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    March 17, 2006


    Many people know me as the straight A student, or the sweet little girl who does everything right. In front of public, that's the impression of myself I want to show. But it's not the real me.

    The real me is at home, where I'm upstairs pouting about my mom being a drunken lard, or arguing with my mom downstairs, challenging her as to why she divorced my dad.

    It's hard to explain why I'm writing this. It may be because I want people to know who I really was when disaster strikes. Or maybe it's just to pour out my emotions into a few sheets of paper.

    Or maybe it's because something worth mentioning happened today. We got assigned partners today for a science project, and my partner was Tom Jacobs. He seems so depressed, so negative, that you can't help but feel sorry for him.

    Unfortunately, I suppose that's not what he wants.

    But before I go on writing as to what's going on now, I better start writing a bit about my background. My grandparents, on my dad's side, when they were kids, were escapees from the Nazi's grasp.

    That's where my German last name comes from. My grandpa would always remind me that Archibald means to be "brave" and "strong", and told me to be like his parents, who sacrificed everything to get out of Germany.

    I'm afraid I didn't live up to that expectation. So, when I was assigned to be partners with Tom, seemingly the largest jerk in the school, I took that as an opputunity to live up to my last name. Be strong, I had told myself. Don't slip up.

    Tom never seemed to like me, and I'm afraid that's an understatement. So maybe, I thought, maybe showing compassion towards him would soften him up. For five years it hasn't worked, but maybe it will this time.

    Or maybe it won't. We'll just have to wait and see.

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    "Kid! What are you doing here?" I glanced up. There was the police officer. I didn't know how long he had been there, but I was holding a pink, bedazzled diary.

    How embarassing.

    I quickly shoved into the large pocket of my jacket, and replied,

    "I...I don't know." I started towards the door, but I found myself bumping into Mrs. Archibald. I looked up at her, but didn't know what to say.

    "Tom! What's going on? Why are you here?" I paused for a second, and suddenly lunged forward and hugged her.

    "Mrs. Archibald..." I pouted, and then continued, "I'm sorry about Mary. There are--I wish I were kinder towards her." I could see a tear streaming down her face as she looked up, curled her lips, and said,

    "Tom...I want you to know that none of this is your fault...and that--that I said many things I wish I could take back...and done so many horrible things." Slowly, I released my grip on her, and she continued,

    "Well, I suppose we'd best call your mother." I nodded, and 30 minutes later, I was plopped inside our car as my mother lectured me on something about mature behavior. I wasn't listening. I just pulled out Mary's diary, and continued to read.