Suicide Notes

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For Abby McAden,
who told me to write it
Lexa Hillyer,
who made it better
and Sarah Sevier,
who saw it through

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Contents
Cover
Title Page
Day 01
Day 02
Day 03
Day 04
Day 05
Day 06
Day 07
Day 08
Day 09
Day 10
Day 11
Day 12
Day 13
Day 14
Day 15
Day 16
Day 17
Day 18
Day 19
Day 20
Day 21
Day 22
Day 23
Day 24

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Day 25
Day 26
Day 27
Day 28
Day 29
Day 30
Day 31
Day 32
Day 33
Day 34
Day 35
Day 36
Day 37
Day 38
Day 39
Day 40
Day 41
Day 42
Day 43
Day 44
Day 45
Also by Michael Thomas Ford
Copyright
About the Publisher

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“You may think you’re fine, but you’re not. If you don’t want to talk about
it right now, that’s your decision. You have forty-three more days to talk
about it. Do you have any more questions?”
All I could do was sit there for a minute or two, watching him watch
me. “What do you mean I have forty-three more days?” I asked him finally.
“You’re in a forty-five day program,” he told me. “You’ve been more or
less awake for two days, counting today, which leaves you with forty-three
more to go.”
“What kind of program?” I said.
“To determine the cause of your distress and work on your healing
process,” he told me like he was reading a brochure. “You’ll participate in
individual counseling sessions with me and in group counseling with some
of the other patients.”
“Other patients?” I said. “What other patients?”
“Other young people,” Cat Poop told me. “You’ll meet some of them
tomorrow.”
“Why?” I asked. “Are we having a sing-along?”

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Day 01
I read somewhere that when astronauts come back to Earth after floating
around in space they get sick to their stomachs because the air here smells
like rotting meat to them. The rest of us don’t notice the stink because we
breathe it every day and to us it smells normal, but really the air is filled
with all kinds of pollutants and chemicals and junk that we put into it. Then
we spray other crap around to try and make it smell better, like the whole
planet is someone’s old car and we’ve hung this big pine-scented air
freshener from the rearview mirror.
I feel like those astronauts right now. For a while I was floating around
in space breathing crystal-pure oxygen and talking to the Man in the Moon.
Then suddenly everything changed and I was falling through the stars. I
used to wonder what it would be like to be a meteor. Now I know. You fall
and fall and fall, and then you’re surrounded by clouds and your whole
body tingles as it starts to burn up from the entry into the atmosphere. But
you’re falling so fast that it burns only for a second, and then the ocean
comes rushing up at you and you laugh and laugh, until the water closes
over your head and you’re sinking. Then you know you’re safe—you’ve
survived the fall—and as you come back to the surface you blow millions
of bubbles into the blue-green water.
Only then your head breaks through the waves and you suck in great
breaths of stinking air and you want to die, like babies when they come out
of their mothers and find out that they should have stayed inside where they
were safe. That’s where I am now, floating in the ocean like a piece of space
junk and trying not to throw up every time I breathe.
I’m not really in the ocean, though. I’m in the hospital. They say they
brought me here last night, but I was totally out of it and don’t remember
anything. Actually, what I heard someone say was that I was kind of dead.
Pretty close to dead, anyway.
I really do think I was flying around in space, though. At least for a little
while. I remember thinking that I’d finally find out whether anyone lives on
Mars or not. Then it was like someone grabbed me by the foot and yanked

