Dear Bully Read Free Page B

a wall. I couldn’t even see who I was fighting.
    Or could I? After I shook away the tears, my vision cleared and I recognized almost everyone’s handwriting.
    A guy from my chemistry class, the one who would smile at me sometimes, wrote about how I’d performed a certain sexual favor for him. The only place that ever happened was in his imagination. And there was stuff from people who I thought were my friends, too. People like you. I recognized your handwriting right away but couldn’t believe you had written those things. That my boobs were too big and that my brain was too small.
    We weren’t best friends or anything, but I thought we were friends. What about all those games we’d ridden to together? We double-dated for homecoming when we were sophomores. Remember? I held your hair back when you threw up all that cheap wine you and your date were guzzling. We talked about how your brother had died and even about getting out of this town, moving somewhere far away where nobody knew us.
    I thumbed through the book and saw your handwriting on every page. You hated so many people, but most of all, I think you hated yourself.
    I thought I knew you, but I didn’t. I thought we were friends, but we weren’t. Then you walked back into the gym, a panicked look on your face. You didn’t see me right away, so I slid the book into my backpack.
    “What’s the matter? Lose something?” I asked.
    You frowned, the panic on your face growing. “It’s not important.”
    I met your eyes.
    “I thought I lost something, too,” I said. “Turns out I never even had it.”

My Apology
by Marina Cohen
    1981
    I look up at the wall. It’s 3:25. The second hand appears to be moving more quickly than usual, like it’s racing around the face of the ugly black clock. Each second brings me closer to the end of the day.
    Heads keep turning, stealing glances at me as though they might divine my thoughts. I pretend I don’t see. I sit statue still. I hear whispering all around. Can’t the teacher hear it? She’s busy making sure we’re clear on our assignments for the next day. She has no clue. They rarely do.
    I reach up and remove my earrings one at a time. They are real gold. My grandmother brought them all the way from Italy. She’d be so disappointed if I lost one. I tuck them safely into the pocket of my jeans.
    The whispering is getting louder. The teacher tells the students to be quiet now, but she has no idea what the buzz is all about. I worry what my face looks like. My cheeks feel hot, burning, but I keep my eyes hard, my expression blank. I can’t let them see how scared I am.
    The bell silences the din. For a second, I feel everyone’s stares tunneling into my skin. Then they stand up. They get their coats and books. Suddenly I’m holding my jean jacket and books, too. I must have picked them up but I don’t even register doing so. Everything is a blur of sound and movement as I drift into the hall and out the door. The vultures follow. They circle ravenously. I can hear them talking; their voices spill over with excitement. “Are you going through with it?” “Is it true?” I don’t answer them. I can’t lose focus. My throat is chalk dry. I try to swallow, but it hurts.
    Outside, tornadoes of litter and leaves twist about. I’m jealous of the chocolate bar wrapper that is snatched up and carried away. I want the wind to carry me away, too, away from all of this, but I’m cast-iron heavy. Dead weight.
    Then the crowd parts as if perfectly choreographed and I see them. They stand high on the cement steps. They look confident together. I stand in the middle of a crowd and yet I’m all alone. They make no move toward me so I take a step closer to them. My heart feels like it’s going to explode. I clench my fists to keep my fingers from trembling.
    I walk until I’m face-to-face with her. She refuses to look at me. Her eyes shift between the faces of her friends. She is smiling, chatting, laughing. I stare