“Because she feels alone.” Ana shrugged.
“Maybe she’s got a personality disorder?” Christa offered a timid smile, and I nodded in response to their responses, trying not to grin.
“Because,” Sydney piped up, “she can be whoever she wants on the page.”
I narrowed my eyes on her. “What do you mean?”
She licked her lips, sitting up straighter. “In the first entry, she’s supportive but a little condescending, like she’s taking care of Juliet. Like Juliet’s the little sister in need of guidance. Then she gets angry at her, acting like she’s perfect and not the disgrace Juliet is. In both entries, Juliet is portrayed as sad and not good enough. When she writes as Katherina, she gets to be more than that. She gets to be strong and confident.”
I continued, listening and drifting down the aisle.
“Then,” Sydney kept going. “You see her transfer her anger to her mother, saying things she wouldn’t say to her face. She’s also kinder to Juliet as if she begins to realize not everything is her fault.” And she glanced at Jake and then back at me. “Juliet’s not her alter ego. Katherina is.”
My heart tightened in my chest.
Wow.
“So,” I prompted. “Journaling did what for her?”
“Gave her an outlet,” someone said.
Jake spoke up. “Let her say what needed to be said when no one else would listen.”
“It was a release.”
“It saved her life.” And I looked over at Sydney, the girl I didn’t see eye to eye with, but all of a sudden she seemed to get it.
“Writing can be very public and also very private. I want you to forget the rules today,” I said. “I’m going to give you twenty or so minutes. Go put in your iPods, spread out, go to the grass, and write. This isn’t graded. I don’t care about grammar or conventions. I want you to write to yourself as if you’re going to read this twenty years from now. Share who you are right now. What you want. Where you want to go. What you hope to accomplish and what you hope to gain from friends and family. There are no rules. Just write to an older you.”
As they began to dig in their backpacks, I walked back to the stage and grabbed the last journal I’d used. Flipping it open, I sat down on a bench and completed the assignment, too.
CHAPTER 18
JAXON
“Jared!” I call. “Catch!”
My new brother throws his hands up in the air and runs to capture the old, faded football. A car honks, and he twists around, dashing off the street to get out of the way.
“You trying to get me killed?” he jokes, smiling at me, and I run to throw my shoulder into his stomach.
“Ahhhhhh!” I tackle him to the sidewalk.
He laughs, grunting as he hits the concrete. We’ve gotten tons of scrapes already today, but we don’t care.
Ever since my half brother showed up last week to visit for the summer, we’ve spent every waking minute together. Almost, anyway. We’ve played football and gone to the movies, and he’s taught me how to climb trees, even though we have to walk a lot of blocks to get to the nearest park.
Jared lives with his mom a few hours away, and this is the first time he’s met our dad.
I know he hates it here. I’m sure it’s not as pretty as his mom’s house. But I feel safe with him here. My dad’s friends haven’t bothered me since he showed up, and even though I know he can’t, I keep hoping that he’ll take me with him when he goes home. I don’t want to be alone again, and I know that he’ll protect me.
I let myself dream it, for a little while, anyway.
“When you come to visit me, you’ll get to play on the grass and climb trees right in your yard,” he tells me, ruffling my hair.
I nudge away, grinning. “Stop it. I’m not a baby.”
We rise to our feet, and he looks at me, shaking his head. “Does Dad have those parties a lot?” he asks me about all the noise last night.
I nod, leading the way back toward the house. “Yeah, but it’s best to stay out of the way.”
“Why?”
I shrug and stare off down the street. “Some of the people don’t like kids.” Or they like them too much.
I’m thirteen now, and even though I barely remember what it was like to live with my foster family, I know how bad things make me feel.
And what I feel now is a lot worse than what I felt when I was five. No one should have to see the dirty things I see going on at my house. I thought it was normal, but I don’t think it is. My friends at school don’t have dirty houses that smell bad.
During the parties, I usually leave and camp out on the wood chips underneath the playground. When I get home in the morning, everyone is passed out or too out of it to be bothered with me.
I see the old gray car coming down the road, and my stomach flips.
I turn to Jared. “Let’s go to the park,” I urge.
“It’s almost dinnertime,” he points out. “Plus, I wanted to see if I could use Dad’s phone to call my mom and Tate.”
My cheeks ache, because I’m trying not to cry, and I want to bury myself in his T-shirt. It’s such a stupid feeling, and I feel dumb, but it would make me feel better.
Jared is bigger, and he always wears black. If I can wrap my arms around him, I can dive into where it’s dark, and I feel as if maybe I can hide.
I see them get out of the car, my father’s friend Gordon and my father’s girlfriend, Sherilynn. I turn toward Jared, giving them my back.
“Jax!” Gordon calls, and I wince.
Jared’s eyes flash over my head, and then he looks down to me. “Who is that?”
I try to calm my breathing, but my stomach is lurching. “That’s Gordon. Dad’s friend.”
“Jax!” he calls again, and pain shoots through my stomach. I reach out, wrap my arms around my brother’s waist, squeezing the wind out of him as I bury my face in his shirt.
Jared’s here. Jared’s here. Jared’s here. He’ll protect me.
But Jared was only fourteen. He couldn’t help me.
It was then that I knew my days as a child were over. There was no one coming to save me, and I was simply a prisoner by choice. I was on my own, and I was done being helpless.
I punched the black bag, jabbing my fist at it again and again, swinging my right and then my left. My fists, wrapped in tape, threw blow after blow. Right, right, left. Right, right, left, rear back, kick, right fist again.
Sweat drenched my chest and back, and my hair stuck to my body as I whipped around and threw four uppercuts on the bag behind me and darted out my leg again, jabbing the bag to my right.
“I want you to be better.”
I growled, throwing punch after punch, blow after blow, until my knuckles burned.