“Not likely. Six of my friends sent it to me in the past few minutes.” I picture the word viral, a soiled word, and imagine my book as a pathogen. Multiplying exponentially. Replicating itself like a cancer cell.
I nod. I get it now. As usual, it just takes me a few extra beats. My body reacts first: My hands flap side to side, and my legs shake up and down. I look like a bird readying for flight. I haven’t flapped like this since the sixth grade, when Miney filmed me on her phone and explained that if I ever wanted to have any friends, I needed to stop. And to my amazement, next time I caught myself doing it, I was able to quit; I replaced the motion with silent counting, though by then the damage had already been done. Apparently no one wants to be friends with the kid who used to flap.
“How bad is it, Miney? Tell me. How bad?” I am hoping there’s something I’m missing here. Maybe it’s not so strange. Maybe other people do this same thing. Keep a notebook about their classmates. Or maybe it will be helpful, after all, just like my physics notes would have been.
Nope. Justin and Gabriel titled the page “The Retard’s Guide to Mapleview.” Don’t they realize you aren’t supposed to use that word? That it’s offensive even to those who actually have Down syndrome? Unless they meant the adjective form of the word, i.e., retarded, as in slow or limited, rather than the noun they’ve used. Not sure if that’s a fair or politically correct usage, but this sort of thing—this abject humiliation—doesn’t seem to happen to the neurotypical.
I picture Kit running away from me. Not even slowing down as she slipped on the snow. I picture Kit reading my notebook. Relieved she got away from me just in time.
“This is bad. Like very, very, very bad,” Miney says. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m going to go see the principal. She’ll make those animals take it down,” my mother says as she comes running into our living room from the kitchen, her car keys already in her hand. She’s heading toward the front door. “We could take legal action. That violates your constitutional right to privacy!”
“You saw it too?” I ask. My eyes are closed now. The darkness helps. Too many sounds. Too many thoughts. Too much of everything. I need darkness and quiet.
“We’ll fix this,” my mom says. Her voice breaks, like a thirteen-year-old boy’s. I’m glad I can’t see her face. I don’t want to know what I’d see there. I consider sticking my fingers in my ears, but that would be going too far, even for me. “I promise.”
“Mom. You can’t go to school,” Miney says. “You’ll just make it worse.”
“They can’t get away with this. They just can’t….”
Miney and my mother go on like this for a few minutes, arguing about what they should do next. Just from their tone, I can tell this is so much worse than the Locker Room Incident, when Justin stuffed me in a locker in seventh grade right after convincing me to join him in a bathroom stall because he said he had something cool to show me. That was a lie. Instead, he grabbed my neck and gave me a swirly in a dirty toilet. And that was bad. I know because my mom cried when she came to pick me up from school that time and spent the whole next day in bed. I know because my dad’s self-defense training started soon thereafter. I know because the next week my sister bought me a notebook and started making me write down rules and telling me who I could and could not trust. I know because I couldn’t shake the smell for weeks. I know because some of the kids still call me shithead.
I know because later, when I really allowed myself to think about it and what I had allowed to happen to me, that day cracked me wide open.
I stop listening. No, this isn’t fixable. I see that now. Reading my notebook is like opening up my brain and exposing to the uncaring world all the parts that don’t make sense. The parts that make me a freak or a moron or a loser or whatever words people like to throw at me.
The parts to them that make me other.
The parts to me that make me me.
Miney is right. This is very, very, very bad.
Your outsides match your insides better now, Kit said earlier, but she was wrong. No, now my real insides are all on the outside for everyone to pick apart and laugh at. I’m like roadkill. I’ll be looked at, examined, but I won’t even be eaten. I’m not worth that much.
Kit was right about one thing: I am disgusting.
I don’t say anything to Miney or my mother. I don’t really care what they decide to do. Doesn’t matter at all.
Notebook or not, I’ll still be me.
Someone who disgusts.
So instead I go up to my bedroom and close the door.
