Her voice was chipper and happy, and you could hear the exclamation points. She’d picked up the voice of an eight-year-old easily.
She looked up and pinched her eyebrows together. “This is a letter from a child,” she guessed.
I smiled gently and nodded.
“Ana?” I gestured, and she sat up. “Next one, please?”
Ana leaned forward, setting her elbows on her knees, and started.
7/14/2004
Dear Juliet,
Mother is right. You are no good! You can’t even keep your shirt from getting wrinkly before family pictures! You are worthless, and I hate you! Everyone hates you! I wish I had a different sister! You’re ugly and stupid! Everyone laughs at you, and Daddy doesn’t even want you. He only wants me! I wish you were dead!
I pressed my lips between my teeth and breathed in. I didn’t want to look up, so I just kept going.
“Sydney, turn the page. Read the next one, please,” I said, flipping the page over.
Sydney hesitated and then cleared her throat.
9/2/2010
Dear Juliet,
I made a new friend today. Her name is Tate, and she doesn’t have a mom. I wish we didn’t have a mom. Maybe you would be safe then. I love you, Juliet, and I think Tate will love you, too. She’s so beautiful and cool and kind. She makes me laugh, and I wish I could introduce her to Dad. He talked to me today, you know? Well, of course you do.
I hate that he can’t remember you most of the time, and I hate that he’s in that hospital, but at least he gives me hugs. Even if he can’t remember me, he’s the only person that gives me hugs. I wish I could see you. I wish I could look in the mirror and still see you there. I’ll bet you look awesome, and I miss your music. Why did you leave? Why won’t you come home?
Katherina
Sydney’s voice fell raspy and soft. “These are a child’s diary entries, aren’t they? To her sister,” she assumed.
I sighed. “Perhaps,” I said, looking around at the girls’ troubled faces. Jake hid behind his sunglasses, but I could tell he was listening.
“What’s the child feeling?” I asked.
“Anger,” Jake ventured. “Innocence. And a lot of sadness.”
I nodded, strolling down the row of seats past each student. “This child has no one to talk to,” I pointed out. “She’s hurting, and she has nowhere to turn to.” I tipped my chin down, swallowing the lump in my throat. “Jake, will you read the next one, please?”
He stayed back, leaning against the concrete but turning his attention to the paper.
3/24/2011
Dear Mother,
I can’t wait to leave you. It’s all I think about. Three more years, and I’m going to college, and I never want to see you again. I feel guilty every time Liam kisses me. I feel like I’m doing something wrong. I’m not doing anything wrong! Everyone kisses their boyfriend and does more! I want to feel. I want to laugh and let go. I want to be happy. Were you ever happy? Did you ever love my father? Me? I feel like I could sink to the bottom of the ocean and never need air. I’m dead.
Katherina
Jake sat up, studying the paper, and then looked up at me. “Juliet is her alter ego,” he stated. “When she writes to Juliet, she’s angry at her. Disappointed. Condescending.” He took off his glasses and squinted at me. “But when she writes to her mother, she’s angry and disappointed in herself. Juliet and Katherina are the same girl.”
My chest flooded with icy heat, and my heart jackhammered through my chest. Jesus. Jake might not be on drugs after all.
I inhaled a breath and looked down. “It’s possible,” I offered, and looked to the girls. “Christa, will you read the next one, please?”
Christa rushed to flip the page.
12/11/13
Dear Juliet,
There’s a new guy at school. He keeps looking at me. Mother would never approve of him, but I can’t help it. I can’t wait to get to school every day and feel him watching me. He makes me feel beautiful, and I love the way my heart rushes. I hide it, but I love it. Being inside my head these days is a lot more fun than it used to be!
Christa smiled wide, and I saw the others try to bite back theirs.
“I like that feeling.” She laughed, and I remembered loving it, too. Jax was something I looked forward to, and he gave me tunnel vision. Catching him looking at me always made me feel beautiful.
I cleared my throat of the tears I’d been holding back. “I’ll read the last one.”
6/16/2014
Dear Juliet,
I’m sorry that I let others make you feel bad. I’m sorry that I hurt you, and I’m sorry that I didn’t fight for you. I should’ve saved you a long time ago, but I wasn’t strong enough. You are beautiful. You were the best at making friendship bracelets at camp in fourth grade, Shane thinks you make the best deviled eggs, and Tate loves your crazy stories. You are worthy of all the love the world has to offer. Your friends stay by your side, and someday you will find a man who thinks the world of you, and you’ll both have children that will be so lucky to have you as a mother. If you want to scale waterfalls in Ecuador and kayak off the coasts of Alaska, then you have to do it. Toss the umbrella and enjoy the rain. Roll down the window and stick your head out. Take off your shoes and go barefoot.
I love you.
I pursed my lips, trying desperately to hold back the tears threatening at the corners of my eyes. Looking around, I noticed Christa wiping tears away and Sydney staring at the paper and clutching the sides in both of her fists. Ana rested her head in her hand, looking touched.
And Jake. Jake flipped back to the front page and looked to be rereading the whole thing again. Amusement tickled my lips, and I smiled.
“Wait a minute,” Ana called. “That last entry is dated today.”
I nodded. “Yes, it was. So”—I quickly changed the subject—“Jake has suggested that Juliet and Katherina are the same person. Who agrees with him?”
I waited, looking between the girls and Jake. One by one they began raising their hands, and I wasn’t sure if they really thought that or they weren’t sure what to think and just agreed. It didn’t matter. The answers weren’t as important as the process.
“Okay,” I started. “Let’s run with that. If Katherina is writing to herself—a girl she calls Juliet—why does she do it instead of just writing ‘Dear Diary’? Or instead of just sharing her thoughts on a page? Why is she writing to herself?”
“Because she feels alone.” Ana shrugged.
“Maybe she’s got a personality disorder?” Christa offered a timid smile, and I nodded in response to their responses, trying not to grin.
“Because,” Sydney piped up, “she can be whoever she wants on the page.”
I narrowed my eyes on her. “What do you mean?”
She licked her lips, sitting up straighter. “In the first entry, she’s supportive but a little condescending, like she’s taking care of Juliet. Like Juliet’s the little sister in need of guidance. Then she gets angry at her, acting like she’s perfect and not the disgrace Juliet is. In both entries, Juliet is portrayed as sad and not good enough. When she writes as Katherina, she gets to be more than that. She gets to be strong and confident.”
I continued, listening and drifting down the aisle.
“Then,” Sydney kept going. “You see her transfer her anger to her mother, saying things she wouldn’t say to her face. She’s also kinder to Juliet as if she begins to realize not everything is her fault.” And she glanced at Jake and then back at me. “Juliet’s not her alter ego. Katherina is.”
My heart tightened in my chest.
Wow.
“So,” I prompted. “Journaling did what for her?”
“Gave her an outlet,” someone said.
Jake spoke up. “Let her say what needed to be said when no one else would listen.”
“It was a release.”
“It saved her life.” And I looked over at Sydney, the girl I didn’t see eye to eye with, but all of a sudden she seemed to get it.
“Writing can be very public and also very private. I want you to forget the rules today,” I said. “I’m going to give you twenty or so minutes. Go put in your iPods, spread out, go to the grass, and write. This isn’t graded. I don’t care about grammar or conventions. I want you to write to yourself as if you’re going to read this twenty years from now. Share who you are right now. What you want. Where you want to go. What you hope to accomplish and what you hope to gain from friends and family. There are no rules. Just write to an older you.”
As they began to dig in their backpacks, I walked back to the stage and grabbed the last journal I’d used. Flipping it open, I sat down on a bench and completed the assignment, too.