September 3, 2015; Hartland, Wisconsin.

I breeze through the front door on my first day of high school, glowing. Vibrating energy and excitement. This is the first day of the rest of my life. I smile at every teacher, make a good impression, start off so strong. The names of my peers buzz through my ears all day, trying to memorize their faces. I am fourteen, still have some baby fat but I feel so grown up.

Stumbling almost-late into my Social Studies 9 classroom, I breathe a sigh of relief - can’t be late on the first day, that’s no first impression. The teacher spots me and grins; why does it seem wolfish? Why does he look hungry? I blink hard and smile back as he shows me to my seat, up front by his desk.

The forty minutes stretch so thin I think I might break. Every so often, I catch the teacher staring at me. Catch him looking just a moment too long to be normal, and I sink down further in my seat, crossing my arms over my small chest. This isn’t right, but I don’t know what to do. I am so young and vulnerable and too innocent for such a big school.

When I arrive home, I don’t tell my brothers. Don’t tell my mom and dad, not my friends or my journal. This is a big deal to me but I’m sure it won’t be to the rest of the world. That night, I cry myself into exhaustion, into fitful sleep. I don’t feel so grown up anymore.

September 3, 2016; Hartland, Wisconsin.

My expectations are high this year. A sophomore now, I’m not the baby at school. I have an ounce of authority. Fifteen years old, my tummy has slimmed, my hips widened, jaw sharpened. Summer has treated me well and I am ready to be back. This year will be better, I’m sure.

Biology class has thirty students but I force myself to raise my hand when I know the answer. I am scared but love genetics. I am curious and naive. The boy who sits next to me glares when I am praised for correcting his mistake. Piercing, but I’m too warm to notice.

“You think you’re so smart, huh?”

He has me pinned against my own locker in a vacant hallway, my chest heaves as he dissects me with his eyes, with his words. This wasn’t supposed to happen. This year was supposed to be better, I had a plan. I had a plan.

“You’re just a girl,” he spits. His fist meets my face. “Never gonna be anything.”

I’m angry and seething, but it takes me months to fight back. He has me cornered again, not another soul in sight. He puts his knee in my gut, and I crumble. On my way down, I use my weight, my momentum to swing my elbow into his groin, my cranium smacking his nose on my flight back up. He spits blood on my favorite red sweater before fleeing, never harassing me again.

His blood blends in with the crimson of my sweater, but I still know it’s there. I can’t help but feel I am growing up far too quickly.

September 3, 2017; Hartland, Wisconsin.

My thick, black boots drag against the linoleum in the halls. My brother’s hoodie drowns the figure I am gaining, layered over my lucky skinny jeans. I am praying for the best, I am expecting the worst.

The lunch line is always long. All I want is my water. It tastes like grape medicine and I can’t get enough of it, but half my time is spent in line. Normally I don’t mind this, but I am more and more irritable these days. Feel like a tigress locked in her cage.

I’m almost through the line when I feel a hand brush against me. Stiffening, I hold my breath and wait. Surely this is only a mistake, right? An accidental brush of swinging fingers. I ask every deity I can think of to let me have my faith in humanity. I stop believing when I feel a hand against my backside, two fingers sliding into the pocket of my jeans that doesn’t hold my phone.

“Your ass looks great in these jeans,” a voice whispers, dripping honey. I hate honey.

I never looked back, couldn’t tell you his name or point out his face. But the length of his fingers, the tone of his voice, his breath against the shell of my ear. These feelings are with me then, with me always, never stop lurking.

I lurch forward, face first into my best friend’s back. He stumbles and turns to catch me, sees the fear in my eyes and doesn’t let go, sees the bloody grin behind me and squints till he connects the dots. He pulls me closer to him, places me before him in the lunch line, a bodily barrier between me and the boy he knows has touched me.

We never speak of this, but I know he understands. He knows I have had to grow up too fast.

September 3, 2018; Hartland, Wisconsin.

My head is held high today. Will be this high all year. I have molded myself well over the last three years, I believe. Found my place, even, though I will continue to find myself through graduation and well beyond then. Senior year will pass swimmingly.

I’m wearing a top that shows the slightest sliver of stomach. Half my hair is pinned up, and I have given up on makeup. My feet move comfortably in my familiar black Vans, legs fit snugly in my best skinny jeans. When you know you look good you begin to glow, and I was positively radiant.

In my first hour study hall, I hear a boy degrading women and cannot stand by. Can’t just sit here while he tells his girlfriend to shut up and stay in the kitchen.

“And what makes you think she won’t try to off you? Put something in that sandwich to get rid of you? What makes you think she isn’t fed up?”

He must see something in my eyes, detect the malice in my tone because he takes a moment and reflects. It is something I’ve never seen before - a boy thinking twice, contemplating his actions. He listens as I tell him why he is wrong. For a moment, when he is still, I think that nothing has changed, that my efforts will always be for naught.

The boy turns away. He apologizes to his girlfriend, and she smiles at me in the halls now. The popular girl is quietly thankful for my presence.

In the lunch line, a sense of deja vu washes over me. Fingers slide into my back pocket, a huff of breath against the corner of my fallen smile, but the gut-in-my-throat feel of repetition stops there. My best friend takes half a step toward me, ready to place himself for my protection again. He’s ready and livid but must see something in my eyes, stops in his tracks and watches the boy sidle up behind me, watches me smile.

I pick my heel up and position the hardest part of my foot over his toes. Grin wide, head high, I push all my weight back till I hear him cry out. His bones bend beneath me, breath taken in, pain pushed out, and he stumbles back when I release him. Indignant and malicious and outraged. I do not care.

My best friend links his pinky with mine. We’ve grown up too fast, but maybe it isn’t so bad.

November 11, 2018; Hartland, Wisconsin.

High school tests you. I’ve lived and loved and suffered in these four years. I’ve grown up before I’ve finished growing. The world is so full of hate sometimes; I see it everywhere. The bigots and misogynists and sexists. Homophobes and racists and illusionists. It took me years to gather the courage to push back, but now, I fight back day by day the only way I know how: with lessons, with love.