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speaks for me or out of me. I am many. I have a Protector who shields me against the world, against people, men, women, and other kids, and against monsters, beasts, and the wild. He’s huge and can’t be stopped, but he won’t protect me against the Sawmen. The Sawmen punish me if I don’t listen to the Architect. When the Sawmen come, I suffer. The severing.
    The Guardians command the Sawmen. Geniuses with whips. They will talk with me, but when they talk, they growl. They laugh when there’s nothing funny at all. They laugh at me because I’m stupid compared to them, compared to the Architect. They serve the Architect with total loyalty.
    The Architect lives at the center of me. He created everything within me, and I sometimes think he created me, too. I’ve never seen him, and I can’t imagine him. I know he thinks and draws and stares out of the windows of my eyes.
    Who created the Architect? What was inside me before him? Anything?

    A drop of rain hits the window and dissolves. Another one and another one.
    Thunder, lightning.
    Rain scared me when I was young. Not even so long ago.

    Splash splash splash splash
    I will not be killed. Panic. The lightning, the thunder, the rain. Soaked. Keep running. What have I done to die like this?
    The frog. The frog.

    Sixth grade. Three years ago. My winged mother came out of hell to frighten me. All her screeching and bloody fingers. And my father arrived in fire and pushed my face into my cereal. Nearly drowned me in a bowl of milk. I squirmed out and ran the five flights from our apartment to the ground floor. Escaped.
    My face. Milk running down my face under my shirt, dripping all over my shirt. Milk in my ears. Milk coming out my nose. Milk streaming from my eyes.
    Out in the street, I pulled my baseball cap down low. I had my backpack, my apartment key in my left front pocket, and stuff in my right front pocket. A stone, a bottle cap, a tiny key to a hidden lock, and some change. My sneakers looked new, but the treads had been worn down. I went through a pair of sneakers every month before I stopped growing. All my running and walking.
    My pants above my ankles—high-waters. Always embarrassed and ugly. I still have the ankles of a pony, too skinny for my legs.
    My backpack. Pencils and erasers. Binder. A separate math notebook. A worn copy of
Bridge to Terabithia
I had to read for class, and a few other tools of the trade. A silver cross on a chain I kept all by itself in a pocket. Lunch in a brown paper bag, a sandwich and cookies that I’d give up or throw out. I had these books:
The Pilgrim’s Progress
and
One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest
.
Catcher in the Rye,
which I thought would have a bad ending and did. Totally boring and meaningless. Very human.
    The school day started like any other. A settling of homework with Mrs. Jacobs. New stuff, whatever it might’ve been. Who cares?
    Then, Kristine Pierre passed me a note. She had to know what would happen. She sprang the trap. The note came through Kristine, who tucked it into my collar since she sat behind me.
    Meet me after school on the back steps. Just you. Mala.
    The rest of the day was a waste. I went around in a fog. I couldn’t keep my eyes off Mala for months. She came here from Bangladesh. I’m not even sure if Mala’s her real name. She might have a Bengali name too hard for me to pronounce. She has black hair almost too thick to believe, a real ponytail. Her eyes are the size of dinner plates and only seem black. I once saw the sun in her eye. Deep brown.
    She smiles like a voice inside of her tells her she’s beautiful and loved. Only a half smile, but happy. Her skin is dark. Dark and light at the same time.
    She made me stupid.
    The day went by until it ended. I stuffed my backpack and sat in the corner of the classroom after the last bell. Waiting, terrified. Calm down. Calm down. I had to get myself together.

    I got to the back stairs and