I think about Mary Katherine Blackwood from We Have Always Lived in the Castle. I’ve always loved her and felt sorry for her because she’s quirky and weird, just like me, and—I’ve told myself—misunderstood. But right now I have this unsettling, someone’s-hiding-in-the-closet feeling, like maybe I was wrong. Maybe it’s better that she’s locked away from the rest of the world. Maybe she’s not cut out to live like other people with other people. Maybe she belongs in that house forever.

In the ocean of people, I see this very large girl coming toward me, and it’s her—Libby Strout. A group of girls elbows each other, and even though they’re whispering, I can hear them say something about Fat Girl Rodeo. They stare at Libby, and that’s the moment it hits me, square in the face. This is what I’ve done to her—painted a giant red target on her back.

As they’re gawking, she stops in front of me and hands me a note. “Here.” This sends the girls into a giggling fit, and I can already hear the gossip mill churning.

After school, I walk down a flight of stairs off the main hall to the creepy basement, which is where the old basketball court is, the one they used years ago before they built a million-dollar sports complex that seats ten thousand people. Jack Masselin leans back on the bleachers, legs stretched in front of him, elbows propped on the riser behind him, chatting with Travis Kearns from driver’s ed, a smiling girl with long brown hair, and a boy with a smooth, shaved head who I think is Keshawn Price, basketball star. They’re hanging on Jack Masselin’s every word, and he looks up, sees me, and keeps right on talking.

Or maybe he doesn’t see me. Although I am the largest girl in here.

I sit apart from them, on the front row. This gym can fit probably six hundred, and there’s something about it that feels sad and neglected, which, of course, it is. With every laugh coming from the group above me, I feel more and more invisible. Two other kids wander in, but I don’t know their names. The girl sits next to me, about a foot away, and the boy takes a seat one row up. The girl leans over and goes, “I’m Maddy.”

“Libby.”

“Is this the Conversation Circle?”

But right then Mr. Levine moseys in. “Hello, hello. Thank you all for being here today.” He stops in front of the bleachers, hands on hips. He’s wearing an orange bow tie and matching orange sneakers, and except for the gray hair, he looks like he could be one of us.

He says, “Let’s get this out of the way. I’m not going to talk to you about the importance of tolerance, equality, and realizing that we’re all in this together because I don’t think you’re stupid and completely lacking moral fiber. I think you’re smart individuals who did really stupid things. Who wants to start?”

We all sit there. Even Jack Masselin goes silent. Mr. Levine keeps on. “How about ‘Why are you here?’ The real reason, not ‘Principal Wasserman made me do this.’ ”

I’m waiting for someone to say something. When no one does, I say, “I’m here because of him.” And point at Jack.

Mr. Levine shakes his head. “Actually, you’re here because you vandalized school property, and because you punched him.”

One of the guys goes, “Nice.”

Jack says, “Shut up.”

“Gentlemen. And I use that term loosely.” Mr. Levine says to me, “You could have walked away.”

“Would you have walked away?”

“I’m not the one he grabbed.”

“Okay.” I take a breath. “How about I’m here because I lost my temper. Because when someone grabs you out of the blue and won’t let go, you panic, especially when everyone’s watching you and no one’s doing anything to help you, and everybody but you seems to think it’s funny. I’m here because I didn’t know if it stopped there or if he was going to do something more than just hold on.”

Everyone is staring at Jack, at me. Mr. Levine is nodding. “Jack, buddy, feel free to jump in.”

“I’m good.”

That’s what he says. I’m good. Lounging there with his bored expression, and that giant explosion of hair, too full of himself to participate.

“If he doesn’t have anything to say, I’ll go again.” If there’s anything I’m good at in this world it’s being counseled. I’ve had years of it, and I know how to talk about myself and the Whys of things. Even in front of a room of strangers.

Mr. Levine says, “Great. The floor is apparently all yours, Libby.”

“After they cut me out of my house, I was in the hospital for a while, and even when I was strong enough to go home, the doctor kept me there because he said I couldn’t leave till I understood the Why. Why was I there. Why did I gain all that weight.”

Mr. Levine doesn’t interrupt, but you can tell he’s really, truly listening. So is everybody else, even Travis Kearns. I keep talking because I’ve been over this a hundred times, so much that it’s barely a part of me anymore. It’s just a truth that lives outside me in the world. Libby got too big. Libby was cut out of her house. Libby got help. Libby got better. If there’s anything I’ve learned from counseling and losing my mom, it’s that it’s best to just say what’s on your mind. If you try to carry everything around all the time, pretty soon you end up flat on your back in bed, too big to get up or even turn over.

“So the Why was a lot of things. It was inheriting my dad’s Hulk-size thighs and slow metabolism. It was being bullied on the playground. It was my mom dying and the way she died, and me being afraid and me feeling alone and worrying, always worrying, and Dad being sad, and Dad loving food and loving to cook, and me wanting him to feel better and also wanting me to feel better.”