“Thanks,” I whisper.
Cruz points at the front of the room with her pen. “Take notes. Mrs. Hellstrom is a hardass.”
In Shop class, Cruz barely acknowledged my existence. Then last night she tried to help me, and now she’s lending me a pencil and giving me advice?
The drama at the street races proved that I’m completely out of my element—and that one of my best friends has zero common sense. I’m sure that didn’t impress anyone.
So what did I miss?
Mrs. Hellstrom scrawls a series of names on the board in illegible serial killer handwriting. “Sylvia Plath. Ralph Waldo Emerson. Virginia Woolf. F. Scott Fitzgerald. Alice Walker.” She stretches her arm across the whiteboard and draws a line under the names. “What do these writers have in common?”
The guy who looked like he was asleep in the back of the room yesterday raises his hand.
“Jamal?” Mrs. Hellstrom watches him expectantly.
“They’re all novelists or poets.”
“Jamal is correct, but they have something else in common.” When no one volunteers an answer, Mrs. Hellstrom perches on the front of her desk, half sitting and half standing in one of those I’m-a-cool-teacher poses. “All these authors kept journals.”
“So they wrote in diaries?” asks a girl in the second row.
Mrs. Hellstrom starts pacing, as if whatever she’s about to tell us is so exciting she can’t sit still any longer. “Their journals weren’t accounts of their day-to-day lives, like traditional diaries. They were far less structured.”
She retrieves a stack of handouts from her desk and gives some to the first person in each row to pass back. “These packets include samples from the journals of the authors whose names are on the board, in addition to some other artists you might recognize.”
I flip through the photocopied pages. Sylvia Plath. Henry David Thoreau. Anne Frank. Frida Kahlo. Kurt Cobain. Pages of poetry, song lyrics, doodles, lists, and anecdotes mixed in with longer entries.
Abel once told me that his dad used to make lists of words and phrases whenever he worked on a new song.
“These are kinda personal,” Cruz says.
“You’re right,” Mrs. Hellstrom says. “These excerpts contain everything from observations and ideas for stories, songs, and poems to the thoughts and dreams of the journal writers.” She’s borderline euphoric now. “Their hopes and fears … they’re all here in different forms. This semester, each of you will create a journal that reflects who you are as a writer.”
Is this woman insane? I don’t like discussing my fears with my friends. There’s no way I’m sharing them with her—in writing.
And my hopes?
I hope I can sleep for more than three hours a night. I hope the flashbacks of Noah’s head hitting the ground will stop and I’ll remember the faces of his attacker instead. I hope my dad gets off my back. I hope Mrs. Hellstrom quits tomorrow and takes this nightmarish assignment with her.
Mrs. Hellstrom flips through the packet, reading Kurt Cobain lyrics that never made it into his songs, and passages from what she calls a coming-of-age art journal.
I sigh and drop my head on my desk.
“She assigns crazy-ass stuff like this every year,” Cruz whispers. She stops talking every time Mrs. Hellstrom glances up from the packet.
“Okay,” I manage.
Cruz raises her hand.
“Isabella? Do you have a question?” our insane teacher asks.
“So you want us to tell you our secrets?”
“I’m not asking you to share anything you’re uncomfortable with, Isabella. The journals are a place to experiment, so you can find your voices as writers. They can be full of short stories or poetry if you don’t want to write about yourself directly. But I think you’ll find that even journals composed of narrative entries are a reflection of the writer.”
“Isabella?” I whisper when Mrs. Hellstrom turns to answer another question.
She rolls her eyes. “Isabella Vera Cruz. But nobody calls me that except annoying teachers like her.”
“Trust me, I get it.” I point at myself. “Francesca Devereux.”
She laughs, and Mrs. Hellstrom glares at us.
Eventually, we get paired up to answer boring questions about the entries from the dead and famous.
“So are you okay after everything that went down last night?” Cruz asks me.
“Yeah.” The realization hits me all at once. I’m not just saying it because she is the one asking.
For the first time in months, it’s true.
I am okay.
Last night I held it together when Sung grabbed me, and this morning I stood my ground with Dad—something the old Frankie never would’ve done. It feels like I’m finally waking up after being asleep for years.
“When I mentioned the street races to your friend Abel, I didn’t think he’d really come. Or that it would start such a shit storm.” Cruz shakes her head. At least that part of Abel’s story was true. “But I couldn’t believe you showed up.”
“Why?” Now that I asked, I’m not sure I want to know the answer.