2

That night a note from Ms. McIntyre was paper-clipped to the back of my vocab quiz.

Abby,

I know you had a hard day. If you could see my journal from when I was your age, the pages are filled with so many hard days. Sometimes I read what I wrote and wonder how I survived fifth grade. But I did survive. And you will, too.

I’m always here if you want to talk some more.

Sincerely,

Ms. McIntyre

I could not imagine Ms. McIntyre ever feeling the hot sting of embarrassment that I felt at recess that day. But I could imagine her writing in a journal.

Ms. McIntyre swooned when talking about a book that she couldn’t wait for our class to read. She did a funny celebration dance on library day. And sometimes, when I wrote something she liked in my weekly reflection, she drew a tiny pencil heart in the margins, both sides equal and round with a perfectly crisp point at the bottom.

I reread the note. If you could see my journal.

I tried to picture Ms. McIntyre’s journal. Maybe it had a bouquet of flowers on the cover? Maybe she wrote in pink ink? Or alternating colors? Did they even have colored ink back then?

The more I tried to imagine what Ms. McIntyre’s journal might have looked like, the more I thought about the notebook that Grandma had given me a few weeks before for my eleventh birthday. She’d slid it across the kitchen table in her apartment at the retirement village in Florida. I’d flown down all by myself from New York to spend the weekend.

“For you,” Grandma had said, keeping both hands on the gift. She had an intense stare, a steadiness in her eyes. Like she was not only looking at me, but looking into me.

I lifted the present into my lap, grateful to have something to focus on other than her face.

Sometimes Grandma’s gaze made confetti bombs of excitement explode in my belly. A sparkle in her eyes signaled that she saw the whole of me and loved me just the way I was. Other times that same look made me want to curl in a ball and roll away down a giant hill because Grandma seemed to be searching for something to pull out from deep inside of me.

This was one of those other times. I didn’t know what Grandma was searching for, but I guessed that it had something to do with the present.

I unwrapped the silver paper to find a fuzzy green notebook with an A for “Abby” in hot pink sequins. The pages were lined and tinted a pale blue.

“For you to write in,” said Grandma.

“What should I write? Stories?”

“Maybe stories. Or you could write about what you’re feeling. I know there’s a lot going on in your head, Abby. Sometimes it helps to put your thoughts down on paper.”

I flipped through the pages one more time and closed the notebook.

How could I describe that I was happy to be spending my birthday with Grandma, but also wondered if my parents had planned the trip to save me from having to host a birthday party? The worry over who would come. If anyone actually wanted to be there. What activity we should do.

How could I explain that even as I rubbed the soft green fuzz and flipped the hot pink sequins, I also wanted to hide the notebook away in the darkness of my duffel bag because I didn’t have anything worth writing?

I stood up to give Grandma a hug. As I rested my cheek against her shoulder, she squeezed me tight and whispered, “You’re going to figure it out, Abby. I promise.”

Grandma sounded so certain, like it was only a matter of days before the pages of the notebook would be stuffed full of entries about sleepovers, movie nights with endless candy, and trips to the mall to pick out scented bath bombs with my huge group of friends.

As if I could snap my fingers and make those sort of plans happen, which obviously I could not.

I didn’t write in the notebook that night. Or the next.

When I got home from Grandma’s, I slid the notebook into the top drawer of my dresser. I’d taken it out a few times since then and admired the cover, but the only thing I’d written was my full name—Abigail Jane Herman—on the very first page.

Now I walked to the dresser and pulled the notebook out carefully, as if maybe it had turned into a green dragon with hot pink scales. But the notebook was the same as when I’d left it weeks ago.

No flames. No fangs. Just empty lined pages.

I brought it to my desk and reached for my favorite pen, which was topped with a purple fluff ball. I ran the fluff against my lips.

Grandma wanted me to write about myself. Ms. McIntyre had written about herself when she was my age.

They were two of my favorite people. Maybe it was time to give it a try.