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me down, back toward Earth. I remember screaming that I didn’t want to
go, but since you can’t make noise in space, my voice was just kind of eaten
up.
Now that I know where I am, I’m not so sure I wouldn’t be better off
just being dead.
And maybe I am dead. I mean, it does kind of feel like Hell around here.
I’m in this room with people checking in on me every five seconds. And by
people I mean nurses, and in particular Nurse Goody. Can you believe that?
Her name is actually Nurse Goody. And she is, too. Good, I mean. She’s
always smiling and asking me if she can get me anything. It’s really
annoying, because all I want is to be left alone, and that’s the last thing they
seem to do here. So many people run in and out of this room, I feel like a
tourist attraction. I bet Nurse Goody is standing outside the door selling
tickets, like those guys at carnivals who try to get people to pay to see the
freak show. Barkers, I think they’re called. That’s what Nurse Goody is, a
barker. She stands outside my door and barks.
But it’s not like there’s anything interesting in here. No television. No
roommate (which actually, now that I think about it, is probably a good
thing). Not even any magazines or books. Just me in bed looking out the
window, which is the kind with wire running through the glass so you can’t
break it and jump out. The paint around the windows is all chipped, like
maybe someone who was in here before me tried to break the window, then
decided to claw their way out instead.
Now that I look at it, the whole room is kind of old-looking. The walls
are this dirty white color, and there are some cracks in the plaster, and a
weird brown spot on the ceiling that looks like a face. The Devil’s face,
maybe. Because, like I said, I think I might be in Hell. It would make sense
that he would be watching me. Him and Nurse Goody are watching me.
Good and Evil.
That’s funny. Good and Evil. Maybe I’m not in Hell. Maybe I’m in that
in-between place. What do they call it? Limbo. Where all the dead people
go who don’t have a “go directly to Heaven or Hell” card. Dead babies go
there, too, I think. People no one knows what to do with, and dead babies.
My kind of people.
Maybe I’m in Limbo, and the Devil and Goody are fighting over me. Or
waiting for me to make up my mind where I want to go. What would I pick,

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Heaven or Hell? That’s a good question. Seriously, I think I would pick
Hell. The people there would probably be more interesting.
Come to think of it, it really is hot as Hell in here. There’s a radiator
under the window, the big old metal kind that shakes whenever water goes
through it. I guess it’s been working overtime. I swear, this place must be
eleventy years old. It’s like any minute now the whole building is going to
fall apart. At least then I wouldn’t be here.
It’s raining, and the only thing I can see out the window is part of a
forest. Since it’s winter, though, it looks less like a forest and more like a
bunch of skeletons holding their hands up to the sky. The rain is running
down the glass, making it look like the skeletons are under water.
Drowning. Although if they’re skeletons, wouldn’t they already be dead?
So maybe they’re just swimming. Anyway, the skeleton trees are kind of
freaking me out. It’s looking more and more like this really is Hell. Maybe I
should tell Goody she’s in the wrong place.
I’m really tired. The radiator is rattling, it’s hot in here, and my head
hurts. I keep looking up at the Devil’s face, and I think he’s laughing at me.
I sort of wish Goody would come in and make him shut up. Maybe she’s
given up on me.
I know they’re hoping I’ll say something about why I did what I did. So
for the record: I just felt like it.

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Day 02
This just gets better and better.
It turns out I really am in the hospital. Not Limbo. I’m pretty sure that it
is Hell. Because I’m not just in the hospital. I’m in the mental ward. You
know, where they keep the people who have sixteen imaginary friends
living in their heads and can’t stop picking invisible bugs off their bodies.
Whackos. Nut-jobs. Total losers.
I’m not crazy. I don’t see what the big deal is about what happened. But
apparently someone does think it’s a big deal because here I am. I bet it was
my mother. She always overreacts.
They weren’t going to tell me—you know, about the mental ward thing
—but I found out when Goody left my chart next to the bed while she went
to get something at the desk. Someone should tell her that you really
shouldn’t leave something like that lying around if you don’t want someone
to look at it.
Anyway, I just happened to pick up the chart, because that’s what I do
when someone leaves something around and I want to know what it is, and
right there on the top of the first page it said psychiatric ward. At first I
figured it was someone else’s file, but then I saw my name. Let me tell you
something, seeing your name and psychiatric ward on the same piece of
paper isn’t the best way to start your day.
When Goody came back she saw me looking at the file and the smile
plastered to her face finally disappeared. “You’re not supposed to be
looking at that,” she said, like I didn’t know and would apologize.
“This is a psych ward?” I said, trying to read as much as I could before
she grabbed the folder, which she did about two seconds later.
“It’s time for your medication,” she said.
“Uh-uh,” I told her. “Not until someone tells me why I’m here.”
“I think you know why you’re here,” she said, giving me that look
people give you when they know you know what they mean.
“I’m not crazy,” I said.

