entire body inside my vagina using a tennis ball.
I worried that the only way he was getting in was to tear something. I worried I wouldn’t be able to do this.
I tensed like a frozen popsicle. But he went slow, first in then out, again and again, and suddenly it was like, Aha! Behold! The miraculously expanding vagina!
Heat began to build inside me and I gripped his butt with my hands to hold him close as possible to the growing spot of pleasure that replaced the pain. We were breathing hard, and drops of his sweat fell from his face to mine. Normally sharing sweat is gross, but in this case I didn’t care: the good feeling was bubbling up.
Yeah, I know. You’ve been hearing about my orgasms for five years, since my first that summer I turned 11, but this one was different. Really! It was way more intense, like my soul was shot from my body and took a spin around the universe on a star.
He jammed into me, threw his head back, and growled like a wolf. He had just barely pulled out when we heard his mom coming downstairs. We threw on our clothes and he walked me home.
At my front door he kissed my cheek and pressed five crumpled twenties into my hand.
Not bad for 15 minutes work…and my first time. Once more, and that new nano is mine!
stephanie says
Dear Diary –
September 27, 1991
(Isn't that the way I'm supposed to start this?)
Jason S. tried to talk to me after history today. I think it was because of Collin's comment last week about that other Mallory in the newspaper article, the one who "died" in the North Tower on 9/11 and shared my name, my background, my brother… and whose body hasn't been found. Stupid. If he'd ever said hello to me in the three weeks I've been at the high school, if he'd ever asked to copy my notes or walk me to Mr. Rossi's fourth block Italian I class, I might have cared a little more. Now I'll always wonder why he tried.
Really, I'm just glad they call her "that other Mallory," because if they didn't, I might have to tell Mom it's time to run again.
Sometimes I wish I could keep a real diary so that I could flip back through the pages later and see when this boy smiled at me or that teacher said something nice about a paper. Sometimes. But diaries and boys and papers seem pretty inconsequential when you're running for your life. If I keep you in my mind, diary, then I never have to worry about someone finding the key.
Jourdan Alexandra says
Dear Diary,
Today was the first day of senior year.
It was also one of the most awful, rotten, unbearably painful days of my life. It was the kind of day that made me want to scream at the sun for having the audacity to shine and to hurl obscenities at all the smiling faces I came across. It was the kind of day that made me want to vanish into the wilderness, to lose myself and all the agonizing reminders of what I was forced to do. Maybe then my exhausted mind would allow me to forget. But even as I write this, I know I will never forget. The tragedy of what happened will be my burden to bear forever.
It’s been eight months since the first time Cole flashed his flawless grin at me; five months since we made love in the bed of his truck beneath an endless canopy of stars; and three months since the doctors scraped out the inside of my uterus and carefully disposed of the remains. All that wasted potential of what could have been, tightly sealed up in a biohazard bag, incinerator-ready. Thinking about it is excruciating; it makes me want to vomit.
I spent the summer in Miami at Grandma’s, but I never went out to enjoy the coastal weather. I stayed inside, holding my own private vigil, mourning and thinking. Thinking of what it would be like when I saw Cole again, fantasizing about the wonderful things he would say, things that would eradicate my sorrow and somehow make me whole again. His words were always so lovely—I suppose that’s what made me fall for him in the first place.
But today was a disaster, a mockery of how I dreamed it would be. He looked right past me as if I was invisible, ignored me as if I had never existed. As if we had never held hands as the sun set, as if we had never shared kisses in the spring rain, as if he had never told me he loved me. But he did tell me he loved me, and now I understand that it was just a cunningly crafted lie. Unfortunately, this realization arrived long overdue—it came too late.
I feel like he stole so much from me, so much that I will never get back. My virginity; the happiness I should have felt upon seeing a positive pregnancy test for the first time; the fun and excitement that this day could have been filled with. All this thievery has left me empty inside, alone and hollow.
I ended the day with the sickening sight of him flirting with Jenny Manchester by her new convertible. I wanted to run up and punch every inch of his stupid, beautiful face; I wanted to make him scream, make him bleed, like I did. But I didn’t—instead, I climbed into my car and cried.
I can only hope that tomorrow will be better.
–Brooke
Writer and Cat says
Dear Computer,
You’ll be happy to know I didn’t get suspended today. I just got detention, for the throwing up. I guess I should be happy too, but why should I be about something that’s not fair? I can’t control when I throw up. I’m not like bulimic or something.
Mom won’t even do anything about it, even though she knows I didn’t steal the damn ashtray. Why would I want an ashtray when that’s why Daddy died? Seriously. She told me I was lucky I wasn’t suspended over this and should pick better friends. Yeah. Like it was my “friends” who lied to the assistant principal Mrs. B (B for Bitch) about my stealing the ashtray on the class trip. Hell no, it was punch-face Tishy and Gordon the Geek who were the liars. Jess maybe might have taken an ashtray, but she wasn’t the one called to the principal’s office over it. I was.
