people who wear hoodies when it is 100 degree out. Why? There was this girl at my school who everyone thought was crazy. Every single day, even when it hit triple digits, she'd show up in these thick hoodies, dark colors only, black, navy, dark gray, never anything light. I'll be honest, at first I thought she was just weird. Like, who does that? Kids would walk past her in the hallway sweating in tank tops and shorts. And there she was, looking like she was ready for winter. Is she tryingto die or something? My friend would whisper to me during lunch. Teachers would stop her constantly. Are you feeling okay? Do you need to go to the nurse? She'd just shake her head and keep walking, pulling that hood up even higher. Her face was always red and sweaty, but she never took it off. The smell started getting bad by October. Don't get me wrong, I felt terrible thinking that, but it was hard to ignore. She'd sit near me in math class, and by third period, you could just tell. It wasn't normal body odor,either. It was sharp and metallic, mixed with sweat and something else I couldn't place. Kids started being really mean about it. This one guy would make gagging sounds when she walked by. Shower much? He'd say loud enough for everyone to hear. Girls would move their desks away from her in group projects. I saw her eating lunch alone in empty classrooms, avoiding the cafeteria completely. I wanted to say something nice to her, but honestly, I was scared of being associated with the smellyhoodie girl. High school social politics are brutal like that. So, I just watched from a distance as she got more and more isolated. She missed a lot of school, too. Some days she'd be there, some days she wouldn't. When she was there, she looked exhausted. Dark circles under her eyes, hands always shaking slightly. She'd wear long sleeves even under the hoodies, which seemed impossible in that heat. During gym class, she'd always have some excuse. Stomach problems, headaches, family stuff, anything toavoid changing clothes. The few times she had to participate, she'd wait until everyone left the locker room or changing the bathroom stalls. I started noticing she had this whole system figured out. Different hoodies for different days, always dark colors. She'd carry this huge backpack that looked way too heavy, constantly pulling out deodorant or body spray between classes. Sometimes I'd see her in the bathroom splashing water on her face, looking like she was about to pass out. One day in August, it was 105° and wewere all outside during lunch break. Most of us were trying to find shade, but she was sitting alone on a bench in direct sunlight wearing that same black hoodie. I was watching her from across the courtyard when she suddenly stood up, wobbled, and collapsed. Everyone rushed over. The school nurse got there fast and immediately started trying to remove her hoodie. We need to cool her down right now, she said. But the girl was fighting her weakly, trying to keep it on even though she could barely move.No, please don't. She kept whispering, but the nurse had to get it off. When she did, everyone went completely silent. Her arms were covered in cuts, fresh ones with bandages, older ones that were healing, and thin white scars running up and down both arms like lines on a map. Some were really recent, still red and angry looking. I felt sick to my stomach. Not because of how it looked, but because I finally understood. The smell wasn't just sweat. It was antiseptic bandages, healing wounds. Thehoodies weren't about being weird or wanting attention. They were hiding something she was ashamed of. The same guy who used to make fun of her everyday stepped forward. His whole attitude changed when he saw her arms. "Hey, do you need someone to talk to?" he asked quietly. Instead of laughing or taking pictures like I thought people would, three other students came over. One girl sat down next to her on the ground and said softly, "I've been there, too. You don't have to go through this alone."After that day, everything changed. The jokes stopped. People started saying hi to her in the hallways. I finally worked up the courage to sit with her at lunch one day. "Why did you always wear the hoodies?" I asked her after we'd become friends. She looked down at her arms, which now had short sleeves on. The scars were still visible, but healing. I thought if people saw what I was doing to myself, they'd think I was even more of a freak than they already did. The hoodies hid the cuts, but they also hidthe smell of antiseptic and bandages. I was so ashamed that I'd rather pass out from heat stroke than let anyone see. She paused and smiled a little. Funny thing is, hiding it made everything worse. Once people knew they actually cared.
