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said
good morning
!”
    I keep on walking.
    “Rotten Egg should really learn some manners!” she yells.
    People sneak looks at Carly. This one girl makes a nasty face at me. Her friends laugh.
    I’m sure all this ignoring Carly will start to work any day now.
    The way Carly torments me is bad. But it’s nothing compared to the way she torments Ali Walsh. Ali is sweet and quiet and will always let you borrow a pencil. But this is high school. Where it’s not about who you are. It’s how you look. Ali has really bad skin. And short, frizzy hair. Her wardrobe appears to be visiting from 1993, back when style was really bad. These are the things that define Ali to everyone else. These are the things that convinced Carly she’s entitled to pick on Ali anytime she wants.
    I saw them in the student parking lot the other day. Sherae and I were going to her car and I noticed Carly way down by the end of the lot. Carly had Ali pinned against the hood of a car, as if Carly were security and Ali needed frisking. I wanted to run over, pull Carly off Ali, and demand that she leave her alone. But I knew if I did that, Carly would torment me even harder. And I can barely get through the day as it is.
    So I didn’t do anything. I didn’t go over. I didn’t save Ali.
    I hate that I’m so afraid.

    When I meet up with Sherae at her locker, she’s staring at a note.
    “Another one?” I ask.
    “It was in my locker.”
    “What did he say?”
    “Same as before. He misses me. He’s sorry. Which is hilarious, considering he has no idea what he did.” Sherae’s eyes fill with tears. “Clueless meathead.”
    I search my bag for a tissue.
    “I’m okay,” she insists. “I just don’t get how someone could do something like that and not even know how wrong it is.”
    I wish I had an answer for Sherae. But I’ve been wondering how people can be so clueless for years.

    Ms. Scofield keeps saying how everything is connected. She even has a thing about how science is connected to all other subjects. That’s why we had to write optics haikus for homework last week. Before she hands them back, she holds one up.
    “This one by Noelle really struck a chord with me,” she tells everyone. Then she reads my haiku.
    SEEING BELIEVING
    what’s in front of you
    is not necessarily
    the entire story
    After class, Simon Bruckner comes up to me. We don’t really talk or anything, but he’s always been nice to me. I secretly admire Simon. He’s kind of an outsider by choice. If he wore ultra-preppy sweaters, pretentious tees, and jeans that cost a fortune but are pretending they don’t, he could totally fit in. His parentsare supposed to be from one of the wealthiest families around. But Simon doesn’t want to be like everyone else. He just wants to be himself. I don’t know anyone else who wears trendy ties, fitted vests, and limited edition sneakers. I love his hipster chic style. Today he’s wearing a skinny violet knit tie, a polished black dress shirt, black suspenders with violet stripes, distressed dark jeans, and black Converse.
    “Hey,” Simon says. “I like your haiku.”
    “Thanks. I like your suspenders.”
    “I knew you were the type to appreciate style.”
    That’s just Simon being nice. My style is clearly nonexistent.
    “Have you read the
Spectrum
?” Simon asks.
    The
Spectrum
is the literary magazine. It comes out at the end of the year, right before yearbook. It’s a collection of poetry and short stories with some artwork thrown in. I flipped through Sherae’s copy last year. Imagine my surprise to discover that I don’t have much interest in the thoughts and feelings of privileged snobs.
    “Not really,” I say.
    “I think you should join.”
    “Me?”
    “You.”
    “Why?”
    “You’re talented. Teachers always put your writing up. And I need a coeditor. Our last one just quit and I’m already behind.”
    “Can’t someone already on the
Spectrum
be coeditor?”
    “In an ideal world, yeah. But none