C h a p t e r 1
"Are you happy?"
When asked, most children under the age of six reply "yes". Why wouldn't they? When you're young, all your dreams and ambitions can be achieved; or so they tell you. As you grow older, your self esteem drops. Friends become enemies. Those 'icky boys' become the 'loves of your life'. Caking on makeup becomes a necessity, and fitting in is one of the most important rules of life.
When most teenagers over the age of twelve are asked if they are happy, it's sad how small of a number of kids say yes.
~
"Woah, what happened to you?" Jessica Nelson blurted out.
She hadn't meant to; it was just one of those things she couldn't keep to herself. Three tiny cuts covered Taylor Atkinson's wrist. Each of them were larger and deeper than the last.
"I fell," Taylor told her best friend, sheepishly.
"You fell?" Jessica asked, dumbfounded. "And that happened?"
"Yes, Jess," Taylor sighed, tugging on her sweatshirt sleeves. "I just told you that."
Regularly, Jessica would have taken Taylor's word for it. Clumsy Taylor. She must have tripped, fell, and cut herself on a rock or something.
But three times? Jessica thought. Vertically?
Taylor's long, glossy blond hair had been tied tightly into a bun and her makeup had been half done. It was the Monday after the Winter Break of eigth grade. Jessica had spent the entire vacation with her feet up and her eyes closed, soaking up every minute of freedom. Relaxing.
On the other hand, Taylor had dark circles under her red eyes. Her teeth were a light shade of lemony yellow, and her face was turning pale. She was wearing a bright orange camp shirt with dark blue jeans and was wearing one red sneaker and one blue sneaker.
"Um, Tay," Jessica mumbled, pointing at Taylor's shoes.
"Oh, great," Taylor muttered, rolling her eyes. "Look Jess, maybe you should meet me at math." Taylor started trudging to the bathroom.
"You sure? I can come to the-"
"I'm sure. I'll meet you there."
Taylor ran into the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind her. Jessica thought she could hear the faint cry or whimper or something coming from behind the bathroom door, but she couldn't have. Jessica hurried to her next class.
~
"Ow," Taylor muttered to herself. "It stings. It really, really stings."
She had been trying to not think about what she had done. But the moment her wrist hit the water, the sting triggered all her memories about last night: the words, the rejection, the pain.
"Your cut?" A voice from one of the bathroom stalls asked curiously.
"Excuse me?" Taylor demanded, less confidently as she had hoped.
"It's okay," the voice said, as a tall figure emerged from the stall. Short, black hair covered the girls ears and she wore a huge sweatshirt. "I do it too. So, it stings?"
"Um," Taylor muttered, unsure of what to say. "Yes."
The girl threw back her head like that was the most hilarious thing she had ever heard. A soft laugh came out, but her voice sounded strained and hurt.
"I'm Erica," she said, walking closer to Taylor. "You want a band aid? You could tell everyone that your cat scratched you or something."
"I don't have a cat." Taylor replied, before realizing how pathetic she sounded. Of course she wasn't supposed to own a cat; that was only her cover story.
"Okay then," Erica laughed. "Hey, you should come sit with me at lunch today. Table 9, by the gym mats. I know, ew, but at least they smell better than the school's lunch most days."
"I know right?" Taylor agreed. Hey, anything was better than "I don't have a cat."
"Yeah. So I sit with eighth graders, because like, I am one. Ha. But you'll fit right in." Erica told her, smiling reassuringly.
"Cool," Taylor smiled. "I think I'm late for math."
"Whatever. I'll see you later. I didn't catch your name though."
"Taylor," she announced. "Taylor Atkinson."
"See ya later, Taylor Atkinson." Erica winked and picked up her books. Her black boots pounded on the ground as she walked out of the bathroom.
Taylor sunk down beside the sink, grabbing her phone out of her bag. She scrolled down her texts, took a deep breath, and reread her last message.
You're just not as pretty as her. I don't want you.
Taylor shut her eyes tightly, trying not to remember the night before. When she had read those words, she had grabbed the nearest object, and scraped her skin with it. Scissors; she had grabbed scissors. Of course, the only scrape the scissors had made were three cuts along her wrist.
That's when it happened. Pulling out a red notebook, tears ran down Taylor's face. She tore out a piece of paper and grabbed a pen. In large blue ink she wrote: The Perfect Pact.
