theyâre nearly asleep.
âYes. Weâve had a peer counseling program for a few years, but itâs sadly underutilized. We think students are afraid of being exposed in some way. Thatâs why we need something anonymous. Weâve got to make the students feel as if there is someplace confidential they can go when somethingâs bothering them.â
I nod. I agree. Iâm just not sure Iâm the one to do it. I stick my hands back under my butt.
âItâll be fun, Gabi. Itâs like a secret society.â
A secret society? âOkay,â I say slowly, half regretting it. âLet me check with my parents.â
Mom says yes the moment she hears the magic words âvolunteer opportunity.â Itâs too bad Iâm such a good kid. I could get away with anything if I told them it was a study group or a volunteer opportunity. I could probably run a successful Ritalin redistribution business without them having a clue.
Sigh . And once again Iâm stuck doing something Iâd rather not. I need to practice saying ânoâ in the bathroom mirror. It shouldnât be that hard. Itâs only one syllable, for Peteâs sake.
Strangerâs Manifesto
Entry 4
In a sick way the worst week of my life
Was the best week of my life.
At the funeral, people actually saw me.
Looked me in the eye as if I existed.
Asked me if I was okay. Told me to hang in there.
Hang. Bad choice of words.
They even hugged meâas if I was real.
But it was all a trick. A magic card trick.
A slip of the hand, a freaking illusion with light.
Because they forgot I donât exist
And when they remembered,
I wanted to crawl into the deepest, darkest hole I could find.
Because I knewâfor a momentâ
What it felt like to be someone .
And I liked it.
Everyoneâs whispering about Mr. Marks,
Wondering about his arrest.
I wonder too. Does he feel famous? Mysterious? Important?
Or does he just feel
Like a toxic piece of shit?
I canât help but wonder how Iâll feel when my time comes.
Iâve pretty much got
The piece-of-shit thing down.
6
The drama room is so cold that every hair on my body prickles upright. Paisley stands at the front of the room, wearing a loose dress that falls all the way to her feet. I hope she doesnât trip.
âIf youâre sitting in this room, youâve made a commitment to better your school,â she says to all fourteen of us who got suckered into this Sunday orientation-training. âYouâve agreed to keep this experience and our purpose entirely confidential.â
Why do I feel like I just joined the Secret Service? Is it too late to back out now? Probably. Thereâs a sort of discomfort in the air, no doubt because none of us fully understand what weâve gotten ourselves into.
âWhat if we pick up the phone and itâs one of our friends?â someone asks.
Dr. Paisley smiles. âThis may happen. In fact, expect it to happen. Thatâs why weâve been so careful in selecting you all. We picked students we felt had high moral standards and who came from a diverse number of social groups. We expect that if you recognize a caller, youâll be able to keep it to yourself. And, of course, if a caller recognizes your voice, he or she has the discretion to decide whether to continue the call or not.â
Iâm not sure I like this.
âWeâll give you some basic skills and protocols to follow. Youâll work in pairs, so youâll never be alone on a shift.â
I donât know about anyone else, but I feel like Iâve swallowed a golf ball. And there it sits, wedged in the top of my throat, making it difficult for me to breathe.
âAll right, letâs pull our chairs into one big circle,â Paisley says.
I wonder if anyone else is thinking about bolting for the door. Thereâs the obligatory scraping of chairs against the floor as we pull
John R. Little and Mark Allan Gunnells