I bang my head against my locker.
Jackson comes up as soon as Colter leaves. He’s wearing a University of Michigan football jersey with a grape juice stain across the yellow M—correction, the maize M, he’d kill me if I even thought the color yellow. Jackson’s always talking about how awesome Michigan is. Grand Creek isn’t far, maybe a couple hours, but he tells me often that life here is different.
His eyebrows lift. “Making friends?”
I retract my forehead from the metal, yank my calculus book out of my locker and shove it in my backpack. It’s the one class I always have homework in. “Don’t I always?”
“What was he saying?” he says, leaning on the locker next to mine.
“He was professing his undying love for me.” I slam my locker door; it echoes in my head like I closed an iron gate.
“He was asking about last night, huh?” he says. “You don’t think he’s your stalker, do you?” he teases.
I give him a deadpan look. “Do you think he needs to stalk anyone? Especially a five-foot-five, average-looking, brunette loser with mismatched socks on a good day?”
“You don’t give yourself enough credit. Brush your hair more often and maybe put on some makeup, you’d be surprised how hot you’d look.”
I throw my arms in the air. “Oh! Makeover?” I grab his arms and squeal, garnering a few glances from other hallway patrons.
He laughs. “You seriously need a friend that’s a girl.”
“A girlfriend?”
“Stop, I’m serious,” he says through another laugh. “Also . . . .” He gets that serious look in his eyes like he wants to pat me on the head—poor little Ellery. “My mom’s expecting you on Sunday. Don’t think you’re going to get out of it like last week.” He gives me his stern glare.
I groan. “I know. I’ll be there.” Jackson’s mom is pretty much the perfect female specimen. You can’t hate her. But she turns into a barracuda if she wants something. My mom works Sunday nights, so back when we were younger, Jackson’s mom found out I was eating alone and invited me for perpetual Sunday dinner.
The bell rings, a warning for sixth period. Sociology, my favorite class. Something I’m good at.
“I gotta go,” he says. “Think about it. The friend part, not the makeover. And Sunday?”
I nod. “Got it.”
I don’t need any girls as friends. I don’t need anyone else to miss me when I go. I’ve been slowly trying to separate from Jackson for months. But he’s like taffy, it’s never going to happen. He sticks to you, to your ribs, gets caught in your teeth.
I need to think of another way to die. I need another plan.
6
Sociology is my favorite class. Something about learning people’s behavior makes me feel smart. I slide into my seat next to Dean Prescott, an old friend of Jackson’s and mine. He never talks and looks about how I feel most days. The rumor last year was that he tried to kill himself. I’m kind of obsessed with knowing why and how he did it, so I still try to talk to him.
I’m a masochist.
“Hey, Dean,” I say.
He looks up at me and the bags under his eyes dominate his face. He nods a hello.
Mr. Fellows, a short dude with a bald head, takes his seat on the desk and hikes up one leg onto the dark wood. “Today we’re talking about structure and agency. Free choice. What does that mean to you?”
A few people raise their hands and talk about generic choices, like, between Pepsi and Coke. I’m sure that’s not what he was talking about.
Free choice.
Free and choice shouldn’t even be together. Choice already represents freedom. If you choose something, you’re taking a stance, you’re exercising your freedom. So it really should just be choice.
I search the room as the next hand raises and I spot Dean. He’s scratching at his arm. Curious, I stare at what he’s picking at and I hold my breath.
Scars line his wrists up and down like he drew them on.
His gaze darts to mine as he quickly slips down his sleeve, cowering lower in his chair. He glances at me again and opens his book, pretending he’s paying attention, but I know.
Dean Prescott has scars on his arm. Scars that look recent. Scars that look like mine.
I used to cut myself to feel pain, to feel something. My skin was too perfect—silky-soft and pure, except I wasn’t pure anymore. I wanted to tarnish it, mess it up so my outside would match my inside. The first time I cut myself was to die—it didn’t work, obviously. It didn’t take long for my skin to match my heart. I had thought I won against the demons inside. I’d finally inflicted the pain I deserved. But my scars were a shining beacon to let everyone know I was fucked up. That’s when Dr. Lamboni came into my life. I’ve worked hard to fake him out, and finally have. After that, I decided the only scars I’d inflict on myself would be invisible.
Class ends quickly and I try to talk to Dean. He shuffles out the door and I follow behind him.