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Halifax, June 9
7:12 p.m.
“Hi. I’m Molly,” the placard read. “I’m fifteen and in the tenth grade.”
The girl in the YouTube video looked sad and lost. She had flowing black hair and Eurasian eyes, and a purple barbell pierced her left eyebrow. She didn’t speak, only held up a sequence of placards, each one adding to the story of a tortured child battling through abuse and bullying.
Watching her, Daphne was struck by a particular kinship; their pain, disgrace, and loneliness were eerily similar.
“I’ve been diagnosed with depression, panic disorder, and bulimia,” Molly said. “I blame it on the bullying I suffered in school.
“It started in the seventh grade. I was chubby then, and the kids used to call me Hippo. Whale. Fatty. Blimp. I always got picked last in gym class. I had no friends.
“I thought high school would be better, but I was wrong. It’s worse. Girls spread rumors about me. Boys too. I’m haunted by the mean names I’m called. Ugly. Slut. Stupid. Emo. Garbage.
“They push me into lockers. Trip me in the hallways. Pick fights after school. Everyone is against me. I can’t make any friends. Other kids are too embarrassed to hang out with me.
“I cry myself to sleep at night. I started cutting. I throw up every morning before going to school. No one knows how much I suffer.” Molly paused a moment, wiped her eyes. “All I ever wanted was to fit in. I feel so alone. I don’t talk to anyone. Sometimes I just want to die. This world is so dark and horrible.
“I’m not looking for sympathy. I just wanted to share my story with you.
“‘To love means loving the unlovable. To forgive means pardoning the unpardonable. Faith means believing the unbelievable. Hope means hoping when everything seems hopeless.’ Gilbert Keith Chesterton.
“I try to be hopeful. It’s hard. Some days, I find it impossible.”
Molly set down the last placard and reached toward her computer. The YouTube screen went black, followed by the words: RIP Molly West. April 13, 1995 – June 2, 2010.
“Oh, no,” Daphne said with a jolt. “No, no, no.”
Tears ran down her face. Molly was dead. How? Did she commit suicide? Probably. Her tormentors had ruined her. Made her life unbearable and hopeless. Drove her to take the only available way out.
They had won.
Daphne got up from her desk and sat on the edge of her bed, hung her head. Clear and sudden images from the past day at school popped up in her mind—the snickers in the hallways, the mixed looks of pity and embarrassment, the bar of soap left in front of her locker, Margi smacking her across the face and knocking her to the sidewalk.
In a moment of strange clarity, Daphne saw herself as Molly West. Alone. Hiding in her room. Afraid of school and people. Paranoid. Unable to sleep. Nervous all the time.
Someone knocked on her bedroom door, and she jumped. Quickly, she wiped her eyes and straightened her back, trying to compose herself.
“Come in,” she said.
Her father, Daniel, poked his head into the room. “Whatcha doing, kiddo?”
“Nothing, Dad.”
“I haven’t seen you since supper. Is everything okay?”
“Fine,” she managed.
Daniel’s eyes narrowed on her. “You sure? You don’t seem like yourself. You barely touched your supper.”
Daphne felt heat creep into her cheeks. She turned from her father’s eyes, a man she’d always admired and respected, whose approval she’d always sought. She hated herself for lying to him.
“Yeah,” she said in a brittle voice. “I’m sure.”
“You know your mom and I worry about you. If there’s anything you want to talk about, we’re here.”
Daphne swallowed, looked over at him. “I know, Dad.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she could see her father appraising her. His gaze drifted around the room, settling on the laptop monitor.
He said, “YouTube, huh?”
“Yeah. I was watching some videos.”
Daniel flashed her a smile. “All right, kiddo.” He gripped the doorknob, pulling the door toward him. “Just thought I’d check on you.”
When the door closed, Daphne winced. Guilt tore her up inside. Her poor parents, who loved her so much and tried so hard. She wanted to tell them what was going on at school, but she felt too ashamed, too embarrassed. Her mother would surely get angry. She’d want to know who the kids were. She’d go after them, probably even try to lay charges. Then everything would just get worse. At school, Daphne would be called a snitch, a tattletale.
She stood up and paced her room. After a minute, she took some paper out of her printer and set it on her desk. She poked around a drawer, finding a black marker. Then she sat down and began to write her story.
