Fiona watches me. “I’m sorry, Jake. That guy’s such an asshole. I hope somebody kicks his ass someday. Gives him a taste of his own medicine.” She’s small but sturdy, with thick forearms. She’d probably beat Chad in a fight sooner than I could.

I hate myself for being such a pushover.

I’m tired of losing these spats and sitting with quiet resentment. Fiona is right. Chad is one of the few people I wouldn’t miss if some happenstance misfortune cut his life short.

Sawyer

October 21

Dear Diary,

Dr. Scott and Momma can’t agree on what’s wrong with me. Doc says, “I don’t want to assume the worst. Sawyer’s a good kid.”

I think he’s lying to make everybody feel better. He asks me pretty often what would make me happy. I think seeing someone evil like Matteo Mooney in extreme pain would bring me to what others call “joy.” Doc Scott harps on about serotonin like it’s the secret to life.

Momma asks him what’s wrong with me, and he says, “He just has trouble relating.”

I went back to school today, nineteen days after discharge. Too soon, I think, but I had no choice.

Word about my suicide attempt spread while I was gone. I can tell by how people look at me—and I blame it on my bigmouthed sister, whose friends are popular and ensure everyone knows everything about everybody.

People mostly stay out of your way when they think you’re crazy. Everyone stared at me, but they left me alone. In every classroom I was fragile glass. A bomb that could go off at any moment.

But people like Matteo—popular kids—don’t give a shit how sad you are. Actually, they want you to be sadder. Annie is kind of friends with him—she tends to leech on to whoever’s getting the most attention.

Today we were in the bathroom at the same time. I caught him in an awkward moment where we looked at each other and instantly looked away. I went into the stall, and he banged on the door after I shut it. “Little Sawyer!” He put one unfeeling gray eye in the crack of the hinge and watched me. “Why’d you try to hurt yourself, little Sawyer?”

I pressed myself against the wall. And he laughed and moved on.

I’m glad my bigmouthed sister let everyone know I am fragile.

Sophomore year, when I ran cross-country, the bullying was nonstop. He thrashed me with towels; he pulled down my pants; he hid my shoes somewhere and left me to search the locker room for them as everyone left. I finally found them wedged in the cavity of a toilet when the whole place was abandoned. Matteo was blocking the doorway, stretching his big arms across the passage. He had no shoes on, only socks, spikes hanging by the laces from his fingers.