My purse isn’t even big enough to hide the ashtray I supposedly stole. The purse I carry every day, you know that one? That I showed Mrs. B? Which she searched without a warrant? And she said just because I thought my family was better than everyone else’s–which obviously it’s not, what with the food stamps and all–didn’t mean I could get away with murder. Which is the same as stealing an ashtray in Bitch world. She said I was lucky I wasn’t getting suspended too. Maybe next time her husband shows up near dinner hoping for an invite, I’ll tell her she’s lucky she’s not getting divorced. Like I don’t know what he wants from Mom, and it’s not her craptastic meatloaf.
So anyway, when I had to meet with Mrs. B today and bring the ashtray and the money to mail it back to the restaurant AND the humiliating letter to the manager about how I was a bad person and a thief who should be ashamed of herself–with my real name and address on it–what was I supposed to do? I didn’t have an ashtray. Or much money, but I unrolled my Christmas pennies and took those to her in a dirty sock.
She got all red and started yelling at me about disrespect and suspension and some crap about how the politest boy she ever met was the one who got to be valedictorian–like OMG who knows if I’ll be valedictorian when I’m a sophomore–which was when I puked on her shoes. I can’t help it, I get nervous. I swear she was going to hit me, but the principal walked in and she sent me to the school nurse instead.
I think maybe Mrs. B might have noticed it was her husband’s sock. Do you think that was pushing it?
Sincerely,
You-Know-Who
Katie says
I woke up this morning and looked up at the dying stars and remembered.
How could I not remember?
Sometimes it still feels surreal, like a dream I’ll wake up from. In a way I suppose it’s true; I’ll go to sleep forever and wake up with you. In the stars.
I sat and watched the sunrise and remembered. You and me… and Becky, sleeping out under the stars. We both loved you, as only teenage girls can love, but you chose her. I knew, and I understood. But it didn’t heal the aching emptiness when I saw the way you looked at her. Still, we were friends. We would laugh and talk and dream, share secrets and watch the stars.
Cold, merciless stars that did not care about our friendship.
Warm, mysterious stars, that took you to their midst.
I don’t talk about the accident but maybe I can tell you. I’m the only one who remembers what happened. I’m the only one who survived. The truck came so fast, there was nothing you could have done. Perhaps you know that much, wherever you are, that you were not to blame. You were driving and Becky was in the front seat beside you. You were both killed instantly. I was the one who woke up in the hospital, alone.
What is there to say? I miss you? You were my whole life! You and Becky. Sometimes I feel like it’s too much to wait for destiny. Sometimes all I want is to join you, dancing there with the stars. Yesterday that’s all I could think of. I was obsessed with the idea of killing myself. But I know it’s wrong. I know you wouldn’t want me to take my own life. And I woke up this morning and looked up at the stars and remembered.
How could I not remember?
Soup says
I stopped sleeping since March. It’s 3:32 am right now and fml, what if I have insomnia. So I didn’t really stop sleeping but it’s pretty much the same thing. Lie in bed, wait until blue comes through the curtains, get up. Give or take an hour or two or three of closing my eyes. It’s the same thing.
When I get up in the morning there’s hair on my pillow—seriously, it looks disgusting and I can’t even sweep them off because they’re that bad.
It comes with sleep loss, I think. It’s sort of like bald people when they have cancer and get chemo which kills all your cells, except sleep loss’s kind of different, so. Yeah. I forgot where I was going with that.
Good job.
I really hope I don’t have insomnia because dad’s going to send me more yahoo articles on taking care of yourself and how sleep deprivation leads to depression in proven medical studies and yeah it’s not like I don’t appreciate it because I do. But he’s been living across the ocean for six years and apparently emailing stuff like this is going to make up for it.
I mean he’s working hard in Germany and he keeps saying “soon” but everyone else is just like, “okay.”
We can’t say anything else.
If he wants to tell me he cares that much he should talk to me. I don’t care how but definitely not through yahoo articles written by Mr. Healthy McHealthpants who currently lives in Colorado with his two hamsters or whatever. There’s nothing wrong with Colorado, it’s just the farthest away I can think of from this place.
I can’t wait to leave.
I have a couple more years of hell aka high school but after that I’m free. I’m going to go to an Ivy because that’s what life’s all about anyway, GPA GPA GPA GPA GPA GPA GPA GPA GPA so it just felt really good writing that over and over again.
God my handwriting’s horrible. So I’ll go to an Ivy and all of this will be worth it, this stupid volunteering for walkathons I really don’t care about and chairing clubs that are only there to make you look smart. If I’m helping I want to help for real. And go swimming for once. With Nick and Kayla and Austin and yeah.
