This kid in my seventh-grade algebra class told me once that my face put people off.

"That's why you don't have any friends," he'd said solemnly, like he was breaking some kind of horrible news to me.

Like I hadn't already known. 

But the kid hadn't stopped there, helpfully adding, "If you'd just, like, smile once in a while, people might actually want to talk to you."

And maybe he'd been right and there was something wrong with my face. At some point over the years, I'd stopped asking questions and learned to use it to my advantage — like right now, for example.

I was thankful for whatever expression on my face currently had people going out of their way to avoid me in the hallways at the prestigious John F. Kennedy Preparatory Academy. It cut down on travel time to my locker, which meant I could get the hell out of this place as fast as possible.

I'd never walked these hallways without hearing some conversation about the next basketball game or party or some club downtown that let in minors. This was, in short, a specific brand of my own personal hell.

I wrenched open my locker once I reached it and started pulling out the textbooks and folders I would need to get through the mountain of homework I'd been assigned. It would be another tight squeeze getting it all done while also having to work at my family's coffee house, like I did every day after school.

Not that I was complaining. The homework kept my mind busy, and the predictability of making coffee was one of the only things I didn't have a problem with. There was a routine to it. I thrived on routines.

Although, tonight... My routine would have to be different.

I used my elbow to swing my locker shut and made for the stairs at the end of the hallway, only to smack right into someone slamming their own locker shut just around the corner.

I felt virtually nothing, but whoever the person was, they landed on the floor with a loud, "Oomph!"

"My bad."

The girl on the floor let out a slow breath as she shoved her hair out of her face, grumbling something I didn't catch.

I may have gone out of my way to ignore my classmates, but I knew who this girl was almost at once: Hadley Jamison. 

The only reason I even remembered this girl was because we'd sat next to each other in Freshman English, and she'd had the spectacular habit of going scarlet in the face whenever I happened to look at her. She was from JFK Prep's "popular" crowd, a junior like me and always with a friend who was even more preppy and laughed louder than she did. 

I stood there with one hand extended, about to ask if I could help her up, until I saw the look that came over her face as she stared up at me.

"You!" Hadley scrambled to her feet, snatching up her fallen bag. "What are you doing here?"

"Uh, the answer to that would be because I go to school here," I said. What was with her? "What are you doing here, Hadley?"

She simply stood there with her eyes wide, her mouth open a bit like a fish, and it was kinda starting to freak me out. JFK Prep had a colorful student body to be sure, but this was bordering on bizarre. 

I counted to ten in my head and when Hadley still hadn't said anything, I turned on my heel and set off down the hallway again. I had better things to do than stand around being looked at like some specimen under a microscope.

"Hey, wait a second!"

I heard a loud huff of exasperation as Hadley took off after me.

"How do you know my name?" she demanded breathlessly when she caught up with me at the top of the staircase. 

I gave her a curious look, wondering why  she was looking at me like I suddenly had two heads. "You're Hadley Jamison, daughter of that hotshot lawyer and his businesswoman wife. We had English together freshman year. You turned the color of a lobster whenever I looked at you."

Right on cue, Hadley did just that, a warm flush filling her cheeks. She still managed to roll her eyes and say, "Well, maybe I just -- hey, wait! Where are you going?"

I bit back a sigh, taking two steps at a time on my way down the stairs. Seriously, what was with this girl?

"Away from you," I tossed over my shoulder at her.

I heard Hadley splutter something, then quickly follow up with, "That's not -- I mean, I just -- I mean, how are you doing?"

I almost lost my footing for a second when I came off the last step, now even more confused with this whole interaction.

How was I doing? I couldn't think of the last time anyone outside of my immediate family had ever tried to make small talk with me, let alone ask me how I was doing.

"Because rich, bratty girls like you so often talk to guys like me," I pointed out.

I let the door swing shut behind me as I exited the school while Hadley called after me.

"Hey! You don't even know me!"

"Don't need to," I called back.

The point was moot anyway. I had no intention of ever answering that question. How was I doing?

Because my honest answer would've been something like: I just finished my suicide note in study hall today. How do you think I'm doing?

That note felt like a lead brick in the pocket of my jeans, impossible to ignore as I made my way home. Every minute or so I would have to smother the urge to pull it out to read over it again, to make sure it listed everything I needed it to. Even putting earbuds in and blasting my classic rock playlist wasn't enough to get my brain to quiet down.

It wasn't like I took any pleasure from writing that note. Every word I'd managed to get down on the piece of paper had cut bone deep and was achingly painful. I knew study hall wasn't the smartest place for this, but it was as if I'd been on autopilot. My hand had grabbed the pen from my backpack without my control and once I'd put the pen to paper, there'd been no stopping it.

I could not have written it in the apartment above the family coffeehouse where I lived with my mom, grandmother, and five-year-old little sister. That would've only made me put it off another day, and I'd thought about this for too many days already. 

But today I was certain. I had to be.

The permanent, aching emptiness I felt was exhausting. I hated the intrusive thoughts that had burrowed deep into my brain -- the ones that had me thinking that it would be so easy if I just turned the knife I was using to cut up some vegetables to go with dinner on myself. And that was one of the tamer ones.

I was done. I didn't want to be done, I knew what this was going to do to my family, but even that knowledge wasn't enough to stop it -- that God awful echo in my head urging me at every chance to ---