Dear Bully

When I stumble into Mrs. Z.’s homeroom, Dee-Dee glares. Diane averts her eyes. I mumble “Hi” anyway, but they both ignore me. Seated, I peek nervously around—and make a hideous discovery.

It’s not only Dee-Dee and Diane who are in on this game; everyone’s battering me with nasty looks! They whisper. They toss notes back and forth and then point purposefully to me. When Mrs. Z. calls my name, someone shouts “Horseface!” and the entire class screeches with laughter.

“Enough of that!” Mrs. Z. snaps, which only prompts a quieter litany of “Horseface . . . Horseface . . .” She pretends not to hear them.

So do I.

Shaky, sweaty, my stomach burning, I rack my brain to figure this all out: Why is this happening? What did I do to Dee-Dee and Diane? We were fine yesterday!

The day straggles on, each class a rerun of the one before. People call me names, throw spitballs at me. At lunch, when I spot Dee-Dee and Diane chatting with Renee, Cathy, and Judith, my situation becomes horrifyingly clear.

Yes, my two best friends have joined ranks with them.

Sickened by this blatant betrayal, I sit far away, yet not nearly far enough; I can still hear their comments about “what a bitch she is” and how they hope to “kick her ass!” When a balled-up lunch bag smacks me in the head, I ditch my uneaten lunch and slink off to the library.

After school, when nobody kicks my ass, I walk home alone, praying for a miracle. Make tomorrow different. Make things normal again. Make it all a bad joke. Please, God, please!

But the next day, nothing has changed. Attempts by teachers to stop the harassment have little effect; what my new enemies can’t accomplish in class, they take to the halls. They snatch my books, push me and trip me, spit in my face, and jerk my hair. They call me “Horseface” incessantly. They tell lies, spread rumors.

And this lasts . . .

. . . and lasts.

Day after day.

Week after week.

One endless, unimaginable nightmare.

When Dee-Dee and Diane rebuff my timid attempts to make up—for what? What? I don’t even know!

—I lapse into a numbing depression. I sleep as much possible, hoping I won’t wake up. On better days, I plot my revenge, fantasizing gory events I know I’ll never carry out. I frequently play sick, missing days of school on end. The only advice my distant parents have to offer is “If you ignore them, they’ll leave you alone.” They are so, so wrong.

Ostracized and alone, I’m sure of only one thing: People hate me.

Hate me!

And though I hate them back, I know I’ll forgive them in an instant—if only they’ll forgive me for whatever I did to them.

I try one last time and telephone Diane. “Please tell me why everyone hates me!”

“You’re too tough,” she says flatly. “You’re a tomboy.”

For that my so-called friends turned the whole class against me? I plead for more details. She merely hangs up on me.

Regardless of Diane’s words, I know I’ve lost all my toughness. I feel trapped and helpless, irreparably broken. I’ll never survive the rest of the year

, I think. Something will happen to me first . . . something terrible!

I do survive, and it’s my writing that saves me. Not only do I detail this experience in my diary, but I also plunge into writing fiction to escape my reality. I spend my lunch periods in the library plotting out new worlds. I huddle over my typewriter long past midnight, inventing characters less cowardly than me, ones with far happier lives.

Eighth grade ends at last. Ninth grade turns out to be nearly as insufferable. By sophomore year, the abuse dwindles, though I occasionally hear “Horseface!” directed at me in the halls. After two years, Dee-Dee, shyly, attempts to renew our old friendship. I’m polite but superficial; I don’t care about her anymore. Nor can I forgive her.

Writing now with a feverish vengeance, I finish my first novel by the end of tenth grade: the story of a girl who is smart, mouthy, and fearless.

I am me. I am whole.

No one can break me again.

Without Armor

by Daniel Waters

“You’re the guy who writes about dead kids,” she said, her mouth tight. It wasn’t a statement or a question; it was an accusation.

I’ll admit the comment threw me. Obviously, I’d never been on a book tour before, much less a prepublication tour, and had little idea of what to expect. To be more accurate, I’d tried to keep myself free from expectations. Doing so allowed me to enjoy the process much more than if I had obsessed over everything like I usually do.