Amy Cooper, April 23, Riverside Center
These days it seems like no one really wants to get to know me. They tiptoe around, asking me “how I’m feeling today” and “how do I feel about” this and that. They want to know about my feelings—far too much about them, actually—but anytime I try to really talk to anyone they start to look alarmed. So I turn, as I always have, to books. Books are always there, and they don’t ask me about my feelings. They’re willing to forget my past, but they can still relate, and tell me stories to keep my mind off of things. The only other feeling that comes close is writing. It doesn’t help you forget your past, but at least you can step away from it for a minute, and figure out what you really think. It’s a way to sort things out, and paper is almost as good at listening as a book.
I was surprised when they let me write today. Normally they don’t let me have pencils, or anything sharp.
Amy Cooper, April 25, Riverside Center
The people are always asking me about Jim and Leanne. Almost every day now they ask me how I “feel” about Jim, and if there’s anything I’d like to tell them about him. They always say that with a look on their face that’s the very picture of sympathy and adult wisdom. I don’t hesitate to tell them that I didn’t like Jim—he was perfectly vile. Usually then they look alarmed and I have to backtrack because of course, I’m supposed to respect my elders. Honestly though, I’m saying that he was vile for Leanne’s benefit. People need to know what she went through, having a father like that. It really wasn’t right.
Amy Cooper, April 28, Riverside Center
I hope Leanne’s all right now. I heard she lives with her aunt a few towns away, which she’d enjoy. She always did love telling me about her aunt. In fact, it was Aunt Kat, in a way, that brought us together all those years ago. It was sixth grade, and eternity ago now, and we had just spent a week of sitting in silence while the rest of the cafeteria sounded like a fight club during the less family-friendly parts of the evening. Then, out of nowhere, Leanne started talking about her Aunt Kat and foods that she made and the things there were to do at her Aunt’s house and all manner of innocuous things that I can’t even remember now. I was in shock a bit, and am sorry to say that I let this tiny, timid girl do most of the talking. Eventually she hit on the subject of movies, and I was relieved to finally have something to discuss. I won’t say that conversation flowed, but it trickled along for the next few weeks, to the benefit of us both.
It seems to me that it was almost immediately after that first conversation that I met Jim. Logically, though, I know that isn’t possible. For one thing, neither of us was the sort to make friends easily, no matter the number of shared interests. For another, there are far too many entries in my dream journal from that time, too many accounts of princesses and sprites. The formation of this friendship was clearly a slow process.
In any case, a not-short-but-also-not-long period of time had passed when Leanne invited me over to her house. What a house. It was one of those huge, modern glass-and-steel houses that you think must only exist in movies. The garage, also angular and metallic, was certainly as large. The inside was sparse, decorated mostly in white with accents of sleek black and shiny wood. I felt like I was in a museum. We sat on the perfect chairs, museum exhibits. I sat up straight, afraid to touch anything. In my anxiety, I was even less talkative than usual.

Sometime during that afternoon, as we sat drawing or reading books or something similar, the front door slammed and a man’s voice called out for Leanne. We were both surprised--no one but the housekeeper was supposed to be home for several hours. I stayed put while Leanne went to talk to her father. They spoke briefly and I was introduced and we all went about our business.

Her father’s name was Jim, but he didn’t look quite like a Jim to me. For one thing, he was huge--a great big, hulking man at least three times my eleven-year-old size, with huge hands and a wide face. He had a crafty, aggressive look to him that didn’t quite fit with ‘Jim’ either. In my experience, he always wore an expensive suit and a bluetooth, unless it was a weekend. I have honestly never met a man who was less like his child, or more like his house.
Amy Cooper, May 11, Riverside Center
I always forget where I left my story the last time, and have to read over it before picking back up. It’s starting to severely cut into my writing time.
It turns out Jim isn’t an acquired taste. I unwaveringly disliked him for the next five years, despite visiting his house at least once a week, and vacationing with him and Leanne three times. In fact, I would say that the more I knew of him, the more I disliked him. It wasn’t just his house or his cars (all seven of them) or his suits (dozens); he was genuinely a hateful person. I overheard far too many shouted phone conversations and rants at the housekeeper over those five years for him to even mathematically be considered a good person.
