Dear Friend,
School was bad. St. Malcolm's High is weird. The kids dress all punk and spunk, and look at me funny because I wear the uniform and that I don't decorate it with Magic Marker or anything. The kids don't talk to me much. The only ones who did were the kids in the Counselling Group, which I have to go to every second lunch break because of my history in the psych ward. There aren't too many in the Counselling Group. There's Abraham Doltz, this really fat guy who cries a lot about his mom. He's almost as screwed up as me. At the end of every session his face is pink and blotchy. Then there's this girl called Poppy. She says nothing. She's a punk. Her hair's dyed pink and green, and she has lots of emo band badges on her blazer. She cuts, like me, but she doesn't hide it. She rolls up her sleeves so everyone can see the scars on her arms and the slits on her wrists. People stare but they say nothing. And then there's me. I only have cuts on my stomach and back so no-one sees my cuts. My mom fights with my dad too much but they're putting on a happy facade because I'm back from the psych ward so I can't complain. Our teacher is Miss Ortese and she likes to talk about "feelings" as if we need to learn them, like languages. Miss Ortese is Asian and very skinny but not very young. She says we should let our emotions out, like they're caged or something. We don't. Well, Abraham Doltz does. Miss Ortese spends her days mopping up after Abraham Doltz' tears, and telling Poppy and me to clean up our feelings ourselves. I don't like the Counselling Group much.
Most of my other classes swing by. Maths is bad. Ditto for Biology. And Geography. And nearly everything else. Apart from Music. My music teacher is called Mr Goudy, pronounced "Goody". Some of the girls behind me call him "Goodyballs", but he just laughs it off. Mr Goudy is tall and pale. He wears suits, the tweedy kind, which are hideous. He's very nice, and encourages us to try any instrument we like, but it's clear he loves guitar. I love it too. He finds me funny when I'm being honest, which makes me feel good. He says I've got potential with the guitar, which makes me feel really good. Even when everyone was calling me weird, he looked at them. Not angrily. He just looked at them. And they shut up.
"You're very good at guitar, Quinn. Did your dad teach you?"
"No."
"Mom?"
"My mom's never taught me anything."
He chuckled.
"Miss Ortese tells me you've had some experience in the psychiatric ward. Are you finding it hard to make friends?"
"Well, you could call them friends. We're all playing a game where they ignore me."
He chuckled again.
"Well, if you make one friend today, you're doing OK."
"You don't seem the type who likes to talk about nail polish and boybands, sir."
He chuckled.
School still sucked, though. Some girl with braces called Jenny kicked my lunchbox halfway across the canteen at lunchtime, and called me a freak, and everyone laughed. I had good reason to sit on my own.
When I got home, Mom and Dad were having a discreet argument that I couldn't follow- it was about some guy called Bob. Neither said hi or how was your day or anything, so I just did my homework and here I am, writing to you.
This school is not a new start. It is not my resurrection. It is my burial.
