The Perks of Being a Wallflower

hasn’t.
    So, I went to visit my aunt Helen, and for the first time in my life, it didn’t help. I even tried to follow my own plan and remember all the details about the last time I had a great week, but that didn’t help, either.
    I know that I brought this all on myself. I know that I deserve this. I’d do anything not to be this way. I’d do anything to make it up to everyone. And to not have to see a psychiatrist, who explains to me about being “passive aggressive.” And to not have to take the medicine he gives me, which is too expensive for my dad. And to not have to talk about bad memories with him. Or be nostalgic about bad things.
    I just wish that God or my parents or Sam or my sister or someone would just tell me what’s wrong with me. Just tell me how to be different in a way that makes sense. To make this all go away. And disappear. I know that’s wrong because it’s my responsibility, and I know that things get worse before they get better because that’s what my psychiatrist says, but this is a worse that feels too big.
    After a week of not talking to anyone, I finally called Bob. I know that’s wrong, but I didn’t know what else to do. I asked him if he had anything I could buy. He said he had a quarter ounce of pot left. So, I took some of my Easter money and bought it.
    I’ve been smoking it all the time since.
    Love always,
Charlie         

part 4

April 29, 1992
    Dear friend,
    I wish I could report that it’s getting better, but unfortunately it isn’t. It’s hard, too, because we’ve started school again, and I can’t go to the places where I used to go. And it can’t be like it was. And I wasn’t ready to say good-bye just yet.
    To tell you the truth, I’ve just been avoiding everything.
    I walk around the school hallways and look at the people. I look at the teachers and wonder why they’re here. If they like their jobs. Or us. And I wonder how smart they were when they were fifteen. Not in a mean way. In a curious way. It’s like looking at all the students and wondering who’s had their heart broken that day, and how they are able to cope with having three quizzes and a book report on top of that. Or wondering who did the heart breaking. And wondering why. Especially since I know that if they went to another school, the person who had their heart broken would have had their heart broken by somebody else, so why does it have to be so personal? And if I went to another school, I would never have known Sam or Patrick or Mary Elizabeth or anyone except my family.
    I can tell you one thing that happened. I was in the shopping mall because that’s where I go lately. For the last couple of weeks, I’ve been going there every day, trying to figure out why people go there. It’s kind of a personal project.
    There was this one little boy. He might have been four years old. I’m not sure. He was crying really hard, and he kept screaming for his mom. He must have been lost. Then, I saw this older kid, who was maybe seventeen. I think he went to a different school because I had never seen him before. Anyway, this older kid, who was really tough-looking with a leather jacket and long hair and everything, went up to the little boy and asked him what his name was. The little boy answered and stopped crying.
    Then, the older kid walked away with the little boy.
    A minute later, I heard the intercom say to the mom that her boy was at the information desk. So, I went to the information desk to see what would happen.
    I guess the mom had been searching for the little boy for a long time because she came running up to the information desk, and when she saw the little boy, she started crying. She held him tightly and told him to never run off again. Then, she thanked the older kid who had helped, and all the older kid said was, “Next time just watch him a little fucking better.”
    Then, he walked away.
    The man with the moustache behind the information desk was speechless. So was the mom. The little boy just wiped his nose, looked up at his mom, and said,
    “French fries.”
    The mom looked down at the little boy and nodded, and they left. So, I followed them. They went to the place where the food stands are, and they got french fries. The little boy was smiling and getting ketchup all over himself. And the mom kept wiping his face in between taking drags off her cigarette.
    I kept looking at the mom, trying to imagine what she must have looked like when she was young.