Speak

by Laurie Halse Anderson

David: “The Constitution does not recognize different classes of citizenship based on time spent living in the country. I am a citizen, with the same rights as your son, or you. As a citizen, and as a student, I am protesting the tone of this lesson as racist, intolerant, and xenophobic.”

David stares at Mr. Neck, looks at the flag for a minute, then picks up his books and walks out of the room. He says a million things without saying a word. I make a note to study David Petrakis. I have never heard a more eloquent silence.

Mr. Freeman: “This has meaning. Pain.”

Our frog lies on her back. Waiting for a prince to come and princessify her with a smooch? I stand over her with my knife. Ms. Keen’s voice fades to a mosquito whine. My throat closes off. It is hard to breathe. I put out my hand to steady myself against the table. David pins her froggy hands to the dissection tray. He spreads her froggy legs and pins her froggy feet. I have to slice open her belly. She doesn’t say a word. She is already dead. A scream starts in my gut—I can feel the cut, smell the dirt, leaves in my hair.

Visions of rape

The whole point of not talking about it, of silencing the memory, is to make it go away. It won’t. I’ll need brain surgery to cut it out of my head. Maybe I should wait until David Petrakis is a doctor, let him do it.

Rape victims

Words are hard work.

I open up a paper clip and scratch it across the inside of my left wrist. Pitiful. If a suicide attempt is a cry for help, then what is this? A whimper, a peep? I draw little windowcracks of blood, etching line after line until it stops hurting. It looks like I arm-wrestled a rosebush.

Self harm

Mr. Freeman: “Art without emotion is like chocolate cake without sugar. It makes you gag.” He sticks his finger down his throat. “The next time you work on your trees, don’t think about trees. Think about love, or hate, or joy, or rage—whatever makes you feel something, makes your palms sweat or your toes curl. Focus on that feeling. When people don’t express themselves, they die one piece at a time. You’d be shocked at how many adults are really dead inside—walking through their days with no idea who they are, just waiting for a heart attack or cancer or a Mack truck

“It’s fine the way it is, it just needs some leaves. Layer the leaves and make them slightly different sizes and it will look great. You have a great start there.” She’s right.

Someone to say keep going

Maya Angelou watches me, two fingers on the side of her face. It is an intelligent pose. Maya wants me to tell Rachel.

Inspiration from writers

bellow, “Another alternate-reality moment brought to you by Adolescence!”

Brutal adolescence

dormancy. I have survived. I am here. Confused, screwed up, but here.

Trauma

man who takes—who steals—usually does so because he doesn’t have. So to take from a woman, to even attempt to steal bits of her humanity, is a clear sign that there are parts of his (our) humanity missing.

Like The Kite Runner. Stealing from another

Because the more whole you are, the safer everyone around you becomes.

The character of Heather from Ohio was originally two characters. As I revised, I realized that the girls each played the same role, so I combined them into one. Mr. Freeman’s character felt flat in the early drafts, so I gave him his own piece of art to struggle with in the hope that it would deepen his character.

Creating character