“The Retard’s Guide to Mapleview”—which is horribly offensive—reads like a compilation of strange online dating profiles. I’ve made it back to school and to my car and even through the terrible drive home without throwing up. I open the link because I need distraction.
I’m tired of the constant hole in my stomach, that slow burn of loss. I will never see my father again. Nothing I will ever do can change that. I wonder if one day soon I will forget the sound of his voice. I can’t imagine a world where I can’t conjure up its deep bass. Where I can’t conjure up the planes of his face or the feeling of his hand on my forehead. That’s not a world I want to live in.
At first glance, the guide just looks like a bunch of scanned pages from a handwritten notebook. Alphabetical entries about different people in our class. A list of rules, the first three of which say, “Do not engage with anyone on the DNT list.” What does DNT mean? Annie, who speaks acronym, would probably know.
There’s a long list of people’s names with random descriptions and observations that are equal parts poetic and bizarre. Violet is described as “cinched” because of her predilection for pointed collars and belts; Jessica’s blond hair is called “offensively fluorescent,” Abby’s perfume “the olfactory equivalent of dying of asphyxiation by an old lady’s farts,” which is, come to think of it, remarkably accurate. A list of Notable Encounters for almost every person in our class and elaborate charts about different friend groups.
What the hell is this?
My phone dings.
Violet: KIT DID YOU GET THE LINK I SENT!?!?
Annie: READ IT NOW!!! HOLY CRAP!!!
Something about their texts makes me look away from the screen for a second. I try to think of other things. David’s hand in mine. That was nice. Innocent, friendly hand-holding. I think of his tape measure. And his haircut. I think about what it might be like to kiss him. Not that I really think of him that way—like a boyfriend or even just a hookup—but still, I imagine kissing him would feel good.
A true thing. A real thing. I imagine he tastes like honesty.
And then I see it, while I’m absentmindedly flipping through the pages on my phone. A lovely sketch of the back of a girl’s neck. A drawing of a circle of freckles on a clavicle.
They look oddly familiar.
That’s my neck. That’s my clavicle.
And then it hits me—this is David’s notebook.
Oh. Shit.
3.1415926535897932384626433832795028841971693993751058209749445923078164062862089986280348253421170679821480865132823066470938446095505822317253594081284811174502841027019385211055596446229489549303819644288109756659334461284756482337867831652712019091456485669234603486104543266482133936072602491412737245870066063155881748815209209628292540917153643678925903600113305305488204665213841469519415116094330572703657595919530921861173819326117931051185480744623799627495673518857527248912279381830119491298336733624406566430860213949463952247371907021798609437027705392171762931767523846748184676694051320005681271452635608277857713427577896091736371787214684409012249534301465495853710507922796892589235420199561121290219608640344181598136297747713099605187072113499999983729780499510597317328160963185950244594553469083026425223082533446850352619311881710100031378387528865875332083814206171776691473035982534904287554687311595628638823537875937519577818577805321712268066130019278766111959092164201989380952572010654858632788659361533818279682303
0195203530185296899577362259941389124972177528347
Again: 3.14159265358979323846264338327950288419716939937510582097494459230781640628620899862803482534211706798214808651328230664709384460955058223172535940812848111745028410270193852110555964462294895493038196442881097566593344612847564823378678316527120190914564856692346034861045432664821339360726024914127372458700660631558817488152092096282925409171536436789259036001133053054882046652138414695194151160943305727036575959195309218611738193261179310511854807446237996274956735188575272489122793818301194912983367336244065664308602139494639522473719070217986094370277053921717629317675238467481846766940513200056812714526356082778577134275778960917363717872146844090122495343014654958537105079227968925892354201995611212902196086403441815981362977477130996051870721134999999837297804995105973173281609631859502445945534690830264252230825334468503526193118817101000313783875288658753320838142061717766914730359825349042875546873115956286388235378759375195778185778053217122680661300192787661119590921642019893809525720106548586327886593615338182796823030195203530185296899577362259941389124972177528347
Stop. No. It’s too much. The noise and the light and the vibrations and the thoughts in my head, looping tighter and tighter, like they’re fingers choking my neck, and the sun stabbing my eyes and an unknown hand squeezing my balls, all at once.
