Be the Girl(91)

I still wonder, though, what made Holly the way she is. With Julia, it wasn’t too hard to connect the dots afterward. But Holly’s smart and beautiful, and I heard she has two parents who love her. I asked Dr. Z what she thought. The tall, willowy blonde therapist didn’t have an answer for me, other than to say that having intelligence and beauty doesn’t equate to having tolerance and empathy.

I’ve thought about that a lot since. I’ve wondered if the old Aria and her friends had had more tolerance and empathy to begin with, would she have made different choices, too?

“Okay, AJ’s up next.”

I take a deep breath and flip to the first of my slides.

Surprise flashes in Emmett’s eyes and then he frowns at me in a “What are you doing?” way. A low murmur buzzes around the classroom.

I clear my throat. Aside from conversations with Dr. C., I’ve never actually talked about this out loud. I sure as hell have never stood in front of a classroom and divulged my deepest, darkest secrets, from beginning to end. “I’m going to talk about what happened to a fourteen-year-old girl named Julia Morrow, and how it could’ve been stopped.” I make a point of meeting Holly’s blue eyes, which are filled with a mix of wariness and curiosity.

“Before I became Aria Jones, I was Aria Wiser.” I take a deep breath. “And somewhere along the line, Aria Wiser became a bully without even realizing it.”





Uncle Merv’s snore is a deep, rhythmic rumble carrying through the quiet house when I come down at eight that night in my running gear.

My mom is stretched out on the couch with her law textbooks. Murphy, lying next to her slippers on the floor, merely lifts an eyelid.

“How can you study listening to that?”

“It’s oddly soothing,” she says, pulling the curtain back with a frown. “It’s snowing, Aria.”

“I know, but I just … need to run.” To clear my head. I haven’t been motivated to drag myself out of bed in the mornings lately. It’s cold and dark and going to Miller’s Park without Emmett is too painful. But, come the quiet evenings, I find the urge to get out, to snake along the side streets, getting familiar with this town that has become my home, keeping myself busy. Last night I ran almost ten kilometers.

She nods slowly. “By the way, Ms. McNair phoned me earlier today, about your presentation.”

“Did she say if she was going to knock marks for going over time?” The rules were specific and I went over by at least five minutes. I don’t want Emmett punished for that.

Mom’s lips curve into a tiny, amused smile. “No, she didn’t mention anything about that. Actually, she said it was the most impactful presentation a student has ever given in her class. She said even the boy who can’t keep awake through first period was listening.”

I study my shoes. Probably because I nearly cried.

“She thought you were incredibly brave for standing up there like that, and she asked me if I could convince you to give the presentation again at the bullying awareness assembly on Thursday.”

“In front of the whole school?” A wave of nausea floods me.

“I told her I’d mention it to you, but that it was your choice.” Mom’s shrewd gaze studies me a moment. “But I think you should do it, even if it’s terrifying. I think you need to do it.”

“I’ll think about it.” Maybe she’s right. Walking back to my desk after giving my presentation, I felt lighter than when I’d stood up at the beginning. Perhaps each time I tell my cautionary tale to someone else—the real, ugly version—I’ll find just a bit more peace in the process, knowing that it could help the Julias and the Cassies, and even the Buckey O’Donnells of the world.

“Be careful. It’s slippery out there,” my mom warns. “Take a hat. And stay on the sidewalk.”

I make a point of pulling my knit toque on in front of her. Time is slowly repairing the damage I did to our relationship, but it’s going to be a long time before Mom trusts me again. At least she gave me back my phone.

I shudder against the cold air, taking a few moments to admire the falling snow as I stretch my hamstrings on our front lawn. The flakes are fat and light, clinging to the bushes and trees, coating the ground in a thin white blanket. If this keeps up, everything will be white by morning.

I steal a glance next door as I always do every time I step out of our house. The porch lights are on and all three cars are in the driveway. The light in Emmett’s room that overlooks the street glows bright. A pang stirs in my chest as I picture Emmett sprawled on his bed with his textbook. I quickly push it aside, tuck my earbuds in, and take off at a slow pace down the sidewalk. Those fond thoughts will only weigh me down with regret.

Is it normal for a sixteen-year-old to carry this much regret in her short life already?

I turn right at the end of our street and head toward Mower’s street, admiring the houses already decorated for Christmas. It’s almost December, so I guess it’s time. Mom mentioned Mick offering to help us string lights this coming weekend.

They’ve been having a lot of “It’s just pasta” dinners lately. Last weekend she tried to sneak back in at 5 a.m. after a date night. I think they’re having more than “just pasta” now.

My lungs are burning with the cold by the time I’ve lapped the neighborhood, and the next one over, and am heading back. The snow is falling heavier now, and I slow my pace a touch to avoid slipping, but also to admire the beautiful, quiet white night. It reminds me of a snow globe, with a single set of headlights easing along the street, a canopy of trees, and a lone figure in the distance.