49

SOPHIE

They all woke up to the poem. Or was it a poem? Sophie didn’t really know.

It was a list, made up of one or two lines about each girl in the eighth grade.

Lara Alexander is elegance in motion. I imagine her in lengthy gowns, holding court in palace gardens, keeping cruelty forever locked out of the castle gates.

Amina Alvi shimmers. We watch her closely, and it’s hard not to, because when she blinks it’s like her eyelids open and close their doors on the moonlight. Maybe that light is her kindness.

Nessa Flores-Brady, a walking, beating heart, who sings like all hearts sing, with wonder, with melancholy. I always thought I knew the story behind each scab and scar, but now, today, I know there’s more.

Miranda Garland, she knows all this better than I because she watches the world and notes its details. A mind like hers could paint people, hallways, planets from memory.

Liv Henry, I see her surrounded by floating numbers and bubbling potions, rewiring a galaxy. She holds supernovas within, black holes and newborn stars.

Erin O’Brien has discovered the answer to questions we haven’t even thought of yet. Sometimes, when she thinks no one’s looking, I see the tips of her mouth rise up in a smile. What’s her daydream?

A tiger lily is orange and so is Rose Reed, bright in the bland gray of middle school, a flame in the ice. She will take over the world if she wants, molding earth with bare hands.

Hayley Salem, floating on clouds, grounded by legs strong as a gazelle’s, she can run and fly. I see her giggle and want to know if she ever frowns, and why.

And who am I?

I am large. I am a million somebodys. I’m Eve Hoffman. The daughter of Deb and Joe. Not Number One or Liar or Body. I am a girl of contradictions. I drink English class like it’s lemonade in August, but my words stumble when I speak. I am constantly baffled and afraid, and sometimes, just sometimes, I am incredibly strong.

I contain multitudes, we all contain multitudes, we are a million things unfolding eternally and we’ll never even know our own full stories.

You are not a number. You are not a body.

What’s one piece of one more universe inside you? What are your multitudes?

And below, the comments section had dozens of comments. And then, within a few hours, a hundred. And then a hundred more, from seventh and eighth graders and girls who didn’t even go to their school. But … they weren’t quite comments. More like confessions—the things people hid, or that didn’t fit with their group or face. They weren’t quite poetry, like Eve’s post. But maybe they were?

I’m afraid of spirits. Like … I seriously can’t breathe when I think of haunted houses. But, also, sometimes I wonder if it’s because I can secretly, like, talk to them or something. Like I’m a ghost hunter.

My mom is my hero. I wrote a paper saying it was Susan B. Anthony, but it’s my mom.

I love my hair. It’s frizzy and all this “bad” stuff or whatever and I know I’m supposed to hate it, but I just love it. I think it’s cute. And I’m not going to change it.

My dad took me to a psychic and she told me my soul is the color of lime. I don’t believe in psychics, but I believe that.

My brother gets really sick sometimes. He has this disease called sickle cell. We spend a lot of time in the hospital, but we try to make it fun for him. He’s only eleven, but he’s tougher than anybody. Sometimes I’m sad about that at school, and people just think I’m stuck-up. I’m not. I’m just worried.

I write My Little Pony fan fiction. But it’s not stupid. It’s about what they really feel, as if they were real people. And no one should laugh at me about that! It makes me happy!