Wednesday March 13
25 days left

The only class I really like is physics. I'm no science genius, but this is the one class that I think may have some answers to my questions. Ever since I was little, I've been fascinated by the way things work. I used to take apart my toys, studying how all the little pieces fit together. I would stare at the independent parts, picking up an arm of a doll (my half sister, Kendall, has never forgiven me for the autopsy I gave to her Prom Date Barbie) or the wheels of a car. Once, I dismantled my father's alarm clock. He came in and found me sitting on the faded beige carpet, the batteries rolling around by my sneakers. "What are you doing?" he asked.
"Breaking it so I can learn how to fix it."
He put his hand on my shoulder—I remember his hands, big, with long thick fingers, the type of hands that make you feel both scared and safe at the same time—and said, "You know, Tay, there are enough broken things in the world. You shouldn't go around breaking things just for the fun of it." The clock stayed dismantled for years, until I eventually threw it away.

Anyway, physics at least feels useful to me. Unlike English, where we're reading poems by depressed poets. Not helpful. My teacher, Mrs. Marks, makes this big production out of trying to decode what the poets were saying. From my perspective, it's pretty clear: I'm depressed and I want to die. It's painful to watch all my classmates tear apart each line, looking for the significance. There's no significance. Anyone who has actually been that sad can tell you that there's nothing beautiful or literary or mysterious about depression.
Depression is like a heaviness that you can't ever escape. It crushes down on you, making even the smallest things like tying your shoes or chewing on toast seem like a twenty-mile hike uphill. Depression is a part of you; it's in your bones and your blood. If I know anything about it, this is what I know: It's impossible to escape.
And I'm pretty sure I know a lot more than any of my classmates. Listening to them talk about it makes my skin crawl. So for me, English class is like watching a group of blind squirrels try to find nuts. Mrs. Marks will say, "Let's take a look at this line. Here the poet John Berryman says, 'Life, friends, is boring.' What do you think he meant by that?" My classmates all clamor, shouting out ridiculous things like "He didn't have anyone to hang out with on Saturday night" or "Football season was over so there was nothing good to watch on TV."
It takes all the restraint in the world not to stand up and scream, "He was fucking sad. That's it. That's the point. He knows that life is never going to get any different for him. That there's no fixing him. It's always going to be the same monotonous depressing bullshit. Boring, sad, boring, sad. He just wants it to be over." But that would require me to talk in class, which would violate one of my personal rules. I don't participate. Why? Because I'm fucking sad. Mrs. Marks sometimes gives me this look, like she knows that I know what John Berryman meant, but she never calls on me.
At least in physics my classmates aren't desperately trying to make uncomplicated shit complicated. Nope, in physics, we're all trying to make complicated things uncomplicated.

Mr. Scott writes an equation on the board. We're learning about projectile motion. We're studying the properties of an object in motion that's under the influence of gravity only. There are all these variables like the angle the object is launched from and the initial velocity.
My eyes gloss over. Too many numbers. I start to daydream about gravity. Sometimes I wonder if gravity is the problem. It keeps us all grounded, gives us this false sense of stability when really we're all just bodies in motion. Gravity keeps us from floating up into space, it keeps us from involuntarily crashing into one another. It saves the human race from being a big hot mess.
I wish gravity would go away and just let us all be a big mess.
Unfortunately, that's not the answer to the question Mr. Scott is asking.
"Taylor, can you tell me the highest point the football reaches?"
I didn't even know the object in the problem was a football. I give him a blank stare.
"Taylor," Mr. Scott prompts. He pronounces my name in the accent he probably cultivated about a billion years ago when he took high school Spanish. You'd think Mr. Scott would've connected the dots by now.
"Uh," I mumble.
"'Uh'? Miss Swift, 'uh' is not a numerical answer." Mr. Scott leans back against the whiteboard.
This makes the class laugh. Mr. Scott clears his throat, but it's no use. He's already lost control. I can hear their whispered insults, but it all sounds like a mumble of hisses to me. And no matter what it is that they're saying, it can't be worse than what I imagine at night when I lie in bed wondering if it's physically possible to claw away your own genetics.
The bell rings. Mr. Scott fumbles to assign us homework. Mostly everyone in the class leaves before they can write down the assignment. I stay seated and carefully jot it in my notebook. Mr. Scott gives me a sad smile and I wonder if he's going to miss me when I'm gone.
Once the classroom is empty, I get up and leave. I walk down the hallway, my eyes glued to the dirty tiled floor. I force myself to pick up speed. The only thing worse than going to gym is being late for gym—I'm not really in the mood to run extra laps. Coach Summers is always talking about how running will strengthen our hearts so we can live longer. No extra laps for me, please.
This is my least favorite part of the day. And it's not because I'm anticipating the horrors of sit-ups and dodge ball. No, I hate this part of the day because I have to pass by the memorial—the monolithic testament to my father's crime.
I always try not to look, telling myself to keep my head down and turn the corner. But I can't help it, I glance up and take it in. I feel my breath catch in my throat. There it is, the gleaming silver plaque, dedicated in memory of Dean Mckenzie, former state champion in the 400-meter dash. The plaque is the size of a large serving dish, and it hangs on the wall right outside the gym, reminding everyone that Dean Mckenzie was going to be the first person from Langston to make the Olympics, but he died tragically at the age of seventeen. What the plaque doesn't say, but might as well, is that my father is the reason Dean is dead. Yup, my dad is the stellar individual who slashed the Olympic dreams of the whole town. Every year on Dean's birthday, the news runs a special just to make sure no one forgets about him. It's been three years since Dean died, and believe me, no one is close to forgetting about it. Especially now, since James Mckenzie is about to qualify for the 400-meter dash. Yes, the exact same event. James is trying to fulfill the dream his older brother was never able to attain—the local media can't get enough of the story, my school's hallways can't get enough of the story.
I force my feet to move past the plaque and I walk into the gym, curling my hands into fists at my sides. As the sun glints off the polished wooden court, I wonder what my classmates are going to do with all their hate and anger and fear once they don't have me here anymore.
I can't wait until they don't have me here anymore.