Harriet is insecure.

She scribbled angrily on the lined paper, her face scrunched up intensely. This letter would get to him. It had to. Then he'd see.

"HEY JERKFACE!

You shouldn't talk about girls you don't know. A lot of the more insecure ones (myself included, thank you very much) just like to be labels like that because it makes us feel safe. And preppy or scene just happen to be the safest. That rocker girl you want? She needs freaking confidence. Confidence some of us don't have. Just look at your real beloved rocker girl. The one that gets paid to do it. SHE has confidence. The majority of us? Not so much. And you know what, asshole? That isn't our fault at all. Our minds are just wired that way. We're scared of being rejected and being told we're stupid, so we find labels that people seem okay with and we stick with them. So DON'T talk about how more girls should be unique. It's freaking HARD, alright?

Hope you've gotten the message.

Love,
Harriet"

She looked at the note a long moment after she was done writing it. She reread it several times. Then she broke down crying, crumpling the note in her fist. It was hard. Harder than he would ever know. He was so confident. Of course he didn't get it.

She tore the note apart and threw it away. A confident rocker girl would've told him how much it pissed her off that he'd said that. A rocker girl would've made sure he knew that that could hurt. But she wasn't a rocker girl. And that's why she knew it hurt. She collapsed on her desk, just staying there.

It just hurt so bad.