I burrow under my heavy blankets. One last time. I need to escape this feeling one last time: 3.14159265358979323846264338327950288419716939937510582097494459230781640628620899862803482534211706798214808651328230664709384460955058223172535940812848111745028410270193852110555964462294895493038196442881097566593344612847564823378678316527120190914564856692346034861045432664821339360726024914127372458700660631558817488152092096282925409171536436789259036001133053054882046652138414695194151160943305727036575959195309218611738193261179310511854807446237996274956735188575272489122793818301194912983367336244065664308602139494639522473719070217986094370277053921717629317675238467481846766940513200056812714526356082778577134275778960917363717872146844090122495343014654958537105079227968925892354201995611212902196086403441815981362977477130996051870721134999999837297804995105973173281609631859502445945534690830264252230825334468503526193118817101000313783875288658753320838142061717766914730359825349042875546873115956286388235378759375195778185778053217122680661300192787661119590921642019893809525720106548586327886593615338182796823030195203530185296899577362259941389124972177528347
“Listen, I’m not saying you’re ugly or anything, you’re totally cute enough, but you’re so not the prettiest girl in school,” Willow says, by way of greeting, when I march into the Pizza Palace, and as expected they are all gathered around a laptop reading from David’s notebook. No one seems to care that this is his private journal or diary or whatever. Justin and Gabriel and Jessica-Willow-Abby are here. Annie and Violet too, though they are sitting in a separate booth.
“Shut your piehole. Kit’s beautiful,” Annie says, and I want to high-five her for defending me, for still being on my team, despite the fact that I suck lately. Not that I disagree with Willow. Despite David’s delusions, I am in no way one of the more attractive girls at school. I don’t know who David sees when he looks at me—if he has fun-house-mirror eyes—but it’s certainly not the same me everyone else sees. He’s right about the other stuff, though, and it’s sweet of him to have noticed: I do sit cross-legged on most chairs, and I have a nervous habit of covering my fingers with my sweatshirt sleeves, which annoys my mom because I always stretch them out.
His writing down my license plate number? All right, fine. That’s borderline creepy.
“I think you’re the one who needs to do that,” Willow says to Annie. “Did you read what David Drucker said about your jeans being too tight?”
“Obvi you’re going to stop being friends with him, right?” Jessica asks, and I try to remember what notes David made about her, but the only thing I can come up with is her hair. It is too bright. Hair color should not be viewable from space.
I’m still not sure why he described each member of our class, but the entries read like the shorthand I sometimes use when I’m programming the number of someone whose name I’m not likely to remember into my phone: Eyebrow-piercing boy from Model UN. Redheaded girl from PSAT class. Maybe David has a problem with names?
“Why would I do that?” I ask, but then realize I’m getting distracted. I’m not here to deal with these girls. I don’t want to dip my toes into their smallness. Why do they care what David has to say about them, anyway? They’ve all said so much worse about him over the years.
No, I’m here to see Gabriel and Justin, who have both opened their arms out wide to me for a hug. The cheap feels, Violet calls it, when the boys try to touch us for no good reason. Arms over shoulders. A squeeze of our sides. Even sometimes a yank of a ponytail like we are kindergartners. It’s not sexual. It’s more like how people grab a handful of free mints from a bowl as they’re leaving a restaurant. Greedy.
David doesn’t do any of that. Just holds my hand like it’s something delicate.
“Did you do it?” I ask Justin, trying to look tough. Which is silly, since I have never looked tough, am just too goddamn normal to look tough. David’s list of Notable Encounters with Justin was five pages long, going all the way back to elementary school.
