Dear Diary,
Four days ago, I listened as a scream of "F****t!" echoed through the caffeteria, targeted at a tall boy with a rainbow wristband. Laughter bellowed from the corner in which the call had brutally originated from. The boy, a fresh new face to our small school, pretended not to hear what could not have been ignored. He straightened up and quietly made his escape into the hallway.
Then, Diary, three days ago, I entered the girl's bathroom to momentarily escape from the agonies of geometry and it's terrible theorems. I opened the door with a sigh of foundation-flavored air, and strolled perfectly into the tall boy I had seen yesterday. He turned as red as the first stripe on his wristlet and stuttered something about not being allowed into the boy's restroom; the others wouldn't let him. I assured him it was okay, and that I wouldn't tell anyone. He began to cry then, Diary, and I didn't know what to do. So I hugged him in a stiff fashion until he could stop. We went our seperate ways.
Two days ago was a boring and reletively unimportant day, until I saw the bathroom-incident-boy again. He had a bruise on the side of his face. I didn't talk to him, but I watched him flinch as the group who had called him out on the first day walked by. I knew.
Then yesterday, my dearest Diary, I saw. The gang of bigots called from one side of the library, saying terrible things to the tall boy. I happened to be walking past them as horrid words fell from their lips and the rainbow-wristed boy sank in his chair. I felt the hate-crime-related death of my former best friend welling up behind my forearms and I dropped my books. I did a favor to that foul-mouthed group-leader, Diary, and I closed his mouth for him.
So today, lovely Journal, the kid with the bigoted mind goes to the doctor with a torn lip and broken pride, and the boy with the rainbow wrist has no fear of bruises. I however, most wonderful Diary, am writing from home, because yesterday, as events unfolded, I was suspended.

Love and a cracked rib,
Melissa