“Hi, for those of you who don’t know me, my name is Art Barbara, I’m a senior, and I’m starting a new club. It’s called the Pallbearers Club. We’ll volunteer at local funeral homes to be attendees and pallbearers at funerary services for homeless people or for elderly who have outlived family members and won’t have many or any mourners show up. I’ve already called Stephens Funeral Home on Cabot Street and they would love to have our, um, help.”

I glanced to my right, out the studio window. Ian looked smug, bemused, and disgusted, or smusegusted. Shauna manically spun her hands in front of her, which I assumed was a wrap-it-up gesture. But I was not ready to wrap it up. I’d just started talking.

“I know it sounds a little scary or weird, but we’d be doing a great service for the community, and um, for the people who died, of course, even if they don’t know it. It’s still a very nice thing to do. It would look good on a college application too. Mr. Brugués told me it would. We’d mainly attend services on the weekends. And um—”

Shauna was at the window and banging on it with hammer fists. A crack spidered through the soundproof glass.

“Yeah, I guess that’s it. If you’re interested, keep an eye out for flyers I’ll post around school, or just find me to learn more. My homeroom is A-113, or you can leave a message for me in the front office, or if you forget my name, leave a note addressed to the Pallbearers Club. Thank you. Back to you, Shauna and Ian. Um, go Panthers.”

I like your use of “chud” though an editor or copyeditor might be confused.

This chapter is a little “woe is me,” don’t you think? I’m not judging and I’m not belittling your school-aged experience nor your state of mental health, but by way of perspective, you have white cis-male privilege, did not grow up in poverty, and you did not suffer tragedies during childhood, none that I’m aware of anyway. Apologies if there are revelations to come regarding the latter.

I get it, though. Kids/teens are confused and cruel and then they generally become confused and cruel adults. The emotional scars you described, the type so many of us wear and conceal, are the crucible in which we are formed, especially if we dwell on such things. I hope the act of writing this finally purged some of this poison. However, given everything that happened since you wrote this chapter, I guess that it did not.

For what it’s worth, I do not remember the you from that age as being a hopelessly ugly duckling. If you were, your appalling lack of self-confidence and self-awareness did not help. I do not blame you, but it’s a point of fact.