Regan grinned.
Anyway, like I said, this is my first entry, so I’m also not sure if I’m supposed to write to anyone in particular—real or imaginary. I had this friend in first grade. His name was Kevin. He was nice. If I wrote to anyone, I guess it’d be him. But I don’t plan to ever share these thoughts with Kevin. Or anyone, for that matter.
Her heart dropped—weighted by voyeuristic guilt—and she slammed the cover closed. The fifth period bell rang, and she held her breath, waiting for the halls to stop screaming.
Everything went quiet, and she dropped her eyes to the notebook once more.
“Pretend I’m not anyone,” she said. “You don’t know I exist anyway.”
She reopened the book and continued reading.
I would probably keep a virtual journal if I had a computer. I type faster than I can write, but too bad. I’m one of those poor kids who has to visit the library or stay after school if he has to type assignments. It’s so freaking lame. I’ve only asked my dad a trillion times for a laptop, and he tells me to buy it myself. I’m glad Roy hired me. I’m saving everything for a laptop first. Wait, no no. Not a laptop. A kickass snowboard. Then the laptop.
Regan laughed. “Priorities.”
So there’s my introduction. Not much, but I really don’t want to talk about myself anymore. At least not right now. I wanna talk about this girl in my class. That’s really why I started the journal today. I mean, not for her exclusively, but I saw her today, and it got me thinking. I don’t want to forget these thoughts, so here they are.
Regan read feverishly. All it took was the word “girl” to pick up her pace.
Regan Walters has been in my class since second grade.
Her heart beat out a frantic rhythm.
She’s a cool chick. Well, I mean she was.
“What the hell?” Regan mouthed.
She used to do her own thing. She was crazy, actually. She dressed all weird and was really pushy and opinionated, and I think I’m making her out to sound not so likeable.
“Uh, yeah.”
But she was totally likeable. She was nice to everyone. Sometimes the boys would pick on her, but she didn’t care. And they sensed that because all of a sudden, in like one day, they just stopped. They couldn’t get to her, so it’s like they just decided to leave her alone. Maybe even respect her a little. She became the uncool cool girl. (I know that doesn’t make any sense.)
And then I saw her walk into school today looking like a copycat of all the other popular girls. I saw her talking to Brandon, and I just flipped out inside. Who was this girl? What was she doing? I just thought to myself, Regan, you fucking sell-out.
Regan gasped. “Fuck you.”
Fuck you, Regan. Fuck your popular girl status and your fake ass personality.
“Fuuuuuuck YOU!”
She hurt my feelings. I know that sounds stupid, but she did. If someone were to ask me to name one person in the whole world I thought would never compromise herself for anything or anyone, I’d say Regan Walters. I wouldn’t think twice.
Regan averted her eyes and stared at the toilet paper holder. Embarrassment filled every corner of her heart until it could no longer fit. She braced herself for the tear—listening intently for the ripping seams—those few seconds before the shame spilled over in a mixture of anger and humiliation. And tears. She was a girl after all, and goddamnit, she was going to cry about it.
But now I’d think twice and come to the decision that no, she’s not it. She’s not who I thought she was.
She slammed closed the notebook and threw it against the stall door. It slapped the metal and dropped to the floor, landing flat on its face.
“You don’t know a thing about me,” she hissed.
She shoved the journal in her book bag and headed for the front office.
“I’m sick,” she lied to the secretary. “I was in the bathroom throwing up all last period. I need to go home.”
The secretary looked up. “Name?”
“Regan Walters.”
The secretary typed her name into the computer, then picked up the receiver.
“This is Pam from Ridgeview High,” she said. “Uh, no—” She glanced at Regan. “—it’s not about her clothes.”
Pause.
“Oh, I see,” Pam said, laughing. She looked at Regan and winked. “No, no, she’s sick. Or says she’s sick.”
“I am sick,” Regan grumbled.
Pam ignored her. “Uh huh. Okay, well, I’ll send her home. Did she drive? She walked? Oh, well then maybe you could pick her up?”
“I can walk.”
“Okay, she’ll be here in the front office,” Pam said. “Yep, you’re welcome, Mrs. Walters. Bye bye.”
“I can walk home,” Regan said as she watched the secretary hang up.
“In your condition? No way. You need to stay right here until your mom comes. Well, unless you’d rather see the nurse.”
Pam smiled pleasantly. Regan plopped onto a couch and waited. Her mother took her sweet time getting to school, and Regan had to bide hers with an English class novel. That was until she could hole herself up in her room for the rest of the afternoon to have a one-sided screaming match with that boy.
When she was safely locked away inside her bedroom an hour later, she tackled the journal once more. It was a new entry.
I’ve had several weeks to think about it, and I’m not going to scratch it out. Those were my feelings about her on the first day of school, so they stay. But I realized I could never say that to her face, and I would never want to. I don’t believe it anyway. If she were to smile at me, acknowledge me again in even the slightest way, I wouldn’t say, “Fuck you.” I’d smile back. I’d smile back because I’d remember the Regan from sixth grade who stuck up for me. I know she’s in there. She doesn’t belong with those people. They’re awful. She’s good. She’s goodness, earning a place on the imaginary pedestal I built for her. I’m waiting for her to climb down and get face-to-face with me. Have a real conversation about her cowardice.