Prologue Tuesday was the day everything changed. Maybe it would have turned out differently had I chosen the other path. But I didn’t, and I’m happy with how it happened. Chapter 1 They say all writing is autobiographical. I don’t see what they mean. Or at least, my teacher was saying that autobiographical thing as I sat in class, waiting until the lunch bell would ring and I could dive into the book that was planted at the bottom of my backpack. I was practically staring a hole through the door as I planned the fastest escape route to grab the book from my locker. Nothing could break my concentration. Nothing. “Charlotte?” Miss Rooney looked at me, her face hard. But I could see right through her. It was in her eyes. Her emotions lurked behind them. I stared at her for a moment, peering through her pale bronze glasses frames, behind her emerald green eyes. There! The sadness, the pain, the grief. It was all there, behind her “perfect” cover. I knew from insiders that her husband had died of cancer just two weeks ago. I wish I could go up and hug her, tell her it would be okay. But I couldn’t. Not now. Not ever. “Yes, Miss?” I replied to her innocently. “Please answer the question.” She specified. “Ummm, could you please repeat the question?” I asked her, my face flushing as I felt the laughing eyes of my classmates, who already didn’t like me at all, fall onto me. “Mmph! The little Black girl can’t answer the EASY question!” I heard Derek say. I pretended not to hear and brushed it off. That’s what Mama told me to do. I turned my attention back to the door, but only after answering Miss Rooney’s question. Correctly, of course. Chapter 2 I’m sitting alone at the lunch table in the corner, the one that nobody else sits at because it’s right by the trash cans and stinks like month-old lunches that people threw away since the lunches at Willowbrooke Middle are absolutely disgusting. None of the other girls asked me to sit with them. I don’t care, though. I’d rather read, anyway. Mama says I should read less and make more friends instead, but I still read. Books are my happy place. There are no rules for you to follow, no people making fun of you just because you’re a girl, or just because you’re a person of color. There’s no reason for you not to be yourself, no reason to change who you are. There’s no one to ask you what religion you are, no one to laugh when you say you aren’t any religion. I snap out of my trance when someone taps me gently on the shoulder. I quickly glance up, hoping it’s not someone there just to make fun of me. Again. It turns out it’s my lucky day! Another Black girl, just like me, is standing there, juggling a school lunch tray, her backpack, a water bottle, and a thick book. “Anyone sitting here?” She questions, trying to motion to the seat next to me without dropping her stuff. “No.” I say glumly. “Great!” she cries happily, “Then I’ll sit here!” I sit up straight in surprise. “Really? You’d want to sit with me?” I ask her. “Of course! No one wants to sit alone, do they?” She replies cheerfully. She’s like this walking, talking ball of energy and light and happiness. When she sits down and finally lets go of her load, the only thing that doesn’t spill onto the ground is her lunch. I bend over to help her pick stuff up, and I notice that the cover of her book is identical to the cover of mine, as is the title. I try to nonchalantly ask her what book she’s reading, then dive deep into a heated debate about which character we like more. That lasts all lunch period, and into recess, which our middle school is lucky to have, but then we have to split, because my math class is a different math class than hers, even though we both have math class after lunch. Crazy, right? But we do exchange phone numbers and promise to text each other after school lets out. The math, science, and tech take ages, and even though I get an early start on the bus, I still slog through my homework for an hour and a half. Middle school is the worst. Ugh! But at least I knew that once I was done, I could text Miranda. Everything seemed fine when we were texting, but the next day… I don’t want to talk about it.
all writing by me
