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body’s core. At first the person who’s been punched doesn’t feel pain; shock is the body’s first sensation. Then, in the few seconds that it takes for the brain to process what’s just happened to the body, the pain hits. Hard. That is a sucker punch, and it’s probably no coincidence that half of the phrase is the word “sucker,” as in the one who receives the punch.
    The sucker in my situation was me. Or at least that’s the best way I can describe the sensation I experienced when Anthony walked past me after second period the Monday after Chelsea’s party, giving me a nod and a “HeyStacyhowsitgoing,” all fast, said at once. He didn’t stop; he didn’t do any of the things I’d planned while I waited at home—all day Sunday—for his call.
    I could have gone to the movies and then out for sushi with Mom and Jill, but no. I waited. And nothing.
    We were supposed to live happily ever after. While I was busy planning our future together, writing Stacy Zarate over and over to see how it looked, he apparently forgot to call me. Total amnesiac case I’m thinking.
    I thought for sure when I saw him at school, he’d run to me with his arms open and sweep me up. We’d pick right up where we left off. I could just picture it in my head. Oh, he’d have some excuse for why he didn’t call me. A very good excuse. He’d apologize, and then he’d take my books that I was holding with one hand, take my hand with his other hand, and walk me to my next class. He’d give me a soft kiss and tell me how beautiful I looked. This was how it was going to go.
    So I waited where I knew he’d see me after second period. I was a little nervous—almost giddy with excitement. Wait—there he is! I see him!
    He looked at me and nodded.
    “Hey, Stacy. How’s it going?”
    “Hi, Anthony!” I waited, smiling my brightest smile, face turned towards him. One one-thousand, two one-thousand.
    He turned the other way, kept right on walking.
    He gave me the brush-off. That’s it.
    I was like a deflated balloon. I’d been sucker punched, and I really don’t know what else to say about it.
    Anthony is a sadist/jerk.
    I’ll never figure out why he did that to me. I’ll never figure out why he reached into my soul, ripped my heart out (while it was still beating), threw it down on the ground, and then crushed it under the heel of his motorcycle boot.
    Maybe he likes to collect girls like other boys collect action figures or video games?
    Curse you, Anthony. I curse the day I met you. You and your muscles and your perfect teeth.
    Poor, brokenhearted, loser me.
    Epic Romance Fail.

September 25 -
Becca Has Been Acting Strange
(Stranger Than Usual)
     
    Talking about mental illness is kind of like talking about death. I mean in the way that it’s another subject people seem uncomfortable with. It’s not contagious, as far as I know—I don’t think you can catch crazy—but still, it makes people feel self-conscious and awkward. Which is why I’d been keeping Becca’s strangeness to myself.
    As if my life weren’t horrible enough—so much so that a list of the ways in which it blows would just be overkill at this point—Becca has been acting strange (stranger) lately.
    First it was little things, like her flying off the handle, calling me names, and slamming the bathroom door in my face. Then it moved on to more and more bizarre behavior.
    First, she dyed her hair black with hot pink streaks. She also pierced her nose (with a cute little diamond stud) and pierced her ears in the high part where it looks like it would be very painful. She now has multiple piercings and those little plugs that stretch the earlobes out in a gross way.
    That wasn’t such a big deal. I thought she was just going for the intense artist/writer look since she’s editor of the school newspaper this year. And it kind of matches Roman’s skinny-jeans, all-black clothing emo look.
    Second—but much more strange—she told me that she thought our