I look once, twice, a third time down the spindly hallway leading from the curving stairs to my bathroom. I stop and listen, my cold hand cupped around my ear. I wait. I hear nothing.

I open my medicine cabinet and pull out something small and pink.

The razor feels exhilarating being pulled across my skin. I can see the crimson drops of blood dripping out of my cut. For a moment, I think about nothing. My mind is clear, and I've forgotten all of my problems.

I hear.

The unmistakable sound of the garage door is rallied to my ears. I wait, not completely sure if it is mine. But I hear the door to my house open and act quickly. I drop the razor into my sink, turn the water on full power, and thrust my wrist underneath. As soon as the blood is successfully down the drain, I shove my razor into the medicine cabinet and pull on my Bottlenose High sweatshirt, the one with the long arms that is three sizes to big.

My Mom is walking up the stairs. I paste on a fake smile and tell her about my day.
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Dinner is not a fun affair. It never is anymore. All my parents do is talk about their wonderful jobs, his as a professor and hers as a kindergarten teacher. My brother rambles about his basketball game and gives my mother a play-by-play. I look for the right moment, and put most of my chicken in my napkin, and quietly eat my salad. I don't like anything anymore. Food tastes like sand and my parents voices are nothing but babbles...mindless sounds.
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I don?t like school anymore. I used too. My teachers thought I was a good student. I enjoyed history and science and was good at math and a ''brilliant writer.'' But I've started failing. Last week Mr. Barnum sent home a letter to my parents. I didn't give it too them. I forged Mom's signature and spoke nothing of it.

I don't understand how he can be so happy. He still goes to basketball games and laughs with his friends in the hallway. He doesn?t realize the pain he's inflicted in me. He doesn't know about my dreams. The ones that flash into my mind every night. The ones that transcript the image he had of me--a fat girl who tagged along with him.

That night, my Mom asks me the daily question--How was school?

I look down and mutter, ''Fine.''

But it's not fine. Nobody likes me and I have an overwhelming desire--to end.
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By Friday I've made up my mind. I'm going to end this.

When I get home from school, I go through the same ritual that I want through the other night. I peer down the hallway and listen intently. Nothing.

I tip-toe to my Dad's bathroom and take 7 of his arthritis pills. I line them up, side by side, and drop them into my glass of water, where they dissolve quickly.

Just as I'm about to take a sip, the phone rings. I hesitate, but answer it. Why not?

''Hey Lyss!''

It's my Mom.

''Hi....'' I say dully.

I can practically hear her bright smile across the phone line. ''I'm going to the mall to buy some pants. Do you need anything?''

''Um...I don't think so...'' I mumble inaudibly.

''Okay. I'll be home by 5:30. I love you!'' she doesn't hang up, as if she's waiting for me to say something.

I feel like faint.

She loves me.

Of course.

How could I forget that someone actually does love me?

I am quiet for the next few seconds. Then I know what I've got to do.

So I do it.

I pour out the glass of water, and tell her.