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“Nobody said you were crazy,” said Goody, her smile returning.
Suddenly she was all happy again, like there’d been a momentary blackout
in her reception and now we’d returned to the regularly scheduled program.
“That file does,” I shot back. “It says it in big letters.”
“Take your pill,” she said, ignoring me. “You’ll feel better.”
“No,” I told her. “I don’t even know what it is.”
Goody smiled, which was starting to get on my nerves. “It’s a sedative,”
she said.
“So you’re drugging me?” I said. “Why? What the hell is going on
here?”
Goody took the paper cup she was holding out to me and put it back on
the tray by my bed. “I think maybe you should talk to Dr. Katzrupus.”
“Catwhatsis?” I asked her. “Cat Poopus? What kind of name is that?”
“Katzrupus,” she said again. “I’ll get him.”
She disappeared, taking my file with her, which she totally should have
done the first time, because then we wouldn’t have had this problem. At
least not right now. After she left, I stared at the cup with the pill in it. It
was a small red pill, round like a ladybug. I almost took it, just to see what
it would do, but I didn’t want Goody to think I thought I needed it or
anything, which I don’t.
Goody came back a minute later with some guy. He was short, with
really wild black hair that was about three weeks past needing to be cut, and
he looked like he hadn’t shaved in a couple of days either. He seemed way
too young to be a doctor, and at first I thought he was some kind of student
doctor or something, like I didn’t even rate a real one.
“I’m Dr. Katzrupus,” he said, holding out his hand.
“Why am I in the nuthouse?” I asked him, staring at his hand without
shaking it.
“You’re not in a nuthouse,” he said, taking his hand back and pushing
his glasses up his nose. “You’re in a hospital.”
“Right,” I said. “The nut ward in a hospital.”
“It’s a psychiatric ward,” he said. “And you’re in it because we’re
concerned that something might be bothering you.” He spoke in this really
calm and casual way, as if he was telling you what he had for dinner. For
some reason, that really bugged me.

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“Something might be bothering me,” I repeated, mimicking his voice.
Then I laughed. “Why would something be bothering me?”
Cat Poop got this weird look on his face, like he didn’t know what to
say. I just kept staring at him.
“Are my parents around here somewhere?” I asked. “’Cause if they are,
I’d really like to go home now.”
“We need to run a few tests,” he said. “And, no, your parents aren’t
here.”
I thought it was kind of weird that my parents weren’t there, and I
wanted to ask where they were instead of being with their kid in the
hospital, but I didn’t. “I’m not so good at tests,” I said instead. “Especially
pop quizzes. Could I maybe have some study time first? I wouldn’t want to
bring the curve down for the whole class or anything.”
He looked at me for a second. Then he said, “I’ll see you later this
afternoon.”
After he left Goody came back with this other guy who I swear to God
was a vampire. He took what seemed like three gallons of blood out of me,
test tube after test tube of it. After the fourth one I started to feel really sick.
Finally, the Human Leech and Goody went away with his tray of tubes
and a woman came in. “I’m Miss Pinch,” she said. I swear. I’m not making
it up. I don’t know what it is with the names around here. I’m not sure this
isn’t all a dream, because in the real world people just aren’t named things
like Nurse Goody and Miss Pinch and Dr. Cat Poop.
“I need to ask you a few questions,” Miss Pinch told me, pulling a chair
up beside my bed.
Turns out that was the understatement of the year, unless to you “a few”
means eight thousand and sixty-two.
“Have you ever taken Ecstasy?” Miss Pinch asked me, smiling and
cocking her head like a bird. An irritating, nosy little bird.
“No,” I told her, and she made a check mark on the folder she was
holding.
“Methamphetamine?” she said. When I didn’t answer right away she
added, “Crystal? Ice? Tina?”
“I know what it is,” I told her. “And no, I’ve never taken it.”
She made another mark. And she kept making marks after every
question and answer. Cocaine? No. Check. Alcohol? No. Check. Marijuana,

