way.
Str-S-d #3
This girl once asked me why I didn’t at least wear nicer clothes. That’s what she said, “at least.” As if it bothered her that I didn’t even try. Not that my mom has the money. But that’s not the real answer. The real answer is …
Str-S-d #5
It’s taken me a long time to get to this point. I said I was being honest in this blog, but I wasn’t completely because I didn’t say what I was really thinking. I mean, wishing people would die. That’s how I really feel most of the time. I just wish they would die. I didn’t write it before because I tell myself I shouldn’t feel that way. But the more I try to rid myself of these thoughts, the stronger they grow. So forget trying to be nice. Forget trying to pretend. Those people have made my life miserable. I want them to die.
I’ll begin with Lucy. She is definitely first on the list. You can’t believe how it feels to be in the cafeteria and turn around and there she is staring at me like I’m some disgusting bug or vermin. Does she really think I WANT to be this way? I hate you, Lucy. I really hate you. You are my #1 pick. I wish you were dead.
4 Comments
I know just how you feel. Popular kids suuuck.
Did it ever occur to you to try and improve your looks instead of just being a crybaby complainer?
Go read Str-S-d #4, Ru22.
Perhaps your wish will come true.
Ethan turned and looked at me. “Any idea who could have written this?”
“Yes,” I said, and kept reading until I got to:
Str-S-d #11
This is the last blog I’m writing. I’m really scared. I wished three people would die, and now they’re all gone. I don’t believe anymore that it’s a coincidence. Someone’s been reading this blog. Someone crazy enough to do what I wished for. If you’re reading this right now, you know who you are. You’re the one person in the world who is always nice to me. But today in school you said something. I’m not sure you even realized what you were saying, but it totally creeped me out. Now I don’t know what to do. I could go to the police, but they’ll want to know how I know and then they’ll find out about this blog and blame me. The parents will blame me. Everyone will blame me. Everyone already hates me. But this is the worst thing that ever happened. Maybe I should kill myself. I could kill myself, but then someone would figure it out. I don’t want to be blamed for this. Even if I’m dead.
I actually put my hand on his shoulder and stared at the screen, utterly, totally incredulous. This time Ethan didn’t turn around. He just said, “She knows who it is.”
I’d told him I had to get dressed and I didn’t want him in the house when I did. He said he understood and would wait for me outside. We went to the door.
“You realize I could still call the police?” I said.
His shoulders sagged, and he hung his head and stared at the ground. “Look, I’ve told you the truth. You read the newspaper stories and saw what was on the Internet. If I were Nemesis, why would I have told you about all that?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “But you just broke into my house and now you’re asking me to trust you.”
He sighed and nodded. “You’re right. I did that because I’m desperate. I’ve been on the run for a long time. I’m tired and dirty and smelly, and I feel like the whole world is against me—and if you’ve never felt that way, believe me, it’s hard to keep going. This is the closest I’ve gotten to Nemesis, but I need help. The person who wrote that blog has no reason to talk to me, but they may talk to you. So here’s the deal. You can call the police and I’ll be arrested. As soon as Nemesis hears about it, she’ll be gone … off to some new place and new identity, and sooner or later she’ll kill more kids. Or you can trust me and help me stop her once and for all. It’s up to you.”
He gestured back into the house. “There’s the phone.” Then he sat down on the front step under the portico. “Either way, I’ll be here.”
I closed the front door and locked it. By the time I’d gotten back to my room upstairs, I’d made my decision.
Rain splattered on the Audi’s windshield. The address was a street I’d never heard of, in a part of town I’d never known anyone to live. A few blocks of old, two-story wood and brick buildings housing a car-repair and body shop, a plumbing-supply store, a small industrial dry cleaner. On the second floors of some of the buildings were apartments. Rainwater dripped from the roofs and awnings. The address was a store that sold and fixed vacuum cleaners. Above it was an apartment. I parked across the street.
“Want me to come with you?” Ethan asked.
“No, I’m afraid it will freak her out.”
I left the car and crossed the street in the rain. The paint on the small brown wooden door beside the vacuum-cleaner store was peeling. The door was unlocked. I pushed it open and went in. On the wall of the dark vestibule inside were two metal mailboxes. One said BRESLISS.
I climbed the narrow creaky wooden stairs. The steps were so old they dipped in the middle. On the second- floor landing were some children’s bicycles, a stroller, and two doors. I knocked on the one marked BRESLISS.
“Who’s there?” a woman shouted from inside.
“My name is Madison Archer,” I said to the door. “Is Maura there?”
“What do you want?”
“I’m a friend of hers.”
I could hear muttering on the other side of the door. Then the woman said, “That’s a first. Go get your sister. Someone’s here for her.”
I heard banging and yelling, and then the soft slither of footsteps. “Who is it?” Maura asked.
“It’s Madison.”
Silence. The door didn’t open.
“Maura?” I said. There was no answer. “Maura, I know what’s going on. I remember what you told me that day in the hall and I read your blog.”
“Your what?” the woman inside asked. Obviously she’d been listening.
The door opened just enough for Maura to squeeze out. As if she didn’t want me to see inside. I caught a glimpse of the woman. Small, like Maura, with a hard, deeply lined face.
Maura pulled the door closed behind her and then led me back down the stairs. We stood in the small, dark vestibule. “How did you find my blog?” she asked.
“A friend helped me,” I said. “You don’t know who he is, and he doesn’t know who you are, but I can promise you that neither he nor I will ever tell anyone. I swear, and I trust him. You can trust him. But there’s one thing we need to know, Maura. We need to know where she is.”
“You’re sure you want to do this?” I asked nervously as I drove.
“If you’re asking if I’m scared, the answer is totally,” Ethan replied. “But what choice do I have?”
“Can’t we just go to the police?”
