himself
and writes them on the whiteboard
with a squeaky purple pen.
Go for a walk.
Take a bubble bath.
Talk to someone who cares.
I don’t know what makes me do it.
Maybe I feel sort of bad for Roger
standing up there all alone
with those big, expectant eyes
that nobody will look at.
Or maybe I feel like I owe him
for showing me that glitter jar.
Either way, I decide to give in.
“Draw something,” I say.
Roger’s face lights up and he pens
my answer in swoopy grape letters.
And then it’s sort of contagious
because everyone stops
sitting on their hands,
and counting ceiling tiles,
and pretending to be asleep,
and they start giving up ideas faster
than Roger can write them down,
starting with Jag:
“Punch a pillow.
Jump on your bed.
Scream at the sky.”
And, yeah, I know that sounds like
Jag has anger-management issues,
but just like Roger says,
there’s no wrong answers here,
so don’t get any bad ideas about Jag.
And besides, I could think about that
sexy skater boy jumping on his bed
in baggy white boxers all day long!
Of course Donya has to try to outdo him:
“Throw fruit off your roof.
Stand on your head.
Dye your hair.”
And I have to bite my tongue
to stop myself from saying
that she doesn’t have enough hair
on that weed-wacked Mohawk of hers
to bother with any more dye.
But that’s just because I’m jealous
her ideas were better than mine.
But the one who blows us all away is Skylar.
And not just with her rubber-band fix
or the butterfly project. She’s got a whole
truckload of suggestions that she rattles off
effortlessly, like she’s tried every one:
“Eat chocolate.
Hug a puppy.
Read John Green.
“Make jewelry.
Join a fandom.
Write a poem.
“Blow bubbles.
Play piano.
Sing ‘Who Says’.
“Watch Juno .
Order pizza.
Clean your room.
“Surf Tumblr.
Do your homework.
Say a prayer.”
Roger has to stop writing there because
he runs out of room on the whiteboard,
which kind of stinks because he doesn’t
get down some of Skylar’s funniest ideas, like:
Watch English Youtubers
then talk with a British accent all day,
or
Rub peppermint oil all over your body,
or
Put glue on your hands and then peel it off later.
By the time the afternoon session is over,
we’re all joking and laughing
and it feels so good for a change
that nobody even mentions
how Skylar came up with like
937 Things to Do Instead of Cutting,
but she’s the one who’s sitting here
with a brand-new bandage on her arm.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
..................................................................
How Did You Do It?
I know I shouldn’t ask.
But not asking feels like being
on a diet and having a big bowl
of chocolate ice cream shoved in front of me.
Like what am I supposed to do?
Just sit here and watch it melt?
Besides, Skylar doesn’t mind.
I think she wants to tell me.
After all, it was my butterfly she killed.
“I took the Scotch tape off the nurse’s desk
when that little boy came in. Remember?
Nobody was paying any attention.”
I think about that sweet serrated edge
and that hot, hard tape dispenser
and I have to shake the image
from my mind because picturing
those plastic teeth biting into my skin
is making pins and needles dance on
all my favorite places.
“It’s an addiction, you know,” Skylar says.
“Just like drugs or alcohol.”
I try to shake her off, but she keeps going.
“Endorphins are like narcotics.
That’s why we crave them so bad.
I’m not saying that’s the only reason we cut.
There’s like a million scars out there
and each one has its own story.
“But every cutter would agree with me on this—
Once you start, it’s really hard to quit.”
Skylar tells me she had a long talk about it
with Dr. McKay and it takes me a minute
to realize she means the Pomeranian.
“I’m really sorry about the butterfly,” she adds.
“But Dr.
and writes them on the whiteboard
with a squeaky purple pen.
Go for a walk.
Take a bubble bath.
Talk to someone who cares.
I don’t know what makes me do it.
Maybe I feel sort of bad for Roger
standing up there all alone
with those big, expectant eyes
that nobody will look at.
Or maybe I feel like I owe him
for showing me that glitter jar.
Either way, I decide to give in.
“Draw something,” I say.
Roger’s face lights up and he pens
my answer in swoopy grape letters.
And then it’s sort of contagious
because everyone stops
sitting on their hands,
and counting ceiling tiles,
and pretending to be asleep,
and they start giving up ideas faster
than Roger can write them down,
starting with Jag:
“Punch a pillow.
Jump on your bed.
Scream at the sky.”
And, yeah, I know that sounds like
Jag has anger-management issues,
but just like Roger says,
there’s no wrong answers here,
so don’t get any bad ideas about Jag.
And besides, I could think about that
sexy skater boy jumping on his bed
in baggy white boxers all day long!
Of course Donya has to try to outdo him:
“Throw fruit off your roof.
Stand on your head.
Dye your hair.”
And I have to bite my tongue
to stop myself from saying
that she doesn’t have enough hair
on that weed-wacked Mohawk of hers
to bother with any more dye.
But that’s just because I’m jealous
her ideas were better than mine.
But the one who blows us all away is Skylar.
And not just with her rubber-band fix
or the butterfly project. She’s got a whole
truckload of suggestions that she rattles off
effortlessly, like she’s tried every one:
“Eat chocolate.
Hug a puppy.
Read John Green.
“Make jewelry.
Join a fandom.
Write a poem.
“Blow bubbles.
Play piano.
Sing ‘Who Says’.
“Watch Juno .
Order pizza.
Clean your room.
“Surf Tumblr.
Do your homework.
Say a prayer.”
Roger has to stop writing there because
he runs out of room on the whiteboard,
which kind of stinks because he doesn’t
get down some of Skylar’s funniest ideas, like:
Watch English Youtubers
then talk with a British accent all day,
or
Rub peppermint oil all over your body,
or
Put glue on your hands and then peel it off later.
By the time the afternoon session is over,
we’re all joking and laughing
and it feels so good for a change
that nobody even mentions
how Skylar came up with like
937 Things to Do Instead of Cutting,
but she’s the one who’s sitting here
with a brand-new bandage on her arm.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
..................................................................
How Did You Do It?
I know I shouldn’t ask.
But not asking feels like being
on a diet and having a big bowl
of chocolate ice cream shoved in front of me.
Like what am I supposed to do?
Just sit here and watch it melt?
Besides, Skylar doesn’t mind.
I think she wants to tell me.
After all, it was my butterfly she killed.
“I took the Scotch tape off the nurse’s desk
when that little boy came in. Remember?
Nobody was paying any attention.”
I think about that sweet serrated edge
and that hot, hard tape dispenser
and I have to shake the image
from my mind because picturing
those plastic teeth biting into my skin
is making pins and needles dance on
all my favorite places.
“It’s an addiction, you know,” Skylar says.
“Just like drugs or alcohol.”
I try to shake her off, but she keeps going.
“Endorphins are like narcotics.
That’s why we crave them so bad.
I’m not saying that’s the only reason we cut.
There’s like a million scars out there
and each one has its own story.
“But every cutter would agree with me on this—
Once you start, it’s really hard to quit.”
Skylar tells me she had a long talk about it
with Dr. McKay and it takes me a minute
to realize she means the Pomeranian.
“I’m really sorry about the butterfly,” she adds.
“But Dr.
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