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GHB, snappers? No, no, no. Check, check, check.
I kept answering no to everything, because I really haven’t ever done
drugs, and she kept looking at me like maybe I was lying just to get her out
of there. So finally I said that yes, okay, I’d smoked pot a few times, and
that seemed to make her happy. Like it’s not possible that there’s a kid on
this planet who hasn’t smoked pot. Moron.
“How about glue?” she asked me.
I nodded, and she lit up like a Christmas tree. At least until I said, “I
used to eat paste. In kindergarten. Bad habit. I totally gave it up, though. I
swear. It didn’t mix with the apple juice so well.”
I have to say, I was a little disappointed that she wasn’t madder than she
was. Maybe talking to crazy people all the time makes you kind of immune
to it. She just kept asking and checking. After we went through every drug
known to science, Pinch said, “Now let’s talk about sexual activity.”
“Let’s not,” I said, giving her the same big smile she was giving me.
“Have you ever—” she started to say.
“Seriously,” I said, interrupting her. “Let’s not. It’s none of your damn
business.”
“I’m only trying to help you,” she said, still smiling.
“Well, you’re not,” I informed her. “You’re just pissing me off. Now go
away.”
She stared at me.
“Seriously,” I said. “Get out of here. There’s nothing wrong with me. I
answered your stupid questions about the drugs, and I’m not telling you
anything else because there’s nothing else you need to know. So either go
away or else sit there while I take a nap, because this is the last thing I’m
saying to you.”
She snapped her file shut and stood up. “I’ll just get the doctor,” she
said.
That seems to be what they do around here when you say no to them,
like the doctors are the National Guard or something. So once again I got a
visit from good old Cat Poop. This time he shut the door so that we were
alone. I pictured Goody Two-shoes and Pinchface standing outside,
pressing their ears to the door to try and hear what the doctor was saying.
“You’re not making this very easy,” he said.

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“Sorry,” I said. “I guess my kindergarten teacher was right when she
said I don’t play well with others.”
“We want to help you.”
“You know, everyone keeps saying that,” I told him. “But I have to tell
you, I’m starting to think you don’t. Because if you did, you’d let me out of
here. There’s nothing wrong with me.”
“There’s evidence to the contrary,” said Cat Poop.
“I’m fine,” I said. “Really. Do you want me to sign something saying
that? Then will you let me go home?”
“I’m afraid that’s not an option,” he said.
“What about my parents?” I asked him. “Where are they? Tell them I
want to go home now.”
“Your parents agree that you need to spend some time here,” he
answered.
“You can’t keep me here against my will,” I informed him. “In case you
don’t know, this is the land of the free. People have rights. I have the right
to free speech, and to bear arms, and to not be locked up in a nuthouse!” I
knew what I was talking about. I mean, I’ve read the Constitution. In sixth
grade, and I don’t remember exactly what it said. But still.
Cat Poop looked at me for a moment, then said really calmly, “You’re in
a psychiatric ward because you attempted to commit suicide. You may think
you’re fine, but you’re not. If you don’t want to talk about it right now,
that’s your decision. You have forty-three more days to talk about it. Do you
have any more questions?”
All I could do was sit there for a minute or two, watching him watch
me. “What do you mean I have forty-three more days?” I asked him finally.
“You’re in a forty-five-day program,” he told me. “You’ve been more or
less awake for two days, counting today, which leaves you with forty-three
more to go.”
“What kind of program?” I said.
“To determine the cause of your distress and work on your healing
process,” he told me like he was reading a brochure. “You’ll participate in
individual counseling sessions with me and in group counseling with some
of the other patients.”
“Other patients?” I said. “What other patients?”

---

“Other young people,” Cat Poop told me. “You’ll meet some of them
tomorrow.”
“Why?” I asked. “Are we having a sing-along?”
“If you want to,” he said. “But usually the patients just sit in a circle and
look at each other until someone decides to talk.”
“I don’t have anything to talk about,” I informed him.
“Then you have forty-three days of staring to look forward to,” he said.
“Is there anything else you’d like to discuss?”
“How about the environment?” I suggested. “Maybe the effects of
greenhouse gases on the Amazon rain forests? Or what will happen when
the polar ice cap melts? Did you know all the polar bears are drowning
because they have nothing to sit on?”
“Perhaps another time,” he said. “I have rounds to make. We’ll hold off
on the rest of your evaluation until you’re in a more cooperative mood.”
“Good luck with that one,” I called after him as he left.
He’s wrong about the suicide thing, by the way. This is just a big
misunderstanding. I’ll sort it out in the next couple of days and then I’ll be
out of here. In the meantime, maybe I will take the ladybug pill. If I have to
be here, I might as well get in a good nap. And, really, I kind of like how
these pills make me feel. I’ll have to remember to tell Pinch. She’ll get a
kick out of it.