I just want to go to sleep. I stopped sleeping and @OMGfacts from Twitter said that sleep deprivation kills faster than starvation. I think that’s a lie cuz I’m not dead yet, and I haven’t really slept in a long, long time. I feel so old. I can’t wait to leave and make money so dad doesn’t have an excuse to be away and I can just forget about this. Although I think I am already. That’s another thing lack of sleep does to you. I read it in one of the articles.
abc says
December 31, 2009
This may not make much sense. I’m sitting in the dark and I’m drunk. This is my first time, obviously. Being drunk, I mean. NOT THAT OTHER THING! I have to write it down because it is important. Yes, I’m usually a good girl. A goody two shoes, even. But where has that gotten me?
So Mandy invited me to a party at her house. I told my parents I was sleeping over, but not about the party. I NEVER DO THESE THINGS. And the party was mostly older kids (some out of high school, even!). And there was drinking, of course. Mandy’s brother got a keg and I must have had two or three beers. They were kinda gross, but I chugged them back quickly until I could feel a buzz.
I’m sorta worried that I’ve been a total idiot, but it has been fun, too. Freeing! Except for the crying part.
One minute I was giggly and funny—doing my impressions, making jokes and stuff–and the next I was sobbing on the sofa, curled into a ball. One of the older guys from the community college kept stroking my back and telling me that I was alright. “You can’t be a ball”, he said, “no matter how hard you try”. It felt good to be touched, even if I didn’t know him, even if was just his hand stroking my back. I thought maybe if I got drunk enough I’d end up kissing somebody, but even drunk I’m too scared and too reserved. Mandy was telling me about her first kiss the other day (I asked) and of course it happened forever ago. I know she’s older and everything, but I’m three years past the age when she first made out. She was 11! I’m 14. Is it ever going to happen?
Hal didn’t come to the party. I don’t know why I thought he might. But he always has better things to do. Hal is perfect. I wish I could hate him.
The party is still going on. Mandy is out there with some guy, having fun, doing things I never do. I’m drunk and in the dark and alone, I guess. Yeah, alone.
Happy New Year!
Sincerely, Amelia B.
kmari03 says
I am not a journal kind of person. Who has time to write down what happens to them? Who remembers? Who has the handwriting?
Writing stuff down means evidence. Parents snooping under mattresses. J accidentally learning how I really feel when he says "just kidding." Exhibit A, if it comes to that.
Why would anyone write down their secrets? The big stuff? That's what I always wondered. Before.
And then there was the dance. And the disaster. And J. And there's no one I can tell, because Mom won't believe me, and E won't talk to me, and everyone else who might possibly care is not only NOT in Washington but NOT even in this …
Okay. Apparently, there are some things I just can't write.
So I'm not a journal kind of person. Or I didn't think I was. But when the choice is between writing it down or falling apart, telling someone or screaming til I never stop, holding out against journaling on principle seems petty.
And if nothing else, my bad handwriting will probably keep my secrets safe.
HJHV says
L,
Mr. D’s droning on and on about some crap I could care less about. Supply and defend, or something. Remembering the look on your face at lunch, economics seems stupider than usual.
I’m SORRY.
I didn’t mean to ignore you. Honestly. It’s just that this is new for me. You’re not like anyone I’ve ever been with. Somehow you got under my skin, past my bullshit, and found the real me. A person I didn’t know existed until you came along. As if, once under there, you yanked someone else out. Now, I feel like a damn rabbit pulled out of a hat. Or maybe better, like a reversible shirt turned inside out. Only the other side is completely different, and raw.
Guess what I’m trying to say is, around you, the badass front fades away. Since it’s been part of me so long, I’m not sure how to act without it. Like right now, I can’t believe I’m writing this shit. Should I really open myself up this much? Am I a total idiot?
Yeah, don’t answer that one.
Ace is tapping his pencil to a beat behind me, and you know what? Your name matches the rhythm. Over and over, it chants in my head right down to my toes. It feels like the one perfect lyric.
Selfishly, after the way I treated you, I don’t want to wait for later. As the day goes by sixth hour just seems more and more like a waste of time. Test tubes and Bunsen burners or you? Ha, like there’s even a contest.
Can you forgive me enough to meet?
My sorry ass will be waiting.
Same spot.
A
Soup says
Agh, I'm sorry. I deleted my entry and reposted it since there was a whole part I didn't plan on adding. Asdfjkl; I'm really sorry about this again.
Emily says
October 23, 2009
K so I’m not very good at this. At writing my thoughts down. Somehow, seeing them as they are makes me want to throw the whole journal in the garbage. My thoughts, my writing, none of it is pretty enough, or even adequate. In my head, it all looks so much nicer.