Besides which, there was the case of Leanne. This was the part that really made my blood boil: the way he could glare and bark and punish my frail, sweet, red-haired best friend. As she and I made movies and talked about the adventures we would have when we were older, I always thought to myself, all it would take is a few words from Jim and the joy of this moment could be crushed. Sometimes it was. Of course, we could always have gone to my house, but that was usually an even less enjoyable prospect. My sister Lucy was always there, and she and her friends taunted us mercilessly. Whenever it happened I reminded Leanne that almost every heroine was an outcast at first, and we should really consider it good life experience. She never quite bought into this idea.
In my head, it seems I dreamt of ogres and sprites every night for years.
Amy Cooper, May 13, Riverside Center
I think it’s time to get to the things I don’t quite understand. Or rather, that I understand perfectly, but with which everyone else seems to have trouble. I’ve been putting them off for far too long.
One Saturday when we were sixteen, Leanne and I were working on a sewing project in her room. Since our goal was to make a dragon, we selected an acceptably sparkly, sequined fabric of the sort people were probably supposed to make dance costumes out of. For hours we cut, trimmed, pinned and sewed until we were satisfied that we had created a lopsided dragon that “really wasn’t going to get any better”. The room, however, was a disaster. In my own house I might have picked up the scraps, run the vacuum, and been done with it. In Leanne’s it required a cleaning process that could take hours. She urged me to go home and let her start cleaning, and in hopes of avoiding Jim, I readily accepted.
I was halfway home when I remembered that the excess fabric belonged at my house. When I pulled up to Leanne’s, I was disappointed to see that all the lights were on, which could only mean that Jim was home from work. Maybe I could sneak past without talking to him. When I reached the side door however, I stopped short. There was shouting inside. Real shouting, the kind I had never heard before, even from Jim. I went to a window and peeped in, hands shaking. There he was. He held a piece of the green scrap fabric, and he had glitter all over his hands and clothes. Leanne looked even smaller than usual, and stared at the ground. I don’t remember if I could hear what he was saying, but that wasn’t important. As Leanne started to cry, Jim threw the fabric at her and walked out of the room disgustedly, switching the light out and leaving her in the dark. Shakily, I walked back to my car and drove home.
Amy Cooper, May 14, Riverside Center
I found the dream journal entry from that night. It’s one of my favorites:
Last night I had a vivid dream that I was a princess. I rode out from my palace in near-darkness, guided by a point of light in the distance. It wasn’t a star, but it stayed in place as I rode. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for, but I knew there was something out there. Eventually I reached the light, which came from the entrance to a cave. I entered warily, without even a lantern to guide my way. Suddenly there were noises all around, and I drew my sword. A huge creature was moving in the cave. Dragons, I thought. They lived in caves. The dragon knocked me to the ground, and I cried out for help, forgetting where I was. I gathered my senses and began to fight. I stabbed blindly in the darkness, desperate for some sort of contact. I felt the crunch of bones and the wet of blood on my hands. The dragon--how many times my size?--was nothing against me. I was all-powerful. Soon I heard it fall to the ground, defeated. I sat and waited. When the sun came up, I saw that it wasn’t a dragon at all, but an ogre.
Amy Cooper, May 20, Riverside Center
The morning after the dream I woke up feeling exhilarated. Never in my life had I felt more powerful. I couldn’t wait to tell Leanne about it. Surely that could take her mind off of Jim.
Leanne wasn’t at school. I left her a voicemail telling her about the dream, and hoped she would call me soon.
During third period--World History--the police came. They took me into an empty classroom and told me that Jim had been found dead this morning in his own house, and that they suspected foul play. Leanne had found him. I thought about blood in that perfect house of theirs, staining the white carpets and tiles. Jim would have hated it. They had me answer some questions--I can’t remember what exactly, but from what I know of these things they probably asked me how long I had known Leanne, and how much time I spent at their house. They also asked me where I was the night before. I answered all the questions truthfully. That day they had the people come talk to me the for the first time. They asked me how I “felt” about Jim and I remember thinking even then that it was a stupid question.
Everything after that is a blur of courtrooms and hospitals, my parents crying and doctors asking me stupid questions and not liking the answers I give them. Now I’m here. It’s miserably boring, but at least they let me read, and on good days I’m allowed to write. I wish they’d let me see Leanne. She’d understand almost as well as the books, and I think that if you can find a person who understands you as well as a book, you’re doing pretty well.