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Day 03
There are five of us. In the fun house, I mean. Well, five kids. There are a
bunch of adult whack-jobs, too, but they have their own ward. We get our
very own Baby Nuthouse all to ourselves. It’s just like at Thanksgiving,
when all the kids get sent to the little table in the corner. No turkey legs for
us. Just the parts no one else wants. Like giblets.
Let me clarify. There are four of them and one of me. I met the others
today in my first group therapy session. I wasn’t going to go, but I figured if
I show everyone how completely sane I am, they’ll have to let me out. The
group sessions are held in what they call the community room, which is just
this big room with couches and a TV and games and stuff. I guess it’s where
all the crazies hang out when they’re not busy being crazy.
We sat in a circle on these hard plastic chairs. They’re orange—traffic-
cone orange—like they’re a warning to anyone who might walk in. danger:
crazy people talking. take alternate route. Besides being ugly, they’re also
really unpleasant to sit on. After about five minutes my butt fell asleep, and
I kept having to move around to try and get comfortable. Which I never did.
Cat Poop introduced me by saying, “Everyone, this is Jeff.” And they all
went, “Hi, Jeff.” Only their voices all sounded the same, like zombies
mumbling, “Mmmm, brains,” and nobody really looked at me. I didn’t say
anything. It’s not like I’m going to be here long enough to make friends.
After that we sat in a circle just staring at each other, just like Cat Poop
said we would. Nobody said a word until finally the doc pointed at this
skinny girl with long blonde hair who was chewing at her fingernails and
said, “Alice, why don’t you tell Jeff a little bit about yourself.”
“My name is Alice,” said the girl. Duh. “What should you know about
me? Well, my mother’s latest boyfriend kept coming into my bedroom
when I was asleep and putting himself all over me, so one night I waited
until he was sleeping and I went into his room with some lighter fluid and
matches. He didn’t die or anything, but I got a little burnt.”
At first I thought she was making it all up. But then she held up her
arms so I could see. The skin was red and raw from her hands to her

---

elbows. Alice laughed. Then she bent her head and covered her face with
her long hair.
I’m not sure if she’s for real or not. My guess is that she just burnt her
arms playing with matches or something stupid like that. I bet she made up
the thing about torching her mother’s boyfriend. I mean, that’s a lot more
interesting, and I wouldn’t blame her for going with it. If I did something
dumb like set myself on fire, I’d lie about it too.
The thing is, I don’t think she did. I don’t know why, but I believe her.
What’s even weirder is that it doesn’t freak me out. I can totally see why
she would set that guy on fire, which maybe makes me as crazy as she is.
Then again, I didn’t do it; I can just imagine doing it. Maybe that’s the
difference between crazy and not crazy.
Alice didn’t say anything else, so we moved on to the girl beside her.
She was almost the exact opposite of Alice: fat, curly red hair, a face like
the moon. When she saw me looking at her, she actually smiled, like we
were on a bus and not in a hospital.
“My name’s Juliet,” she said, all happy and chirpy like a cartoon bird.
“I’m Bone’s girlfriend.”
She paused, like I was supposed to know who Bone was, like he was
some rapper or actor or something whose name was all over the magazines
and I was going to congratulate her on having a famous boyfriend. When I
didn’t say anything Juliet nodded at the guy sitting beside me. The whole
time people had been talking, he’d been looking at his feet. He barely
looked up now.
“That’s Bone,” said Juliet, beaming like she was showing me her new
car. “We’re in a band. Gratuitous Sex and Violence?” she added, as if she
wasn’t sure herself. “Bone plays guitar. I sing.”
Next to me, Bone sighed and crossed his arms over his chest. He was
wearing a white T-shirt, and he had lots of tattoos, even though I don’t think
he’s a whole lot older than I am. My parents would never let me get a
tattoo, so it’s kind of impressive that he has so many. I looked at them for a
second, but none of them were really interesting. Just lots of flaming skulls
and naked girls on motorcycles and stuff like that. He had hair he obviously
dyed because it was too black to be natural, and eyes that didn’t seem to
focus on anything. His eyes were black, too, like his hair. He looked like a
comic book drawing.