But I’ll try. I promise. I have to get this out of my head. And then I’ll lock this journal and hide it within a hiding spot within a hiding spot.
My best friend likes my boyfriend. I think she wants him.
Blasphemy, I know. How could I even suspect her? I feel awful, like I’m the most disloyal friend a person could have. But farther down than my feeling of awfulness, there’s a terror that I’m right…when it’s me and her, everything is fine and normal and we’re laughing and having fun and telling stories of things we shouldn’t have done but did anyway. When Luke is here, her eyes are on him. Mine too, so for the longest time I didn’t notice. But she doesn’t respond right away when I try talking to her, doesn’t look me in the eyes when Luke’s around and I get this agonizing feeling that something is wrong.
I don’t want to share Luke with her. I won’t. That’s what I decided last week.
When I first thought she liked him…it’s a good thing I didn’t have this journal. I’d have to burn the whole thing just to pretend my thoughts had never been so dark and furious and terrible. Even now, I’m censoring myself, hiding the parts of me I can’t ever let someone see.
That would be called evidence, if I wrote everything down.
Evidence. What a weighty word.
I think that’s all I can say.
But at least I don’t have to worry about sharing Luke anymore.
Anonymous says
Dear Editor LA Times:
I'm not the one who poisoned those pizzas. Unfortunately, if you get this letter, it means something happened to me. Probably I'm dead, like the Westside Graduation victims.
I know everyone thinks I did it. But I never had anything against any students. I was only trying to make a buck beyond what delivering pies could do. My bad. But not THAT bad.
Here's someting you don't know: It started out as a jewelry heist. Fix a teeny spycam inside the front door frame while I wait for them to collect the pie and dig out their method of payment. I delivered, so to speak, on my end of that little bargain. What happened later, I assure you, was beyond my control. Way beyond.
I don't know names. But how many people order jalepenos with EXTRA anchovies from Pizza Slut?
Signed,
High School Delivery Guy
by Moose Mayhem
A Year Without Want says
Dear Someone,
I don’t even know who to address this letter to, it’s that hard to write. Everything is so mixed up and scary I don’t know what to do.
Dad came over to my mom’s unexpectedly last night. He was supposed to be picking me up to go back to the island on the 12th, but I guess he wanted to talk to my mom earlier.
We were all sitting at the dining room table having dinner—Mom, Susan, and me—when we saw the van pull up. I had been having a nervous feeling in my stomach all day but thought it was just because I was due to leave for the island soon. But when his van pulled up and we saw him coming up to the house I knew I had been expecting this. But I had no idea what would happen.
My dad knocked at the door and my mom was already up. She opened the door just a little and said, “Ames, it’s a bad time, we’re having dinner.”
I heard my dad say, “Won’t take a minute Beth, just a quick question.”
He pushed his way in, like the house was still his, and all of a sudden he was inside and looking at me and Susan sitting at the table. Susan got up and there was something in her body language that made me very scared. It was so obvious to me that she was my mom’s girlfriend then, and I was so scared my dad would see it too. Sure enough, he did.
“’Scuse me, didn’t realize you had company,” my dad said, rocking back on his heels.
Susan said, “I’m not really company. I’m Susan.” She reached her hand out and he just stared at her, then looked at my mom in disbelief.
He glanced between them again, and I could see the fire build in his face as it started to go pink, brightening his blue eyes until they were their own kind of fire. “You’re kidding, right? You’ve got to be kidding.”
Mom didn’t answer, just tried to position herself between him and us. My dad moved toward me.
She said “Ames, now is not the time. We only have a few more days, let us enjoy them.”
But my dad was already shifting his weight from one foot to the other, like he was trying to find a place that could contain the fury that was boiling up.
“So you’re a dike now? You’re a goddamned dike? Is that what this is supposed to be? You think this is an acceptable home for our daughter?”
Susan moved toward him, fearless. “Watch your mouth Ames.”
He turned to her and there was a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes, and I knew few people stood up to him. He had the look of a bully who was loosing his power. I held my breath.
Christine_912 says
Diary,
My voice is quiet. I find it hard to talk to people now. It doesn’t help that my best friend isn’t with me; that he’s stuck in a room alone, hurting.
Every day at school, teachers ask me if I’m okay. Sometimes I nod; sometimes I remain a blank page, no expression. I try to hide. How can they even ask me such a question when they know he’s dying?
My friends try to pretend nothing is happening; I wish they wouldn’t. It only makes it harder to face when I leave school and return to the hospital—the Building of Death. I bring him school work, but he can’t even do it anymore. He can barely speak to me sometimes because he is so tired.
