Mateo walked past a table of kids at school. They snickered at his shoes. "Clumsy Mateo!" they called.
He dropped his lunchbox and hurried home. That night, he pulled out his blue notebook and wrote: Nobody says hi to me.
He drew a rain cloud over a stick figure. He taped a crumpled crayon piece underneath it. Every day, he added more.
His floor was covered in crumpled paper. His notebook grew heavier with every page he filled.
In front of the mirror, Mateo practiced. "Stop it!" he said. His reflection stuck out its tongue. He stomped. His reflection stomped back. He laughed.
His sister knocked and asked to see his blue notebook. He hesitated, then handed it to her. She read one entry out loud and said, "What if you read it to them?"
Mateo looked at the page, then at his sister. He nodded slowly.
The next morning, Mateo stood near the swings and read his diary entry out loud. The kids stopped talking and looked at him.
One kid kicked at the dirt. "That's... actually kind of cool," she said.
Mateo walked toward the playground door. His blue notebook was in his pocket.
