I hear my name, but I concentrate on the back of every head in front of me. The hall is jammed with people, and we’re barely moving. Someone is shouting my name over and over, and then this tall girl with dark skin and a painted-on beauty mark by her eye yanks at my arm and goes, “Didn’t you hear me?”

“Caroline?”

“I said your girlfriend’s up there. She’s the reason we can’t get through.”

I stand in the middle of the main hallway. The only thing I’m wearing other than my shoes is my bikini. My suit and hair are still damp, and I’m shivering a little but I’m telling myself, This is your moment in history. This belongs to you.

Five. Four. Three …

Iris appears, out of breath. I say, “Did you bring them?”

“Right here.” She holds up a stack of papers.

“You may want to get out of here.”

She shakes her head. “I’m staying.”

The bell rings and I jump. There’s still time. I could run like the Flash and maybe only be seen by a couple of people.

But I keep standing there.

As doors are being thrown open. As the entire student population of MVB High School starts flooding the hall. As everyone is staring. As phones are held up. As—I’m sure of it—four hundred pictures are being taken. As my chest is clenching. As my head feels as if it’s being filled with cotton. As my breathing grows raggedy and uneven. As my palms go clammy.

I stand there.

I try to push my way through, but as I’m getting closer to the main hall, things slow down even more, and soon I’m trapped in a crowd, shuffling along, pressed into the girl in front of me and the guy behind me and the girl to my left and the guy to my right. Caroline is somewhere nearby, but I’ve lost her.

Iris and I are handing out sheets of paper, one for everybody, and they are going fast. My classmates are snatching them up and walking off, reading them while others aim their phones at me and take pictures. I try to pose for as many as I can, because if I’m going out on the Internet, dammit, I want to give them the best possible me.

Seth Powell and his giant Mohawk appear in front of me, and Jack Masselin is just behind him. Seth goes, “What’s this all about? Is it spirit day?” He laughs so hard he shakes.

Jack is not laughing. He says, “What are you doing?”

“I’m reminding people of some basic truths.”

Moses Hunt and his crew loom forward, and I give them a copy to share, even though they probably can’t read. I say to Moses, “I hope you learn something, although I doubt you will.”

He reaches for me like he’s going to hug me, and Jack goes, “Hey!”

“Fuck you, Masshole. What’s your problem?”

Seth goes, “His problem is that’s his girlfriend.” And laughs/shakes likes a tambourine.

I say to Jack, “Thanks anyway, but I don’t need you to protect me.”

And he says, “You need to put some clothes on.”

Behind her desk, Principal Wasserman shakes her head. “I’m at a loss, Libby. Help me understand this.” She holds up a copy of the thing I wrote. My Treatise for the World. “Someone’s been harassing you? Sending you letters? Why didn’t you come to me?”

“I don’t know who sent them, and even if I did, I wouldn’t rat them out, no matter how awful they are. But I felt like I needed to say something.” I’m dressed now, but I’m still shivering. For one thing, my hair is damp. For another, I’m pissed. With a single comment, Jack Masselin has taken away some of the glory of my moment: You need to put some clothes on.

Principal Wasserman reads my treatise again and then sets it down in front of her. She folds her hands on top of it and looks at me, and I can see the anger in her eyes, but I know it’s not directed at me. “I’m sorry,” she says. “Truly.”

My eyes are suddenly stinging, which takes me by surprise. I stare at my hands, willing myself not to cry. No need to cry. You rocked it. You made your point. Maybe you even helped someone else today who needed to hear what you had to say.

“We’re done here.”

I look up. “Really?”

“Just let this be the last time you take matters into your own hands, and let this be the last time I see you in here. Unless you get more letters. In that case, I want you to come here directly, without trying to address it on your own. And if you do find out who’s sending them, I want to know that too.”

YOU ARE WANTED

by Libby Strout

“You aren’t wanted.”

Someone wrote this to me recently in an anonymous letter. I wonder who out there feels like this is an okay thing to say to another person. I mean really. Think about it.

“You aren’t wanted.”

It’s pretty much the most despicable thing you could tell somebody.

What they probably mean to say is “You are fat, and this disgusts me.” So why not say that?

You don’t know if I’m wanted or not.

But guess what? I am.

Believe it or not, I actually have a family who loves me and I also have friends. I’ve even made out with boys. The reason I haven’t had sex is because I’m not ready yet. Not because no one wants me. The thing is, as hateful and small as you are, Person Who Wrote That Letter, I’m pretty damn delightful. I’ve got a good personality and a great brain and I’m strong and I can run. I’m resilient. I’m mighty. I’m going to do something with my life because I believe in myself. I may not know what that something is yet, but that’s only because I am limitless. Can you say the same?