Loss (27 page)

Author’s Note

Authors should never fall in love with ideas. Therein lies madness. Or, at least, many sleepless nights.

I had two ideas for
Loss
that I absolutely, positively loved. I was passionate about these ideas. And by God, I was going to make them work!

Neither of them made it to the final draft. At least, not in the form that I had originally envisioned.

The first idea was that the main issue of
Loss
would be coping with Alzheimer’s. This would have tackled the disease mostly from a caregiver’s point of view, but also from the actual patient’s. I’ve seen firsthand how Alzheimer’s and dementia rob people of their dignity. It’s frightening to behold. It’s even more frightening to think that one day, that could be my parents. That could be
me
. One day, I might not recognize my children. Excuse me while I quietly freak out.

Coping with Alzheimer’s was the top spot on my list. The second? Robin Hood. That’s right: Originally, the entire second section of
Loss
was going to be about Robin Hood and Will Scarlet—or, in this case, Will Scarlock. No, I’m not an Errol Flynn junkie. And I haven’t seen the Russell Crowe version of the movie. Pestilence has a Bow, so I thought of Robin Hood. Simple, really.

So I had these ideas, and I loved these ideas. And I was going to make
Loss
all about them.

Twenty-two drafts later, that didn’t happen.

The Robin Hood thing didn’t work because frankly, this wasn’t the right story for it. I tried; oh yes, I tried. One thing I’ve discovered: If you force a story to go a certain way, the story will fight you. (Thus: twenty-two drafts.) I wound up keeping a little bit of the idea—Robert Hode is Robin Hood, and the ghosts that Billy sees when he’s in the Greenwood are all that remain of Little John, Will Scarlet, and Maid Marian.

As for the Alzheimer’s, that was reduced to a subplot. Billy Ballard became much more than just his grandfather’s caregiver as I started writing the book. I realized fairly quickly that he was horribly bullied. That idea resonated, and so that became the major focus of
Loss:
bullying.

Billy had a lot to say about the subject. As it turns out, so do I.

***

In eighth grade, I got mean.

I was lucky growing up. I wasn’t bullied, not more so than anyone else. Sure, there were lunchbox wars in second grade, and the girls tended to play mercy a lot, but I didn’t mind those things; I usually got my metal lunchbox up in time to block a swing, and I actually rocked at mercy. I was active in school: I was the fourth grade class president and the sixth grade co-president, and I participated in the annual storytelling contest. I had friends. I invited kids to my birthday parties, and they always came. It didn’t matter to me that I was always one of the last kids picked for any sport; I wasn’t good at sports. That was all right. Elementary school, overall, was all right.

But then came junior high.

I was an art geek. My school had talents, or majors, and mine was studio art. So I hung out with some of the art kids and some of the kids in my homeroom. Seventh grade was okay. Mostly, I watched things happen from a distance.

But by eighth grade, the insults started coming my way. One guy—Vinny? Victor? Something like that—started calling me Jerky Horse, which rhymed with Jackie Morse. Someone else called me Thunder Thighs. And from there came the rank-outs, everything from “Your momma” to cursing. So I learned how to curse. I remember walking down the hall with my friend Carol, and some guy named Dennis shouted something at me. I don’t remember the words, but I remember that it was an insult. I shouted back, “Shut up, Dennis, you prick!” I didn’t even know what a prick was—but he shut up. And Carol cracked up.

That’s when I learned how to be mean.

I wasn’t a total jerk; I didn’t walk around insulting people just because I could. But there were two distinct times when I did something horrible. The first was to this girl who was on my bus. I changed the lyrics to a commercial jingle and made it about the girl’s weight. I sang it to some of the other kids on the bus. It was funny, you see. Hee-lar-i-ous. Boy, was I a riot. I have no idea if she knew about it. Thinking back, I’m pretty sure she did.

That was shitty of me. I’m sorry, Kelly.

The other time was to a girl I’d known for years, because our grandparents were friends. Eighth grade can be an awkward period; for me, my face had exploded with acne (a condition that wouldn’t get under control until I was in my twenties), and I was short and chubby with no fashion sense (conditions that have yet to get under control). For this girl, Lisa (no—not from
Hunger;
that’s just one of those strange coincidences), it was her teeth. She had buckteeth. And one day, this guy called her Beaver to her face. And I laughed. Because, you know, it was hee-ster-i-cal.

Sorry, Lisa. That was shitty of me too.

