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She raises her eyes, looking a little embarrassed and not saying anything
as she kneels down, grabbing her backpack.
Standing up, she purses her lips and looks around.
The alarm stops, and I have no idea what’s happening out there—if they
think we left out the door or what—but she’s not leaving yet.
“You don’t tell anyone about tonight, and I won’t tell anyone you were
here, either,” she says. “Got it?”
She turns to leave, but I grab her hand. “I think people would enjoy this
version of you.”
“My friends would hate me.”
“They already hate you. Everyone does.”
For a split-second, I see a frown cross her face, but it quickly
disappears. She faces me, a light brown eyebrow arched in defiance.
“Why fake it?” I charge. “Why compete with people and play the
games?”
She takes a step, trying to leave, but I pull her back. “Don’t walk away
from me.”
“This is none of your business!” she whisper-yells, yanking her hand
free and scowling at me. “You don’t know me.”
“Does anyone?”
She looks away, her eyes suddenly glistening. After a moment, she
speaks, her voice low. “I don’t want to be alone,” she admits. “They may
hate me, but they respect me. I can’t be invisible or laughed at or….” She
trails off and then continues. “I don’t know why. I just never had the
courage to stand apart. I always wanted to fit in.”
“Everyone wants to be accepted, Ryen.” Does she think no one’s ever
had those same feelings? “Why do you write on the walls?”