Life is too short to judge others. It is not our job to tell someone what they feel or who they are. Why not spend some time on yourself instead? I don’t know you, but I can guarantee you have some issues you can work on. And maybe you’ve got a fit body and a perfect face, but I’ll wager you’ve got insecurities too, ones that would keep you from stripping down to a purple bikini and modeling it in front of everyone.

As for the rest of you, remember this: YOU ARE WANTED. Big, small, tall, short, pretty, plain, friendly, shy. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise, not even yourself.

Especially not yourself.

I stand on the main floor of Masselin’s, wishing baseball season lasted year-round, that I didn’t have to wait till spring, and that we were all required to play. If I’m designing the world, every person in it is wearing a uniform, and this is how we find each other.

If this was how the world worked, I would recognize Monica Chapman, also standing on the main floor of Masselin’s. I would know instantly that the woman my dad is talking to is her. I wouldn’t have to wonder if she’s been there other times before today, right in front of my eyes.

Instead, I interrupt the two of them, standing too close near a Star Wars display, where anyone, including my mom, could walk in and see them. They break apart, and then I read my dad’s name tag, and the guilty look on his face.

She says, “Hi, Jack.”

Maybe it’s her, maybe it isn’t, but I don’t wait to find out. I look at my dad. I say, “You son of a bitch.” And walk out.

At home, I swipe everything off the basement shelves and onto the floor. I throw stuff into the trash. I go wild, like a kid having a tantrum, crushing parts under my shoes, slamming things against the plywood table, breaking tools and all this shit I’ve spent so much time designing and building.

I go wilder, finally hitting a wall until my hand is bleeding. The pain of it feels good, and I like that contact of fist and bone. I hit it again and again. It’s a way to feel something without standing behind this invisible electric fence that divides me from everyone else.

Half an hour later, I’m cleaning up the mess, all cool and collected, when a man skulks in wearing my dad’s name tag.

He takes in the chaos around us and then looks me in the eye. “I’m ending it. With her.”

“None of my business, man.”

“I just wanted to tell you.”

“Why now? What made you come to this life-altering decision?”

“That,” he says, nodding at me. “That anger right there. I’d rather you didn’t hate me.”

“Don’t put this on me.”

“It’s not on you. It’s on me. I was given this second chance, not just beating cancer, but a second chance with your mom and a second chance to figure out what I want to do in life.”

“I thought you loved the store.”

“I love what it means, and I love the history. I loved going there as a kid. But that doesn’t mean it’s the thing I wanted to do with my life. I had plans.”

This throws me because it’s the first time I’ve ever thought about my dad doing anything else or having other options.

“I wanted to be an architect. Or an engineer.”

And this throws me again because maybe we’re more alike than I thought, and I’m not sure how I feel about this. The only thing I do know, thanks to you and Monica Chapman, is the kind of person I don’t want to be.

“It’s funny, right? That even though we’re basically alone in here”—he thumps his chest—“it’s easy to lose track of yourself.”

I want to say I know. I get it. It’s easy to give everyone what they want. What’s expected. The problem with doing this is you lose sight of where you truly begin and where the fake you, the one who tries to be everything to everyone, ends.

He smiles this sad smile. “I’ve been shitty.”

“So I guess Dusty got to you too.”

“I guess so.”

Marcus and his girlfriend, Melinda, are in our family room, hunched over his phone, whispering their heads off. Marcus looks up and says to me, “Have you seen this?” He holds out the phone.

I go over, take the phone from him, and there is Libby Strout, wearing nothing but her electric-purple bikini, basically telling the world to fuck off. I was there. I’ve already seen it. But now I’m looking at the way the light catches her hair and at the handful of freckles that dot across her arms and chest, like beauty marks that aren’t painted on.

Then I make the mistake of reading the comments. Some of them are nasty. But some of them are really nice. I don’t take a count, but I’m relieved to see the nice ones seem to outnumber the nasty ones. I give the phone back to my brother, and he barely notices because he and Melinda have started arguing.

She goes, “I’m serious. It’s not funny, Cuss.” This is what she calls him. “I feel sorry for her.”

I say, “Why do you feel sorry for her, Da?” As in Duh. This is what I like to call her.

She blinks her big, dumb eyes at me. “I mean, it can’t be easy being her.”

“Why?” I shouldn’t mess with her, the way I do with Seth, but I can’t help it.

“Well. I mean. You know.” She holds up the phone and points at the screen.

“She seems like she’s doing all right to me.”

Libby’s “You Are Wanted” paper is upstairs on my desk. Ever since I read it, I’ve been trying to ignore the voice that’s saying This is your fault. If you hadn’t grabbed her, she wouldn’t be a target, and if she wasn’t a target, she wouldn’t have felt like she had to prove herself to the entire school.