Maybe that’s because I don’t want to face my emotions, or the truth—that I don’t believe in myself very much at all. I don’t know what there is to believe in.

But if I accept that, it means I’ve already lost.

Benji’s in the driveway when I get home. He’s rolled my book cart outside the house. A book is burning in a trash can, and Benji’s smashing my incense jar with a baseball bat. The glass goes everywhere.

“What are you doing?” I scream, running up to the driveway from the street.

“Destroying everything you love, just like you did to me.” He breaks my elephant with no remorse.

“Why?”

“Because you took a video of me having sex with someone and then leaked it to the internet, you sicko.”

“I didn’t leak that video. Why would I do that? That would be disgusting.”

Chad bruised his eye up so bad he can barely open it, so it’s hard to see if he's even looking at me. “So you’re saying someone else at the party hacked into our security-camera system and decided to make a porno of me and Laura.”

“Yes, that’s exactly what happened.”

“Who did it?”

“Sawyer.”

“Who?”

“Sawyer Doon.”

He blinks. “Who?”

“The ghost.” I begin to pace. “The ghost who wrote the initials on the wall—I told you. He’s done other things too. Wrote a bunch of bloody letters in my book and showed up in the library. He’s been following me around. He’s been on the patio, he’s been at school, and he’s the one who moved the camera into your room to cause some sort of scandal—”

“Jake—okay, stop.” Benji groans, closing his eyes. “Jake, I’ve really never heard someone blame all their shitty behavior on ghosts except for you. You have a mental illness. You really do.”

He may be right. “This wasn’t my fault.” My voice is a whisper, diminished.

“I think you want to get noticed. That’s what the ghost thing is. You want to be special and mysterious and alternative, but you’re just weird and need help.”

“Of course I need help . . . and you’re no help and never have been.” Tears tremble in my throat. “And you treat girls horribly too. Maybe whoever did it knew you should be exposed for the scumbag you are. Maybe you need help.”

Benji doesn’t move, but anger seethes in his eyes and his chest. I know it could go either way. He could knock my head off or walk away.

After a standoff, he throws the bat at my feet. “I hope the ghost kills you.”

The pile of salt from my incense jar sweeps into the wind as the weapon rolls in a circle, and Benji walks into the house, slamming the door behind him.

Sawyer

November 1

Dear Diary,