pulled all the way down. The scars on her forearms were finally getting lighter, and she’d vowed never to cut herself again, no matter what. A month ago she’d thrown away her razor blades, and she wasn’t going to let these idiotic girls make her go back on the promise she’d made to herself.
The first time she cut herself, the night after her grandmother died, she’d gone into the bathroom of her grandmother’s old farmhouse to get the miniature glass man full of her dead grandfather’s razor blades out of the medicine cabinet. She shook a blade out of the glass man’s head—a barber with black hair and a blue shirt—then sat on the toilet and made a one-inch incision in her forearm. Then she passed out cold. A few minutes later, she woke up on the bathroom floor and clamped a hand over her arm, unable to look at the fresh wound. That was when she realized physical pain made emotional pain disappear for a few minutes, and the sight of her own blood made her faint. Over the next seven years, she cut herself to erase her anger, frustration, and pain, but she did it without looking.
After moving in with Peg and Harry, she began to realize cutting herself was crazy. And if nothing else, she was determined not to be like her mother. Becoming mentally ill was her greatest fear. If she could just control her emotions, more specifically her anger, maybe she wouldn’t snap.
Now, near the front of the classroom, another girl sat at her desk, facing forward, her slick, black hair like a velvet cape down her back. She scribbled in her notebook, oblivious to the chaos around her, except for the occasional quick, cool glance at the other students. Izzy had known girls like her too. She was probably dating a college guy and didn’t have time for her classmates’ shenanigans. Either that, or she was the leader of the mean-girl pack.
Finally, the bell rang and the students clamored out of their desks, heading toward first-period class. No one else had a backpack. Izzy took her time gathering her things, purposely waiting for everyone else to file out of the room first. When she reached the door, Mr. Hudson called out to her. She turned to face him. “Yes, Mr. Hudson?”
“You gave me the wrong form,” he said. “This one is for the nurse.”
“Oh.” Izzy went to his desk and took the paper, then rummaged around in her backpack for the right one. “Sorry about that.”
“Listen,” Mr. Hudson said. “This is a small school and this class has been together since junior high. It’s been a couple years since they’ve had a new classmate.”
Izzy shrugged. “Okay,” she said.
“The best thing to do if anyone tries to egg you on is ignore them.”
Easy for you to say, she thought. “Okay,” she said again. “Thanks.”
After homeroom, the girl with the black hair approached Izzy at her locker.
“Hey,” the girl said. “Welcome to hell.”
“Thanks,” Izzy said, shoving her empty backpack into her locker.
“No one uses a backpack here,” the girl said. “The school is so small everyone goes to their locker between classes.”
“I noticed,” Izzy said. The girl had a slight lisp, but other than that she looked like she could fit right in with the mean girls—perfect figure, perfect makeup, perfect clothes. What was she doing talking to Izzy?
“My name’s Alexandra,” the girl said. “Alex for short.”
Izzy shut her locker and held her math book to her chest. “Izzy, short for Isabelle.”
“I like it,” Alex said, smiling. “It fits you. Listen, Shannon and her friends are trouble. The best thing to do is ignore them and try to stay out of their way.”
“You’re the second person to tell me that.”
“Because it’s true,” Alex said.
Izzy shrugged. “They don’t bother me.”
Alex smiled. “Okay. But don’t say I didn’t warn you. I doubt you’ve dealt with anyone like Shannon before.”
“What could she have against me?” Izzy said. “I just got here.”
Alex
The first time she cut herself, the night after her grandmother died, she’d gone into the bathroom of her grandmother’s old farmhouse to get the miniature glass man full of her dead grandfather’s razor blades out of the medicine cabinet. She shook a blade out of the glass man’s head—a barber with black hair and a blue shirt—then sat on the toilet and made a one-inch incision in her forearm. Then she passed out cold. A few minutes later, she woke up on the bathroom floor and clamped a hand over her arm, unable to look at the fresh wound. That was when she realized physical pain made emotional pain disappear for a few minutes, and the sight of her own blood made her faint. Over the next seven years, she cut herself to erase her anger, frustration, and pain, but she did it without looking.
After moving in with Peg and Harry, she began to realize cutting herself was crazy. And if nothing else, she was determined not to be like her mother. Becoming mentally ill was her greatest fear. If she could just control her emotions, more specifically her anger, maybe she wouldn’t snap.
Now, near the front of the classroom, another girl sat at her desk, facing forward, her slick, black hair like a velvet cape down her back. She scribbled in her notebook, oblivious to the chaos around her, except for the occasional quick, cool glance at the other students. Izzy had known girls like her too. She was probably dating a college guy and didn’t have time for her classmates’ shenanigans. Either that, or she was the leader of the mean-girl pack.
Finally, the bell rang and the students clamored out of their desks, heading toward first-period class. No one else had a backpack. Izzy took her time gathering her things, purposely waiting for everyone else to file out of the room first. When she reached the door, Mr. Hudson called out to her. She turned to face him. “Yes, Mr. Hudson?”
“You gave me the wrong form,” he said. “This one is for the nurse.”
“Oh.” Izzy went to his desk and took the paper, then rummaged around in her backpack for the right one. “Sorry about that.”
“Listen,” Mr. Hudson said. “This is a small school and this class has been together since junior high. It’s been a couple years since they’ve had a new classmate.”
Izzy shrugged. “Okay,” she said.
“The best thing to do if anyone tries to egg you on is ignore them.”
Easy for you to say, she thought. “Okay,” she said again. “Thanks.”
After homeroom, the girl with the black hair approached Izzy at her locker.
“Hey,” the girl said. “Welcome to hell.”
“Thanks,” Izzy said, shoving her empty backpack into her locker.
“No one uses a backpack here,” the girl said. “The school is so small everyone goes to their locker between classes.”
“I noticed,” Izzy said. The girl had a slight lisp, but other than that she looked like she could fit right in with the mean girls—perfect figure, perfect makeup, perfect clothes. What was she doing talking to Izzy?
“My name’s Alexandra,” the girl said. “Alex for short.”
Izzy shut her locker and held her math book to her chest. “Izzy, short for Isabelle.”
“I like it,” Alex said, smiling. “It fits you. Listen, Shannon and her friends are trouble. The best thing to do is ignore them and try to stay out of their way.”
“You’re the second person to tell me that.”
“Because it’s true,” Alex said.
Izzy shrugged. “They don’t bother me.”
Alex smiled. “Okay. But don’t say I didn’t warn you. I doubt you’ve dealt with anyone like Shannon before.”
“What could she have against me?” Izzy said. “I just got here.”
Alex
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