I stay in my body for a week straight.
Don’t float away even once. Even when Sam ignores me in the halls. When Damon writes DIE in magnetic letters on Micah’s locker and tells me he likes girls with a little crazy. I stay when I come in way behind my personal best at track. “An entire second, Larkin!” Coach yells at me, disappointment dripping from his voice.
I even stay when Alice’s Post-it notes spread across our room. She talked to Micah, and she’s going to group next week. She’ll talk to someone, and she won’t disappear. She’ll get better.
And each time I write more words, the pull of my body, of the earth, of the here and now, gets a little stronger.
At lunch, I sit with Micah, since Sam is doing a full-on freeze-out, and the girl with the ripped tights offers me a slice of clementine, and the guy with dreads recites a Sylvia Plath poem for my benefit. I catch Sam staring, dagger-eyed, at Micah’s leg against mine. I move my leg, and she turns away when our eyes meet. Guilt needles me.
But still, I stay.
Micah and I convene the final meeting of the guerrilla poets of Ridgeline High to put together all our poems and artwork and pictures of the random acts of poetry and all the words that followed. Micah has printed out the comments from online, and all the #mywords #mystory posts, too.
Everyone is going to know.
It won’t just be a rumor.
“You ready for this?” Micah asks, holding my hand under the lunch table in the courtyard, his thumb stroking mine.
“Absolutely not,” I say. Micah leans in and kisses me softly, tugging my lower lip as he moves away. “But let’s do it.”
I smile, and he smiles, and it melts the icy places in my chest. I’m lighter than I have been in months, so weightless and airy that a strong breeze could toss me into the air and I’d float away.
Gravity finds me on a Wednesday morning. The day before our project is due.
Micah and I stand on the sidewalk, staring at the side of the school. An enormous, black-and-white spray-painted graffiti of #mywords #mystory mars the side of the school.
He looks at me. I shake my head.
“You?”
He shakes his head, raking his fingers through his hair, his jaw clenched.
“There’s only two kinds of people who would do this. Someone who is really into random acts of poetry…”
“Or?”
“Someone who wants to take down the guerrilla poets.”
The Underground wastes no time spewing judgments.
Whoever did it is gonna get suspended for sure.
They should. This was too far.
This is why we can’t have nice things.
Micah’s not in class for our collaboration with the other art students.
Something’s wrong.
Waves of panic rollick through me as Gifford makes a plea to the class, except she’s staring at me.
“If you come forward now, I can back you up. Friedman and I are on your side.”
The class is silent. I conduct a mini-investigation in my head. Kali—too much of a goody-goody. Sam—yes, she hates me right now, but not this much. Right? Damon—definite candidate. He’s been out for Micah since the very first day. He’d totally sabotage us.
Principal Porter’s voice interrupts on the loudspeaker. The voice from on high beckons Lily Larkin to the office, and Gifford gives me a frantic look.
The class oooohs as I get up. I walk down the hall, my monsters roaring out of hibernation.
We tried to warn you.
Why don’t you listen to us anymore?
Micah is sitting outside the office, arms folded tight, staring at the floor. Before I can talk to him, Porter opens his office door, and there, in the corner chair, face drained, is my father.