Jared is like the sun, and when I met him over seven years ago, I knew we would be friends forever. It’s ironic that we’re in this situation—that he is sick, nearly dead. I used to think that forever really meant forever. But that was when I was young. When I didn’t know anything about anything. Before the walls of my childhood were shattered by the death of my grandmother.
Now he was going to die too.
When we were young, we were untouchable. Nothing could hurt us. If we got a scratch or a cut on the playground, who cared? We just stood up and kept playing, as if we were superman and superwoman, fighting evil together, healing quickly like the super-humans we were trying to be.
When we grew older and stopped playing games, when Jared’s mother left his family and my grandmother died, when we entered high school, we realized that we were breakable. Things could hurt us; it was as simple as that.
I grab one of Jared’s t-shirts and hold it up to my face, smell it, smell him deep within the fabric. He’s been in the hospital three months. He said I could have his clothes, said he wouldn’t need them anymore where he was going.
I went to his house, looked through his things. I only did it because he wanted me to—he demanded me to take his stuff. Said he didn’t want it to go to just anyone. I should have it.
But there was one thing I had to bring him: his pale, lettered journal. The one that mirrors mine, that we made in fifth grade. The one in which he keeps his own secrets. We agreed never to read the pages of each other’s books.
We used to write in them together each night. Sitting shoulder to shoulder or back to back, always together. This is the first time I’ve opened mine since he left.
Earlier when I brought it to him, I asked if he wanted to write with me. He said no, said, “It doesn’t matter.”
How could he say that? How dare he say that?
“We both know I’m going to die.”
I wanted to cry.
–Emeline
childwriter9 says
April 6, 2009
Today Dad took me and my sister to go see Mom in hospice. He said we’d be sorry one day if we didn’t say goodbye to her. I peeked into the room and it was full of my Dad’s family. Mom can’t move anymore. She just stares. I watched from the doorway as one by one someone sat by her bed took her hand and talked to her. Dad came out and told me it was time. He tried to lead me into the room but I pulled away. I’M NOT GOING IN THERE! And you can’t make me! I stomped off down the hallway. Dad cussed at me and stormed off in the other direction.
I heard someone behind me. I turned and saw my aunt following me. I lost it. Why won’t everyone leave me alone! I’m not going in that room. I don’t care what any of you say. It doesn’t even look like Mom and it scares me to look at her! My legs crumbled and I fell to the floor. My aunt sat next to me and tried to hug me. I pushed her away. Why doesn’t anyone understand! It’s all my fault. If Mom never had me she wouldn’t have gotten cancer the first time and it wouldn’t have come back. I wish I was DEAD. Before I could stop her my aunt grabbed me and hugged me so tight I could hardly breathe. She said how could anyone say that to you? It’s not true! Your mom didn’t get cancer because she was pregnant with you. Somewhere deep inside of me I wanted it to be true so bad. OMG what if it is true! I wouldn’t have to hate myself anymore. I wouldn’t have to drink and get wasted all the time. I wouldn’t have to dress or act like a slut. What if I could be a normal 13-yr-old kid. Would I even know how? My aunt held my face and made me look at her. It’s not your fault she said again. Do you believe me?
I sat in the chair and saw a skeleton lying in the bed. I looked at an unfamiliar face staring back with eyes that did not blink. I reached for Mom’s hand. It was warm. I looked down and was surprised to find I recognized it as my mom’s hand. It hadn’t changed. I looked back and really looked into her eyes. At that moment I felt Mom looking back at me. I squeezed her hand. I talked to her for the first time in a long time. I told her I was sorry I never came and spent time with her in her bedroom and never visited her all the times she was in the hospital. Looking into her eyes I saw a change. I could see her trying to tell me something. She forgave me. I told her I loved her and I kissed her hand.
Mommy died today.
Taffy says
Dear Todd,
I'm writing because your mother said you needed to know what happened the right before we were rescued.
There really wasn't much that happened. You were sleeping. I was gathering wood for the fire. We had slept too long and the fire was almost out.
I made the fire really smokey and looked up and there was the helicopter. You didn't even wake up.
I do owe you an apology in case you remember that I yelled at you.
I didn't mean to yell at you. The mountain felt so empty.
And desolate.
And unaffected by two lost souls kids people souls sleeping on it's face.
The truth is I was scared. I could tell the cold was getting to you.
And that made me feel vulnerable.
I was relying on you to be the strong one.
After I gathered wood, I laid down to take a nap. I must've ate some bad leaves because the next thing I knew I was trying to throw up.
It took all my strength to throw up nothing.
I rolled over on my back and looked at the cloud-covered sky. I followed the thick smoke from our fire until it mingled with the clouds.
That is when I heard the helicopter.
I thought the blood was rushing into my head.
I thought I was dying.
I turned my head and looked at you. You were so still, too still.
I wanted to crawl over to you and shake you.
