But here I am. Painting a wall that I hope will inspire someone—anyone—and feeling so raw that my whole body seems to be on the constant verge of a breakdown.

“Will y’all be much longer?” Mom asks.

“We’ve got to be out of here by eight o’clock,” I tell her.

She taps my nose with her index finger. “I’ll see you at home. Check your shoes for paint. Lord knows you won’t be tracking that stuff into my house.”

After a brief taco break, we attack the wall once more to cover up any spots we might have missed, and when we’re done, Kyle sends a few freshmen to recycle the take-out containers while the rest of us clean paintbrushes and gather up the remaining supplies. Once we’re finished, Corey raises their hand.

“What’s up?” I ask.

“Maybe we should get here early to write out truths? To show everyone else how it’s done before the whole student body gets here.”

I look to Kyle, who shrugs.

I turn back to the wall, which is definitely still wet. Too wet to use the paint markers we put in the small mesh cup holder Clem bolted to the wall. “Yeah, let’s shoot for seven thirty.”

“And I’ll text everyone else who couldn’t make it,” Kyle adds.

For a moment, it’s silent. “Oh!” I hold a hand up. “Thank y’all. I just—this would not be this”—I gesture to the wall—“without your help. To be honest, I probably would have tacked some butcher paper to the wall and called it a day.”

Simone says, “Honestly, it’s pretty cool to be a part of this.”

Beside her, Corey nods with a smile. “Yeah, just do us a favor and win. You too, Hannah.”

I let out a dry chuckle. “You got it.”

Thirty-Two

The next morning, I am absolutely buzzing with nerves. Clem rides to school with Hannah, so I decide to stop and get everyone doughnuts as a final thank-you for all their help.

When I get to school, there are about a dozen cars already in the parking lot, and when I get inside and make it to the 300s hall, I find well over half of Prism is there waiting for me.

A sigh of relief puffs out the minute I see our wall and that it’s intact. Even though I had no reason to believe so, a small part of me expected to find our work vandalized this morning.

I pass out the doughnuts, and while everyone mulls over the wall with paint pens in hand, I admire our work.

The wall stretches out about seven yards, and there are horizontal stripes painted every color of the flag. Directly in the middle, overlapping through the yellow, green, and blue, giant white letters read WE ARE . . . On the far right side is a laminated poster that reads:

Welcome to Clover City High School’s WE ARE wall.

This wall is a safe place to write your truth. It can be serious or fun or a secret or not. As long as it’s true.

This wall will be repainted and maintained by the Prism Club.

Bullying and harassment will not be tolerated. Any and all names used will be immediately painted over.

This wall is not a bathroom stall. Don’t treat it like one.

WE ARE CLOVER CITY HIGH SCHOOL.

This legacy project was created by prom queen nominee Waylon Brewer and prom king nominee Tucker Watson.

Even though I’m not feeling even a little bit generous toward Tucker, I decided to include his name. He primed the whole wall and got permission for the project, so while he’s a jerky hot lumberjack who I definitely hate and he’s out of the running for prom king, he deserves to have his name up there.

Armed with paint pens, the members of Prism don’t hold back. There are all sorts of things written on the wall.

PIZZA ENTHUSIASTS!

Nonbinary

Super, super gay!!!!

Asian American

She/Her/They/Them

TOTAL nerds

Survivors

JEDIS

TROMBONE PLAYERS

Plant-loving vegans!

Ace for days!

Seniors!!!!!!

“Your turn,” Clem says, passing me a pen.

I tap the pen against my lips for a moment before writing: QUEENS.

“Nice,” Hannah says. And with a pen of her own, she writes: KINGS.

“Mind if I add something?” asks Corey as they step in between us.

“Please,” I tell them.

In big block letters, they write: ROYALTY.

“Perfect,” I say, nodding at their handiwork.

Slowly all around us, students begin to fill in. Some read the wall and move on. Others don’t even stop to look. But a lot of them—more than I expected—are lining up for a chance at the wall. Some of them aren’t even bothering to wait for paint pens, and instead opt to dig permanent markers out of their backpacks.

Kyle even runs down to the art room to see what other supplies he can scour.

There are so many people that we’re causing a traffic jam. Teachers are trying to weasel their way through, urging students to head to class and telling them that they can visit the wall during their off periods.

Amid all the chaos across the influx of people, I see Tucker.

He looks over the wall, one side of his lips lifting in a crooked smile. And then he sees me, looking at him, and his whole expression sinks.

My fingers tingle, begging me to wave. To call him over. But instead I let the crowd stand between us.

During each passing period, I make a point to walk through the 300s hall, and every time the wall is more and more full. I even see a few faculty members jotting down confessions of their own, including Ms. Jennings, who waves from the other end of the hall.

Just before I’m about to go to choir, I watch as Willowdean writes something on the wall in tiny little letters that are impossible to read. From the other side of the hallway, Bo sidles up next to her and writes something below her words.

She looks up at him with a pained smile, and it’s something that feels so familiar to me. Slowly, she writes something in response to him. They go back and forth like that for a few moments, and I can see them slowly gravitating closer to each other, like it’s inevitable.

“What’s going on?” a deep voice whispers in my ear.

I jump back and spin around directly into Hannah. “Way to scare the shit out of me!”

“Did you like my voice?” she asks. “That’s the voice I use when a number I don’t know calls.”

“And how’s that working out for you?”

She smiles sheepishly. “It was actually very awkward when my admissions counselor called and I had to pretend to be my uncle.”

“That is a gripping story, but I’m sort of eavesdropping on—” I turn back around and they’re gone. “Wait. Where’d they go?”

“Where’d who go where?” Hannah asks as she smiles down into her phone.

I catch a glimpse of who she’s texting and the top of the screen reads my sweet clementine. I swear to God, I will never escape couples for as long as I live. “Willowdean and that Bo guy. They were right over there writing secret messages to each other.”

Hannah shrugs. “On that wall?”

I nod.

“So go read it and find out,” she says in a matter-of-fact way.

“That’s like their personal correspondence,” I say.

“Yeah, on a very public wall.”