I have distractions.

Just like everyone around me, I have distractions to make me forget about my home life. Of course, some kids do athletics to get their mind off of whatever it is that is troubling them while others rely on work to distract them. I, unfortunately, am not one of these people. I don't do sports or have a job. Instead, I write and edit and revise and take photos. Which is why whenever something happens with my brother, my aunt, or my uncle, I am preoccupied with yearkbook or newspaper.

"Hello, my other bestie." Dina said, swinging her arm over my shoulder as she stood behind me.

"We come bringing gifts." Sydney said from my other side. She placed a tray of food in front of me. "We know it's shitty school food and it's not your fucking delicious cooking, but afterwards, we're going to the diner. Want in?"

I shrugged my shoulders at them. "No idea. All depends on what I can get done in the hour I have."

"Come on. Come get some food with us. Or we can go to that coffee shop you like so much and talk?" Dina asked me.

I shook my head. I need a distraction. And I can't be distracted with my friends. It was the only thing they couldn't provide for me. One of the only downside to having friends in my life.

"Are we still getting together on Sunday? Netflix marathon of some kind?" asked Sydney.

"At the moment, yes. Diner after school or coffee, I don't-."

"[Y/N], Ms Cappriotti wants to see you." Our English teacher (and both the Newspaper and Yearbook's advisor) said opening the door.

I sent the teo of them a look. "Thanks, I guess for the lunch." I picked up the tray of school food. "But I have to go see what the counselor wishes from me." And I walked out of the room.

Life sucks. I carried the tray of food tonthe counselor's office before dumping it in the trash can (the food not the tray) and set the tray down with the rest of the cafeteria trays that were piling up. Looks like I'll be going to the diner after school then. I walked into the office. Which included a mini secretary-ish style waiting room of sorts.

"Yes?" The lady behind the desk asked.

"I'm here to see Ms Cappriotti?" I told her.

The lady sighed, she told me to sign in, and I walked towards the counselor's office.  I sat down in the chair as I waited for her to get here. The counselor walked in a few minutes later with a Tupperware container with what I'm guessing is spaghetti. Cold spaghetti.

"Hello, [Y/N]. How's your lunch hour going?" she asked me.

I don't want to be here. I never liked this room. It makes me anxious. This feeling. It reminds me of the waiting room of my therapists' office. Family counseling. Psychiatrist. Those are awfully fun to go to. Note the sarcasm.

"Fine. I guess." I told her before starting to scratch my forearm.

"How are you doing? With your changes at home?"

I should have known. This was about me moving in with my aunt and uncle. Or to be more precise... my aunt and uncle moving in with me. Not to mention my only sibling and parental figure I have ever known going to prison. Because of me.

"It's fine, I guess." I told her continue on scratching my forearm.

She seemed to notice that to. "Are you sure?"

I just nodded. She sighed and pulled something out of a drawer. And plopped the journal in front of me. Not just any kind of journal. The kind with a Frozen design on the cover. She obviously knows that I like Disney. Or she had to find one that was child friendly. And this was the only kind she could find.

"Write in this. All of your thoughts and emotions. No one will read it."

Won't you read it though? You're going to want to see how my week transpired. Isn't that the whole point of writing in this journal?

"It worked for Sydney Novak. It could work for you." she told me.

"Can't I just add a column to the newspaper? Of all of my thoughts and opinions?" I asked her.

"Your thoughts, opinions, and emotions are for you alone. Not for you to write to the public on your laptop. I feel this way," she touched the journal, "will be more..."

"Material?" I suggested.

She sighed. "Therapeutic."

"And you want me to write in this?" I asked her.

"Yes, if it worked for Sydney Novak. Then, it will work for you." She told me.

No, it won't. Our situations are entirely different. She's grieving. I'm breaking. Two entirely different things. Very different things entirely.

"So, what do you think?" she asked me.

I don't know how to respond to that. I don't know if I can respond to that. I don't want to write in a diary. All of my life I've wanted distractions to ignore my problems. To ignore all of my emotions. To ignore my opinions. To ignore my thoughts. And now I was being tokd to embrace them? No. I don't think so.

"Honestly?" She gave me a reassuring nod. "I don't know what to think."

"Just try would you. Give it a chance." She told me.

I nodded my head, took the journal in my hand, and walked out the counselor's office. I flung my bag over my shoulder as I left the room. Okay this was it.

"[Y/N] [L/N], my office." Mr Whittacker said.

Ah shit! I walked into the principal's office and sat down in a chair.

"There are numerous reports from students that you slapped Brad Lewis in the face this morning. Is that true?"

They have it on camera. They know it's true. So, why did they have to ask me that? To see if I'll tell the truth? Sometimes my thought process doesn't care about the consequences. It jusy cares about the actions.

"It's true. I slapped Bradley Lewis, and I'm not sorry for doing so." I told him.

"Then, you have detention Ms [L/N]."

I was expecting the counselor to say Material when she gave the diary to Sydney. So, I had to add it here.