But my body was useless.
I gave up.
I'm sorry.
When will I see you again?
I hope you are feeling better. I'm glad you didn't lose all your toes.
You friend,
Cassidy
Griffin says
I hate keeping a secret. It’s not that I feel the need to blurt out all my friends’ secrets. That’s not it at all. It’s my own secret that’s the problem. Sometimes it feels like this secret is a wild animal in the pit of my stomach trying to claw its way up my throat and out of my clamped lips. I don’t want to let it out. But sometimes the secret feels stronger than me and it’s all I can do to appear normal.
Self-consciousness is now my constant companion. Every throwaway comment is drenched in meaning. Just yesterday my Dad came home and asked, “Did you get the mail?” That simple question sent my head spinning. “Does he know? How could he have figured it out so soon? What will he think/say/do?” While my head was spinning my mouth managed to stutter out, “Umm … huh? … oh yeah, it’s on the kitchen counter.” Thankfully, my head was bent and my fingers were flipping through an open book. Dad didn’t even see my face, or my eyes darting from left to right. He probably thought I was distracted by the book. Hopefully.
It all started with the letter. Scratch that – it’s been happening for a while now, but until now I thought it was all in my head. Everyone says being a teenager makes you a little bit crazy. This is different. This is not hormones in overdrive. I wish it was that simple.
Getting a letter should have clued me in. I never get mail. The look of the letter should have been my second clue. As I pulled the stack of mail from the mailbox and began shuffling through the usual bills and junk mail, I almost flipped by the white, square envelope. Only my name appeared on the front – no address, stamp, postmark or return address. It wasn’t until I gently broke the seal, unfolded the simple white sheet, and read the letter that my mind stopped. The letter contained only seven words.
How long have you had the Sense?
I didn’t make it to the front door. I stood, frozen in front of the mailbox, reading and rereading those seven words. The Sense? I have never put words to the strange feeling I have been experiencing for months. Somehow, I knew that’s what the letter was about. This strange feeling is the secret that is gnawing at my insides. I don’t know what’s happening to me. But there is someone who does.
I felt a thrill of relief. Finally, maybe, I’ll learn the truth. In the same instant, a chill crept over my skin. Whoever wrote this letter walked up to my house and personally placed it in my mailbox. Who are they, and how did they get in my head?
A distant car horn shook me back to reality. I quickly looked around me but saw no one. I ran inside and hid the letter.
Ryan Ashley Scott says
Did you mean what you wrote? Are you sorry? Will I “always have a place the ole’ heart” really?
Because it seems like if you mean it, we could have spent the past two years together. None of the hang-up calls, no trying to spot you at parties or wearing my hair down because you liked it that way. No comparing myself to your dates and no hoping you thought of me just as much. No fantasizing about our last kiss and hating that it ever ended. But most of all? Most of all, no wondering if I picked the wrong side of your ultimatum.
Two years.
So now you apologize. Now. When tomorrow you’ll be gone and I’ll be left – to what? To wonder how this could have turned out differently? To go on torturing myself over what we lost. I suppose you wouldn’t want me forgetting about you just because you aren’t around. So you’re sorry now.
You know what? I’m sorry, too. I’m sorry you made me choose between us or myself. I’m sorry we’ve spent two years swiping sideways glances and purposely brushing against one another as we pass in the hall. I’m sorry you couldn’t wait just a little while for me. Just until I was ready.
But all this won’t fit on a post-it trapped behind a wiper blade, so I'll get right to the dirty:
You can take your sorry and that place in your ole’ heart and stick it to some college chick’s windshield. I don’t need it anymore.
Shooting Stars Mag says
Dear (un) Diary:
Nobody ever tells you about the break up.
"Omg, he's so cute!"
"You are should ask him out."
"Dating?! I'm so jealous!! Lucky you!!"
"You are SO getting married."
on and and on and on…until I believe it all too.
Even when he hit me.
I know I haven't been writing lately. I guess even this makes it more real.
It's over though.
We're over.
I just wish…
I just wish I didn't close my eyes and see his face.
I just wish I didn't hear my name and think he's calling for me.
He wasn't all bad.
Nobody seems to get that part.
I just wish, honestly, that he was still here and that scares me.
-Anna
Lauren
lauren51990 AT aol DOT com
That's my entry, thanks!!
Karen Sarah says
Today in Geometry—after weeks of flirting by asking why I never cut my hair, why I always wear long skirts and no makeup, why I don’t watch TV or listen to popular music—he finally asked if wanted to go out with him tonight. At first I thought of Gran. How would I get out of the house? Part of me was also afraid I would be seen by someone from the church.
