Countdown

Sixteen Days Left

I stared at the navy blue, starry ceiling above me, trying to coax myself into getting up and joining my family for breakfast. Come on, Grace, I thought. Just 16 more days. You only have to keep going for 16 more days. Knowing that any moment, my parents were going to wake me up and bitch at me for lying here so long, I climbed out of bed, feeling my feet hit the cheap carpet of my bedroom floor.

Half-asleep, I reached for my phone, which was charging on my nightstand.

41 MESSAGES.

I couldn't believe what I saw. Maybe a zero or a decimal or something was misplaced?

No, it was crystal clear. I could read. Pulling my phone out of it's charging cord and propping it up against my pillow, I saw that most, if not all, of the texts were from people and numbers I didn't know. How did so many people get my contact information? This was seriously creepy.

I took a deep breath, steeled myself for whatever I would find, and opened up the first message: 376-198-590.

can't wait until the 25th and ur out of our school wow ur rly pathetic u know 

My blood ran cold when I saw the date the mystery number had mentioned.

Okay. Calm down, Grace. Just read the rest of the texts. Maybe this one just picked a random date or something. Inhale. Exhale.

I opened the second message: 376-841-5518.

you're such a crazy freak just go kill yourself don't wait haha- ashley

367-510-481:

nice journal entries, can't wait to see what happens next in the pitiful life of grace archer :)

367-212-0095

wow i knew you were weird but this is fuckin insane honestly just do it and stop looking for attention

367-9569-1854

ur a lying attention whore

My breathing became rapid and shallow as I read one of the first messages, which was also the only one signed with a full name.

oh, I hope you didn't mind me sharing your little diary with the class. i just thought the school needed to make sure they knew who to avoid. forever. - ivy andrews

I never thought bullies actually acted like this. I had been raised on a steady diet of teen movies, and I realized how unrealistic they were early on. But they were right about some things- mainly, that teenagers will go so damn far to make each other miserable.

An invisible iron band was wrapping it
s way around my stomach, and I threw my phone at my pillow across the room. It landed with a soft, emphatic thud. I walked over to my laptop, crawled back into bed, and turned it on.

password: debramorgan

I logged into GD, and started to survey the damage to my account. It was worse than I thought.

I already knew that my journal folder had been hacked. That much was obvious. And so had the document I had put my, and my parents' contact info in in case of an emergency. I knew that.

But right in the center of the page, independent from any folders, was a document titled: The Grace Archer Suicide Petition.

I had to know what it was. I had to. If I never looked at it, I'd drive myself crazy wondering.

The rules of the petition were these: If you support the suicide of Grace Archer, write your name here, each in a different font to keep track of all the signatures this will get! Let's hope we all can convince her :)- Ivy Andrews

81 signatures, 81 fonts.

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I finally understood how Hester Prynne felt in The Scarlet Letter, marked, with a feeling I wouldn't be able to shake it no matter what I did. I was sitting in the back corner of the bus, which was where freshman weren't supposed to sit in, but whatever. That was the least of my problems.

When I had walked onto the bus a few minutes earlier, the whole freshman class had had different reactions. Some looked guilty, and didn't make eye contact with me. Others teased, laughed, and pointed. I had ran to the back of the bus, put my headphones in, and tried to not cry.

This Is Gospel by Panic! at the Disco was playing in my earbuds as the bus rounded the corner to the school. I know, how emo of me, but hey. If I was going to be depressed, I could at least put in a little effort and conform to the stereotypes.  I closed my eyes and tried to enjoy my last few seconds.

'Cause the words are knives
that often leave scars
the fear, the fear
of falling apart

The bus jerked to a stop and everyone clamored off. Students whispered things into my ear as I walked past. Freak. Crazy. Insane, weird.

Ivy even had the courage to say, "You're welcome, retard." as she left. I honestly wanted to run back home and never leave my room again. Why was I so stupid? Why did I ruin everything?

And then I saw her, standing in a front seat waiting for me: Izzie. At first, I didn't believe it was her, because I had thought she was mad at me. But there was really no mistaking that bright blond hair for  belonging to anyone else.

Before I could speak to her at all, she grabbed my wrist and pulled me off the bus.

"What the-" I stuttered, afraid she was going to corner me and yell at me or something.

Izzie dragged me to the very back of the school, which was really only used by the smokers and potheads because they removed the bathroom doors back in September. We were lucky that nobody was there.

She released me from her iron grip, and said, softly and with her voice  filled with fear and passion, "Are they real?"

I glanced around the abandoned lot, hoping for an escape route, but it appeared that Conrad had found us and blocked the only fenceless place where I could get out.

"We're not leaving until you tell us, Grace. Work with us here." he said, desperately. His deep, long-for-a-dude brown hair had flopped into his face, and his blazer was undone. Conrad had obviously been trying to find us for a while.

I was getting that feeling again. The one where I couldn't breath, let alone form a coherent answer. But I knew that if I didn't do something in the next five seconds, they would take my answer as yes. And there was nothing, literally nothing in the world, I wanted less than that. So I took a deep breath, and spoke.

"You seriously thought that I wrote that shit? It was all Ivy."

I'm pretty perceptive with faces, but it wouldn't take Freud to know neither of them believed me. Izzie wore a more serious version of her you're-full-of-crap face, while  Conrad was shaking his head violently. I just needed to get out of here. Now.

"You know, it's alright to say you might need help with something. Even if the entries are fake, this has got to be really awful for you. So if you ever need to talk ..." Conrad said, in a concerned tone.

"Someone will listen." Izzie finished his sentence, staring me right in the eyes like she could see what was going on in my head. Maybe she could.

I quietly thanked my friends and left for first period, a lump rising up into my throat. At least it was Friday.