Justin’s plans to humiliate David were ambitious. I’ll give him that. And perfectly tailored to his adversary’s weaknesses. Why would someone want to so utterly destroy someone else? Is Justin a sociopath? And how come we were all so willing to stand next to him and laugh? I had forgotten about the time in middle school he tortured David in the bathroom. What did I say when I heard? Did I laugh too? I hope not, but I can’t be sure. It was a long time ago.
I know I didn’t call him shithead like lots of people did afterward. Not just then too. But for years.
At least I didn’t do that.
Still, small solace.
The truth is David wasn’t a real person to me until he was.
“What are you talking about?” Justin pats the seat next to him, with two fingers, like I’m a puppy who takes directions via pointing. Like Jessica’s hair, how have I never before noticed his cruel streak? How did I ever find him amusing? I’ve been overly impressed by the fact that he’s smart and athletic and occasionally witty, stupid distractions that somehow kept me from realizing he’s actually a big asshole.
“The…The ‘Guide to Mapleview.’ You guys posted it, right?” I hate that I pose it as a question. Give them room to say, No, sorry, didn’t do it.
“Nope,” Justin says, right on cue, though the corners of his mouth lift and betray him. He’s proud of himself. “Wasn’t us.”
“Dude, your boyfriend’s weird,” Gabriel says, and my first instinct is to say, He’s not my boyfriend. But I don’t. Not because David is my boyfriend, but because it feels disloyal. Like I’m embarrassed to be associated with him now. I really don’t care what they think; I’m disgusted by these people, which is perhaps the only upside I can think of to what has happened to me in the past month. My life will be better without Justin and Gabriel and afternoons like this one.
Sure, David is even more awkward than I realized. Okay, not just awkward, but deeply different. So unaware of social norms that he has to keep a notebook to learn them, like an exchange student from Mars.
Who cares?
If someone published the pages of my journal—which I will burn the second I get home, come to think of it—there’d be some weirdo stuff in there too. I think about my dad’s favorite expression: People in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones.
What is my house made of?
Paper, I decide. Like in a pop-up book. Easily collapsible.
“You guys really are such douches,” I say. “I bet you’re enjoying this.”
“It’s kind of funny,” Gabriel says.
“Whatever, it’s, like, so rude that he said all that stuff about us,” Willow says, pouting, though she doesn’t actually look u
pset. More like she’s posing for a selfie. Do any of them have real human emotions? Why do I suddenly feel like I’m surrounded by actors cast as teenagers? Like I’m the only one with a real and messy life. I realize that can’t be true. I’ve heard that Abby goes to an outpatient eating-disorder clinic, and that Jessica has experimented with cutting, which suggests that despite their shiny exteriors, they’re also fighting their own demons. Willow, I’m not so sure. It’s entirely possible she truly believes she’s starring in her own reality show. “I mean, he’s clearly so not a nice person.”
“I like your elbows,” Jessica says.
“And I like your hair,” Willow says.
“You ladies are all beautiful in my book,” Gabriel says, though he is only looking at Willow, and I wonder if he has always been this patronizing. When did we decide that these people would be our friends? What if we took the time to get to know some of the kids in the other cliques, like the artsy types or the theater dorks? What if we all jumped out of our boxes and chewed up our stupid labels? Who would we discover?
Gabriel’s not going to ask Annie to the prom, I realize with a sick feeling, even though she is ten times cooler than Willow and the rest of them. He’ll be afraid she’ll wear something outrageous. That she’ll be too Annie.
I try a different tactic. I sit down next to Justin. Close. Put a hand on his arm.
“Please. Pretty please. Tell me,” I say. “I just want to know.”
My tone reminds me of the kind of girl I’ve never been: needling, faux cutesy, hyperflirty. I came here for one reason and one reason only, and I will not leave until I’ve fixed this for David. I feel like I owe him one, maybe because I abandoned him in the snow with his tape measure. Or maybe because I understand just how much this whole thing will suck for him. I know what it’s like to walk down halls with your back the target of a million eyeballs. Hearing the ripple of echoes you leave in your wake: Did you hear? Her dad died her dad died her dad died.
What to Say Next Page 13