By the time I was in high school, a lot of that shitty attitude was gone. I wasn’t mean anymore. Maybe that’s because I was mostly invisible. I had my core group of friends—we were the rocker crowd—and I didn’t venture out of my social circle. I didn’t dare. Sharks swam in those waters. I didn’t have the right clothes, or the right accessories. I didn’t listen to the right music. I didn’t get the right grades. I didn’t get involved in high school politics or popularity contests. High school, for me, was a series of
I Didn’ts
. It was my version of Keeping My Head Down. I did do some things, like play varsity soccer (man, was I bad) and be art director for Sing (think
High School Musical
, but with a much smaller budget). But for the most part, people had no idea who I was. I wasn’t bullied. And I didn’t bully. I was inconsequential.

Soon I had an eating disorder, but that’s another story.

***

Soapbox time. You’ve been warned.

Here’s the thing: Bullies tell you all about themselves when they bully you.

That nasty song I wrote about poor Kelly? That was a weight issue. And God knows, I had—and have—major weight issues. Laughing at someone’s appearance? That’s a self-esteem issue. I’m still working on that one.

When Victor (or Vinny) called me Jerky Horse, well, I guess he was worried that he was a jerk. Either that, or he just had a penchant for rhyming. And I know for certain that the guy who called me Thunder Thighs was—and is—extremely image-focused. If you looked up the word
superficial,
you’d probably see his face there in the dictionary.

So if someone calls you a name, keep in mind that it’s less about you, and more about the person who’s calling you the name. That doesn’t make it right, but it might make it easier to get through.

And you will get through it. You will. You know why? Eighth grade isn’t forever. And while high school may feel like an eternity, it’s not.

You must have heard of the It Gets Better Project. It’s there for a reason. It does get better. It does. Here’s the main link:
www.itgetsbetter.org.

If you’re getting bullied, talk to someone. A parent. A teacher. The school counselor. A friend. If the first person you talk to can’t help, try someone else. And someone else. Keep on talking. You’ll find someone who listens. I promise you, you’re not alone.

Maybe you’re not the one being bullied. Maybe you’re the one who laughs when someone says something mean. Maybe you even get inspired to say, or do, something mean yourself. If you are . . . just think about what you’re doing, okay? Think about how your words matter. Think about how they can hurt.

Think about how easy it would be instead to make your words help.

Be stronger than the bullies.

Speak out.

***

Everyone has their thing, you know. For some, it may be cancer. For others, high blood pressure. For me, it’s Alzheimer’s. I watched one of my grandmothers slowly succumb to the disease. Witnessing this strong, determined, proud, clever, marvelous woman erode into a shell of her former self was devastating.

Millions of people are affected by Alzheimer’s. It’s a progressive disease, and as of today, there is no cure. Research is under way, however, and current Alzheimer’s treatments are able to temporarily slow the symptoms.

That’s why a portion of
Loss
proceeds will be donated to the Alzheimer’s Association. Even if the disease won’t be eradicated in my lifetime, I hope that by the time my kids have kids, Alzheimer’s will be a thing of the past. For more about the Alzheimer’s Association—including the terrific section called Living with Alzheimer’s, which helps support those who have Alzheimer’s as well as their caregivers—please visit
www.alz.org.

If you bought a copy of
Loss,
thank you for helping to make a difference.

Jackie Morse Kessler
grew up in Brooklyn, New York, with a cranky cat and shelves overflowing with dolls and books. Now she’s in upstate New York with another cranky cat, a loving husband, two sons, and shelves overflowing with dragons and books (except when her sons steal her dragons). Her previous books in the Riders of the Apocalypse series told the stories of Famine (
Hunger
) and War (
Rage
). For more about Jackie, visit her website:
www.jackiemorsekessler.com.

• Title Page
  
• Table of Contents
  
• Copyright
  
• Dedication
  
• Acknowledgments
  
• Part One
  
• Chapter 1
  
• Chapter 2
  
• Chapter 3
  
• Chapter 4
  
• Chapter 5
  
• Chapter 6
  
• Chapter 7
  
• Chapter 8
  
• Chapter 9
  
• Chapter 10
  
• Part Two
  
• Chapter 11
  
• Chapter 12
  
• Chapter 13
  
• Chapter 14
  
• Chapter 15
  
• Chapter 16
  
• Chapter 17
  
• Part Three
  
• Chapter 18
  
• Chapter 19
  
• Chapter 20
  
• Chapter 21
  
• Chapter 22
  
• Chapter 23
  
• Chapter 24
  
• Author’s Note
  
• About the Author