VIOLET
151 days till graduation
Monday morning. First period.
Everyone is talking about the newest post in the Bartlett Dirt, the school gossip rag that not only has its own website but seems to be taking over the entire internet. "Senior Hero Saves Crazy Classmate from Bell Tower Jump." We aren't named, but there is a picture of my face, eyes startled behind Eleanor's glasses, bangs crooked. I look like a makeover "before." There's also a picture of Theodore Finch.
Jordan Gripenwaldt, editor of our school paper, is reading the article to her friends Brittany and Priscilla in a low, disgusted voice. Now and then they glance in my direction and shake their heads, not at me but at this perfect example of journalism at its worst.
These are smart girls who speak their minds. I should be friends with them instead of Amanda. This time last year, I would have spoken up and agreed with them and then written a scathing blog post about high school gossip. Instead I pick up my bag and tell the teacher I have cramps. I bypass the nurse and climb the stairs to the top floor. I pick the lock to the bell tower. I go only as far as the stairs, where I sit down and, by the light of my phone, read two chapters of Wuthering Heights. I've given up on Anne Bront? and decided there's only Emily-unruly Emily, angry at the world.
"If all else perished, and he remained, I should still continue to be; and if all else remained, and he were annihilated, the universe would turn to a mighty stranger."
"A mighty stranger," I say to no one. "You got that right."