I went out the window as soon as I heard Gran snoring. On the way home I’d stopped at Walmart to pick up a tank top and a pair of jeans. I haven’t had jeans since I was five. My mom bought those and Gran burnt them soon as we came to live with her. I also bought some mascara and lipstick and put it on just like the girls at school do at their lockers.
I thought I’d feel guilty going out with him, but I didn’t. I was too excited. We didn’t do much, just hung out at the gas station and then by the quarry, trying to stay cool and escape the valley heat. A group of kids from school, ones who never much talk to me, were there too. They seemed curious about me. Wasn’t I one of those Pentecost kids? Was I rebelling? Why did we dress the way we did and why did we scream and shout when we were praying? Had I ever spoken in tongues?
I came home and scrubbed the sickly sweet smell of cloves off my fingertips, and washed the mascara and lipstick from my face. If Gran ever found out it would mean spending every day after school in the church, prayed at and shouted out. People touching my head and pushing me down, trying to command the demon spirit out of me.
I don’t believe in god. But for Gran I sit through hours of fire and brimstone sermons that last until the wee hours of the morning. I often have to wake up early to finish my homework. Gran says there’s no use in an education, but I’m still going to college. It’s been one of her few concessions. I know she worries I’m going to go away and stop believing in god. She’s not wrong.
But I don’t want to hurt her. If I have to lie to make her happy, I’ll lie. I told him this tonight and he said he doesn’t understand. He says two people can’t be close if they’ve got secrets. But I think we’ve all got our secrets we wouldn’t want to share – even with those we love most. Like when I found an old Walkman in the field across the street and I spent the afternoon listening to the local rock station all the kids at school talked about. I can’t even express how happy that made me. Or like telling someone about tonight. Telling someone would absolutely ruin it. So I’ll keep it to myself.
Shannon says
Dear Mom,
It’s October 21st. The weather has turned colder and the leaves are red and gold on the hill behind Father John’s rectory.
I saw him again today. Nico. That's his name. He's darker than the others in the new school. I don't mean color. It's just that next to him everyone else acts like kids, with nothing deeper to think about than if they'll make the football team or pass geometry. Nico's not like that. Actually he's a little bit scary with his black leather and beat up motorcycle. When he's around, my heart races and I get all nervous. We've hardly spoken at all, but every time he's near it feels like he's watching.
I wish you were here so we could talk about this. I'm sure you'd know what I should do. But you're not here, and probably will never even read these silly notes. (Note to self: stop being depressing.)
The big fall dance is coming up. Elliot has asked me to it about a dozen times already. I should probably give in and say yes. Everyone else says Nico won't even go. That he never gets involved in the after-school stuff. Of course Harry also swears that Nico is a demon and can turn into a big black dog. Sarah and Tina both think Harry was drunk when he claims to have seen that weirdness.
For some dumb reason I'm clinging to the hope Nico will ask me.
There must be something wrong with me. Here I am wanting the dangerous guy and turning down perfectly nice Elliot. Maybe it's the same thing that got me kicked out of St. Mary’s. Might be time to give into my rebel side, find some leather and bike off with the doggie demon… (laugh!) What would Father John say to that? I think he’d just fall over dead for sure.
Maybe I should ask Nico to the dance myself? This isn't the Stone Ages. I could quit waiting and ask him. And if he says no, then what?
Then I can say yes to Elliot and thumb my nose at Mr. Dark-N-Dangerous.
Yeah, that's just what I'll do.
Wish me luck, Mom.
Love you, Rae
~~ Shannon
Alexa says
Dear Jess,
I went to the beach today with Luke and his dad and the twins. It was the best day I’ve had since, well, in a while. We didn’t go to the beach near Aunt Dee’s house but to this secret one. There are no hot dog stands and no shops and no people, just sand and sea and rocks. It was perfect; a red-letter day you’d say.
Luke and I helped the twins build sandcastles. Sebbie and Luke made moats and bridges and Lola and I decorated them with bits of shell. I know complete gender stereotyping, right? But they were happy.
After lunch Luke took me for a walk, well a climb really, up to where this one rock juts out over the water. He told me he came here all the time, after his Mom died.
I get why.
If there were a place I could imagine you still existing, it would be there. Where the blue sky and blue sea stretch on and on till they merge and all you can hear is the waves lapping at the rocks.
He asked me about you. I told him how much everyone loved you. I told him about the summers we spent here and how you always made everything brighter and more interesting.
I don’t why he’s the only one I can talk to about you. Maybe it’s because he knows what it’s like to lose someone. Or maybe it’s because he’s Luke.
I like him J.
I mean I really like him.
More than Elliot, more than any of the boys we used to dream about.
You’d like him too. He’s clever and funny and cute and he’s so sweet and patient with the twins. He really looks after them. The way you used to look after me. And when he smiles my heart unfreezes a little bit more.
I think I might be falling love with him.
