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Peter Rubin, an overweight tenth-grader, starts a journal to write down his thoughts. Through his very personal and lifelike entries the reader gathers an understanding of his life. But something is wrong. Many of the entries are written on (“PETER RUBIN IS A LOSER!” “FATASS!” “JELLY ROLLS!”), some of them are ripped, there are even horrible pictures scrawled over his most private thoughts.

Will the beautiful new girl at school who sits in front of him think he’s a loser, too? Will Tommy Boots and John, his only two friends, stand by his side? And will the horrible teens who he calls “The Clan,” a group that has dedicated its time to making Peter’s life a living hell, get what they deserve?

The Journal of Peter Rubin can be viewed as an exciting and emotional work of fiction, or it can be viewed as an in-depth psychological study on how teens who are bullied react, consider suicide, and try to survive the horrible abuse they endure everyday at school.

Educators and schools will receive discounts on bulk orders of paperback copies. Please contact for more information.

Chapter 1

June 14th

“Kick him again, Steve!”

Their voices echo in my head. 

“Hold him still, moron!” 

“I’m trying, but he’s too damn fat!” 

Their words nearly drive me insane.

“There, I got him! Do it again! Hurry!” 

Nothing ever changes. This is the routine of my life.

“How do you like that, fatass? Right in your jelly rolls!” 

A routine that has repeated itself as far back as I can remember . . .

It’s been six hours since the fight and my body still aches. My skin has taken on the bluish-purple tinge of a plum, swelling, making me look fatter than ever. At first moving was a painful task, but when you have endured as much as I have you get used to certain things. Like how you sometimes pee out blood if you get kicked in the kidney too hard. As a note, I try to cover up that part of me as best I can. Yet sometimes a kick or a punch finds its way through. 

I keep telling myself I’ll do a better job of protecting myself next time. 

That’s the sad thing about all this: there will be a next time.

It never stops . . .  


June 17th 

It’s me again. After going back and reading my first entry I realize that I was a little negative. Under the circumstances, I guess that can be forgiven. Let me apologize and start this one the way the first should have.

I had thought that when I changed schools—middle to high—my reputation would change as well. It didn’t. And neither did the group of kids who decided to devote their time to making my life a living nightmare. 

Since this is a journal, let me explain what I look like. I’m overweight, short for my age, and have a pasty complexion. There, I said it. There’s no point masking the truth any longer. The only good thing I have going for me is that I don’t wear glasses—at least they can’t get me on that. 

My mom mentioned once that it was a good idea to write down your thoughts and feelings. She does it herself because she and Dad are going through a tough time, and it seems to be helping. Seeing as how I’m not really that vocal, nor do I wish to share my thoughts with anyone other than myself, I’ve decided to give it a whirl. Who knows, maybe I can look back on this years from now and laugh.

I’m in 9th grade, by the way, and I live at home with my parents. I would like to say that they’re happily married, but that would be a lie. 

I guess I would have to describe my mom as the type of person who sort of understands me. She means well—she really does—but there’s a generation gap. Things aren’t like they were back when she was my age, and she just can't seem to understand that. She works for an investment banking company called Andre Fathoms Associates and leaves for work at five in the morning. She comes home eight at night. That’s basically her life: travel to and from work, come home, eat, say hello to me and my dad, and then go to bed.

Not what I would call a cheerful existence. 

My dad’s is no better. He’s an analyst for C.V.C. Innovations. He rides the train with my mom and has a similar work schedule, working Saturday as well. He’s short and overweight, like me. As far as compatibility, there really is none. The only thing my dad likes to do is fish. Despite the fact that I hate fishing, I do it every chance I get just to spend time with him. It sucks. I’d do anything just to spend more time with him, but he never seems to have any. The only time I really get to see him and my mom is at dinner—a punctual hour between eight and nine during which they ask about school. There’s no way I would ever tell them what really happens, so I feed them the answers they want to hear. Because of that, they believe I’m well-rounded, popular, and haven’t a care in the world.

God, how I wish that were true.