“Sorry, Beth.” Scott bites his lip. “I wanted to get this cleaned up before you got here—but the kid wouldn’t leave his whities.”

“That’s enough, people. Don’t you have classes to go to?” Mr. Finnley glares, and the masses scuttle off back to the cracks and drains they came from. The Finnster shakes his head and gets busy cutting the chain. “I’ll have to report this.”

That’s all I need. Another session in the office. Questions I can’t answer. “Who did this?” Silence. “Who do you think did this?” Who do you think did this? We all know. Colby and his clones are behind everything nasty that goes on here. Nobody names them. We have another assembly about bullying. Nothing changes.

I glance down at the binder I’m carrying for first period. I scribbled out the words, but I know what they say:Your words—

Why do they define me ?

Why do I believe you?

Your face,

Your lips, and your fingers—

Don’t spill them on me.

I’m bones, blood, and flesh

Not clay to be pounded,

And scorched in the fire

That seethes in the hate you feel.

I bleed when you wound me

Just like the pretty girls do.

It needs some kind of hopeful chorus. Can’t seem to squeak anything like that into the equation. No music, either. Just those thin lines that make me sound so angry. I guess I am—angry. But I don’t want everyone knowing that. I do a lot of erasing, burning, shredding, hiding, hurting. I run back to Da-am ugly and stay there.

The end of the year can’t come fast enough. If I tiptoe next year, I’ll be able to breathe—like when they left junior high.

Scott reads my mind. “Only three months, eight days, thirteen hours, and twenty-nine minutes until they graduate.”