Status: Active. (Based on the novel by Laurie Halse Anderson.)
Twisted
Nineteen
Back in middle school, I had spent a lot of time hiding in the library. The guys who were hunting me down never thought to look there.
One day- I can't remember if it was seventh or eighth grade- the library TV was turned to CNN, and the BREAKING NEWS banner was flashing in red. The camera zoomed in on a small plane, the kind with two seats and propellers. It had flown into an office tower in downtown Milwaukee, Wisconsin. Twenty stories off the ground. Smack. Nothing exploded, nobody in the building was hurt, but a massive steel-and-glass wall had the tail end of an airplane sticking out of it. It took a long time before the reporters would admit it, but the teenager flying the plane was dead on impact. DOI.
I watched the replays obsessively, trying to figure out what the kid's last second felt like. Did he feel anything? Did he feel everything? Which would be worse?
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I called Mr. Pirelli that night and told him I couldn't work anymore because my dad wanted me to concentrate on school. He said he understood. I told him that I wished I did. I reminded him to fill out the paperwork for my probation officer. He said no problem and if I ever needed a job, I just had to ask.
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Before I went to school the next day, I stole the Mason Profitt CD and broke it into twelve million pieces with a hammer on the garage floor. I swept the pieces into a plastic bag and tossed it in the neighbors' garbage can.
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One day- I can't remember if it was seventh or eighth grade- the library TV was turned to CNN, and the BREAKING NEWS banner was flashing in red. The camera zoomed in on a small plane, the kind with two seats and propellers. It had flown into an office tower in downtown Milwaukee, Wisconsin. Twenty stories off the ground. Smack. Nothing exploded, nobody in the building was hurt, but a massive steel-and-glass wall had the tail end of an airplane sticking out of it. It took a long time before the reporters would admit it, but the teenager flying the plane was dead on impact. DOI.
I watched the replays obsessively, trying to figure out what the kid's last second felt like. Did he feel anything? Did he feel everything? Which would be worse?
---
I called Mr. Pirelli that night and told him I couldn't work anymore because my dad wanted me to concentrate on school. He said he understood. I told him that I wished I did. I reminded him to fill out the paperwork for my probation officer. He said no problem and if I ever needed a job, I just had to ask.
---
Before I went to school the next day, I stole the Mason Profitt CD and broke it into twelve million pieces with a hammer on the garage floor. I swept the pieces into a plastic bag and tossed it in the neighbors' garbage can.
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