And I hate it because I shouldn’t be feeling like this, not when you can’t feel anything. I miss you so much J and I feel you slipping away and it terrifies me. I can’t bare the thought of you gone, not just from my life, but from my head too.
Love C
the new kid says
I'm sick and tired of being the new kid. Sure, it has its perks. The chicks are interested now because I'm fresh meat, but that interest will fade quickly when they realize I can't score touchdowns. Nobody knows whether or not I was a complete loser in the old school, which I wasn't. And the teachers seem excited about a fresh face. But you can only ride the wave of mystery for so long before it's crunch time. And crunch time is lunch time. Where the hell was I going to sit?
Being forced to choose between being the friendless douchebag who stares off into space as if counting the cinder blocks in the wall or the newest member of the Dragon Ball Z Fanclub is like choosing between a turd sandwich and a fart sandwich. A turd sandwich is meatier but tastes like crap. A fart sandwich doesn't taste as bad and has fewer calories, but neither is what I'd call satisfying.
If only I had the testicular fortitude to walk over to hottest chick in the school and tell her, "Hey, 5 years from now that guy across from you is going to be 50 pounds heavier, his IQ will be the same and he'll be asking you to put down his bastard son and bring him another can of Miller High Life. I can't promise you the world, but I can promise you I'll get my own beers. And I'll readily admit I enjoyed The Notebook. So let's just skip the bullshit now and fast forward to the good parts. Is this seat taken?"
Too bad confidence is fleeting when your breath smells like shit.
SideKick says
Dear Kasey,
So I guess it’s official now – I’m crazy. I’ve got the little orange bottle to prove it. The words printed on the label certainly have enough x’s in them to drive someone insane, so it’s a good thing they gave it to me, right? Ha.
It’s been a banner week for sure. I went back to school on Monday. People treat me like mom treats that vase grandma gave her. Obviously I’m just as breakable and irreplaceable. So don’t breathe on me. Yesterday, when I went to the bathroom after lunch, I thought for sure I’d find the words “handle with care” stamped on my forehead. But no, only those four stupid freckles – the ones that make me different. Isn’t that what dad always says? We’re both one of a kind. What kind? Kind implies a plural.
Truth is, after I stood in front of that mirror, looking for words on my forehead that weren’t there, I thought I would try my hand in talking to you. Easy mistake to make, right? I mean everyone else got us confused all the time. I’m allowed to just once. I think it’s only fair, all things considered.
So I’m there, talking away to my reflection, oblivious of the world around us – me – pouring my heart out, and one of the stall doors opens behind me. Anna Beckman. You should have seen her face. It was hysterical. Almost worth the fact that she told. Almost.
Anna tells a teacher, teacher tells mom, and here I sit, wondering how something so small as a pill could change me.
They say it will help.
But maybe I don’t want help.
Just like I don’t want anyone to act normal around me. Not really. I don’t want them to sit in your empty chair. I don’t want a new lab partner. I don’t want to start driver’s ed alone.
If I don’t hurt, it’s like it doesn’t matter that you’re gone. If the world can go on without you, then it’s like you weren’t important.
But you were.
No.
You are.
And they don’t understand that.
It’s time for dinner. Mom’s calling for me. I’m supposed to have taken my prescription. Oh well. It’s got one of those damn childproof caps that are just impossible to open no matter how old you are. Not my fault.
Same time tomorrow?
-Kait
Nicole Zoltack says
November 30th, 2009
Dear Diary,
I’m so scared. I don’t know what to do. When that little plus sign showed up, I nearly freaked. Until my stomach became so nauseous that I puked. I’ve been doing that a lot lately. The puking, not the freaking out. Well, actually I have been freaking out lately too. Yelling at my brother. Fighting with Trish. Being ignored by Josh.
What is it with guys? That as soon as they get what they want they just up and leave? I never meant to have sex with Josh but the kissing was really nice and one thing led to another.
And now I’m pregnant. What am I going to do?
January 5th, 2010
Dear Diary,
I still don’t know what to do. I’m not sick much anymore and I’m not showing at all so no one knows.
That’s right – no one. I didn’t tell Josh (we still aren’t talking) and I didn’t tell Trish either.
I signed up on one of those expecting message boards, just to see what it was about. I’m ten weeks now, which means that the fingernails are starting to grow.
I’ve been thinking about my options lately.
Tell Mom – and die.
Tell Josh – I really have no idea how he’ll react. I’m sure he wouldn’t want me to keep if.
If I tell Trish, everyone’ll know.
There’s always the ‘a’ word. But that scares me. Plus I don’t know if I could. I keep thinking about the fingernails. Mine usually break but they seem stronger now.
Fingernails.
I still have time to decide. But I’m scared, Diary. I’m not ready to be a mom.