wrote in diaries?â asks a girl in the second row.
Mrs. Hellstrom starts pacing, as if whatever sheâs about to tell us is so exciting she canât sit still any longer. âTheir journals werenât accounts of their day-to-day lives, like traditional diaries. They were far less structured.â
She retrieves a stack of handouts from her desk and gives some to the first person in each row to pass back. âThese packets include samples from the journals of the authors whose names are on the board, in addition to some other artists you might recognize.â
I flip through the photocopied pages. Sylvia Plath. Henry David Thoreau. Anne Frank. Frida Kahlo. Kurt Cobain. Pages of poetry, song lyrics, doodles, lists, and anecdotes mixed in with longer entries.
Abel once told me that his dad used to make lists of words and phrases whenever he worked on a new song.
âThese are kinda personal,â Cruz says.
âYouâre right,â Mrs. Hellstrom says. âThese excerpts contain everything from observations and ideas for stories, songs, and poems to the thoughts and dreams of the journal writers.â Sheâs borderline euphoric now. âTheir hopes and fears ⦠theyâre all here in different forms. This semester, each of you will create a journal that reflects who you are as a writer.â
Is this woman insane? I donât like discussing my fears with my friends. Thereâs no way Iâm sharing them with herâin writing.
And my hopes?
I hope I can sleep for more than three hours a night. I hope the flashbacks of Noahâs head hitting the ground will stop and Iâll remember the faces of his attacker instead. I hope my dad gets off my back. I hope Mrs. Hellstrom quits tomorrow and takes this nightmarish assignment with her.
Mrs. Hellstrom flips through the packet, reading Kurt Cobain lyrics that never made it into his songs, and passages from what she calls a coming-of-age art journal.
I sigh and drop my head on my desk.
âShe assigns crazy-ass stuff like this every year,â Cruz whispers. She stops talking every time Mrs. Hellstrom glances up from the packet.
âOkay,â I manage.
Cruz raises her hand.
âIsabella? Do you have a question?â our insane teacher asks.
âSo you want us to tell you our secrets?â
âIâm not asking you to share anything youâre uncomfortable with, Isabella. The journals are a place to experiment, so you can find your voices as writers. They can be full of short stories or poetry if you donât want to write about yourself directly. But I think youâll find that even journals composed of narrative entries are a reflection of the writer.â
âIsabella?â I whisper when Mrs. Hellstrom turns to answer another question.
She rolls her eyes. âIsabella Vera Cruz. But nobody calls me that except annoying teachers like her.â
âTrust me, I get it.â I point at myself. âFrancesca Devereux.â
She laughs, and Mrs. Hellstrom glares at us.
Eventually, we get paired up to answer boring questions about the entries from the dead and famous.
âSo are you okay after everything that went down last night?â Cruz asks me.
âYeah.â The realization hits me all at once. Iâm not just saying it because she is the one asking.
For the first time in months, itâs true.
I am okay.
Last night I held it together when Sung grabbed me, and this morning I stood my ground with Dadâsomething the old Frankie never wouldâve done. It feels like Iâm finally waking up after being asleep for years.
âWhen I mentioned the street races to your friend Abel, I didnât think heâd really come. Or that it would start such a shit storm.â Cruz shakes her head. At least that part of Abelâs story was true. âBut I couldnât believe you showed up.â
âWhy?â Now that I asked, Iâm not sure I want to
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