Chapter 2

By the second semester of seventh grade, their cruelty crossed every line.

Sarah built a group chat for our class, called "Homeroom 3 Family."

Forty-seven people in the class. Forty-six in the group.

Guess who was left out? Me.

I had no idea the group chat even existed until one day, I saw the guy in front of me posting a message in it.

Right under the group name, there was a short line of text: [Do not add Isabella.]

Posted by Sarah.

From the very first week of school.

So from day one, she was the one who kicked it all off.

I didn't get it.

Sarah and I had no bad blood whatsoever.

I'd even lent her a pen on the first day.

Why would she do this?

That day at lunch, I finally worked up the nerve to go talk to her. "Sarah, can I ask you something?"

She was having lunch with a few other girls. At the sound of my voice, she looked up. "What is it?" Her tone was neutral, not warm or cold.

"Why would you... turn everyone against me?"

She put down her fork, looked at me, and smiled, "Who told you that? I never did."

The girls around her started laughing too.

"Isabella, aren't you just overthinking things?"

"No one's against you out. Maybe you're just the one who doesn't fit in."

"Yeah, you always sit by yourself after class and never even try to talk to us."

I just looked at them, not knowing what to say.

It was always they who ignored me, not the other way around.

I always tried to reach out, but every single time, they just pushed me away.

Now they were turning it around and saying I "don't fit in".

I turned and walked away.

Behind me, I heard their quiet, muffled laughter.

That afternoon, when I went to sit down for class, I found water on my chair— a big puddle of it. I stood up, only to find a large wet patch on my pants.

Everyone was watching me.

Some kids covered their mouths, snickering behind their hands.

"Did she pee her pants?"

Not loud, but loud enough for everyone to hear.

The laughter got even louder.

I looked at Sarah. She was smiling, with that smug, satisfied look on her face.

I didn't cry.

I took out some tissues, wiped the chair dry, and sat down.

The cold, damp feeling clung to my skin. But I forced myself not to react.

I wanted to go talk to Ella.

But then I remembered what she'd said last time. "You really need to look at yourself."

I opened my notebook and wrote down today's date.

[Someone poured water on my chair. My pants got soaked. The whole class was laughing. Sarah was the one who started it.]

I wrote it all down, making sure every detail was there: the time, the place, who did it, who was there. Every single thing was written down, clear as day.

Back then, I had no clue how important this notebook would end up being.

I just thought that if nobody else believed me, at least I'd remember for myself.

Sports day. That was the day I would never forget.

I signed up for the 800-meter run.

No one cheered for me.

No one waited for me at the finish line.

When the starting gun went off, I took off like a shot.

The wind whipped around my ears so hard that I couldn't hear a thing.

In the last hundred meters, I sprinted with everything I had left and crossed the finish line first.

I bent over, gasping for air.

I looked up at where my classmates were sitting in the stands, all 46 of them sat together, side by side. Not a single person clapped, not one stood up, and none of them even glanced my way.

The other class was cheering loudly for their runner.

I stood on the track, holding the winner's tag in my hand.

All around me, cheers echoed from every direction.

Except where I stood. It was completely silent.

Then the loudspeaker announced, "First place in the girls' 800-meter race, Isabella, from Homeroom 3."

Still, not a single person clapped.

I saw Ella sitting at the back of our section, scrolling through her phone.

I didn't cry when I got home that day.

I opened my notebook and jotted down a line: [Sports day, 800-meter race, first place. Nobody clapped for me. Ella was on her phone.]

Then I turned to the front and counted up the pages.

In three months, I'd written forty-seven notes, roughly one every two days.

I stuffed the notebook into the very bottom of my backpack.

Then I zipped it shut.

I told myself that this notebook would matter someday. One day, it would make a difference.