---

“Which one of you is sex and which one of you is violence?” I asked.
“What?” Juliet asked, her smile slipping.
“Gratuitous sex and violence,” I said slowly, as if I was talking to a
really little kid. “Which of you is which?”
Juliet looked at Bone, like he was going to give her the answer. He just
kept staring at his feet. Juliet ran a hand over her mouth as if she was trying
to wipe something away that wasn’t there. Someone else started to laugh,
but stopped.
“Um, it’s not really . . . ,” she said, sounding confused. “It’s just a, you
know, a name.”
“She’s not my girlfriend,” Bone said suddenly, looking up for a second.
“She just thinks she is. There is no band. I don’t even know her, okay?”
Juliet looked at him and started to say something, but Cat Poop spoke
before she could. “Why don’t we move on,” he said. He reminded me of a
tour guide at one of those historic places where they take you through in
little groups to make sure you don’t touch the eight-million-year-old
candlesticks or whatever. “Why don’t we move on” isn’t really a question,
because you don’t have a choice; it’s just a passive-aggressive way of
saying, “Get the hell out of here. There’s another bunch of tourists who
want to see the candlesticks.”
So Cat Poop made us leave the bedroom where Abraham Lincoln freed
the slaves and go to the kitchen where they were baking bread just like they
did two hundred years ago. Actually, he just nodded at the next person, a
girl sitting beside Juliet.
“Okay,” she said. “My name is Sadie. I’m a Libra, I like sunny days and
kittens, and think pollution and negative people are real downers. Oh, and I
tried to drown myself and this guy saved me and so I’m not dead.”
She looked right at me, like she was daring me to ask a question. Her
eyes were this really intense blue, like the ice at the North Pole. She had
black hair, cut short and spiky, and pale skin, which made her eyes look
even bluer. The best way to describe her is to say she looked like an evil
pixie, or at least a troublemaking one.
Bone was next, but all he did was say “I’m Bone” and go back to his
feet. I was hoping he’d say more about the girl who wasn’t his girlfriend, or
what it was like being a walking cartoon, but I guess he thought he’d told us
enough already.

---

So then it was my turn. I really didn’t want to say anything, but Bone
had already done the silent and mysterious thing, and I knew if I did it too I
would look like I was trying to be like him.
“I’m Jeff,” I said. “I’m here because they think I need to be. But I don’t.
There’s not much else to tell.”
“What’s with the bandages, then?”
Sadie was nodding at my lap. I looked down and saw that the cuffs of
my shirt had ridden up, and some gauze was sticking out of the bottom.
“Nothing,” I said. “Just a cut.”
“Okay,” said Cat Poop. “Now that Jeff knows a little more about you,
today I want to talk about what it means to tell the truth.”
That’s when I zoned out. Actually, I just kind of settled into this warm,
foggy place where everything faded out and voices sounded like planes
flying somewhere way faraway. I knew people were talking, but I wasn’t
listening. I wasn’t interested in anything anyone had to say. I mean, telling
the truth? What a lame thing to talk about. The truth is that I don’t belong
here.
Eventually the airplane noises stopped, and I realized that group was
over. Everyone was standing up. Cat Poop came over to me. “You didn’t
contribute much today,” he said.
“Sorry,” I said. “I have a lot on my mind.”
“Like?” he asked.
I shrugged. “Like whether the whole boy-band craze is really over,” I
said. “I know people say it is, but I think they’re wrong.”
“Why don’t I show you around,” said Cat Poop. “This is the lounge.
You’re allowed in here as long as there’s a staff member present. There are
usually four people here during the day, two nurses and two orderlies, and
we always have at least two nurses and a security person on at night.”
“Security,” I said. “Sounds serious. Is that to keep the Gratuitous Sex
and Violence fans out?”
“Meals are also served in here,” he continued, ignoring me and pointing
to two long tables surrounded by more plastic chairs. “You’ve been allowed
to eat in your room, but from now on you’ll eat with the rest of the floor.
Food is brought up from the hospital cafeteria.”
“Just like one big happy family,” I remarked as we left the lounge and
walked down the hallway toward my room.

---

“You each have your own room,” Cat Poop said. “Boys on this end,
girls on the other. You may not be in another person’s room unsupervised.
There are bathrooms on either end of the hall.”
“Can we be in there with each other unsupervised?” I asked. “Or is
peeing at the same time frowned upon?”
“You’ll be given a schedule for each day,” he went on. “You’ll be
keeping up with your schoolwork while you’re here. We’ll see about getting
your books and assignments from your school.”
“You’re telling the people at my school that I’m here?” I said. I was
already imagining Principal Matthews giving the morning announcement.
“Today’s lunch will be spaghetti and meatballs, cheerleading tryouts will be