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It Wasn't my Fault

My dark blue nail polish is chipped and cracked. My fingers are red in the places where I bit little chunks of skin out. I didn’t mean to do it. It’s just a nervous habit. My mother slaps my hand. “Stop doing that. People will think you’re suicidal!” she whispers harshly in my ear. I roll my eyes and do it anyway. I sneak a sideways glance at my mother. Her foot taps the floor in an impatient manner. I think she got called from Manhattan to come deal with the police. A secretary calls us into the principal’s office. My mother smiles and tries to appear nice in front of all the teachers and police officers standing in the office. I just lower myself into a chair and stare at the ground. The voices of my mother and the principal are drowned out by my thoughts. I wish I could speak up and tell them what really happened.

They think I bought a gun into school so I could show off in front of my friends. They think I used that same gun to kill an old man three days ago. But I didn't do any of those things. The gun isn't mine. It belongs to Jay, the coolest senior in my high school. I didn't shoot that old man. Jay shot him. I didn’t bring the gun to school to show off. Jay told me he would stop beating me after school if I took it out of my bag during calculus. I mentally kick myself for being so stupid. Jay will probably visit me in prison. Most likely to gloat and laugh. But he shouldn't laugh. He knows it should be him behind those bars. And I know it too. But as always, I don’t say anything.



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