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21: Hey mom
Did you read it?
I stare at the note in my hands until the words blur, my teeth sink into my lips, I lean on the shelf and sigh. Yesterday when I came to return the letter, my note was untouched. But today, there is a reply. I shake my head like Let—I have decided to call the owner of the letter that—can see me. I didn’t read it. I only caught a glimpse of the first line and chose not to. But right now, I am curious. Is it someone I know?
The handwriting is strange, maybe like me, the person has handwriting for different occasions. Tearing out a note from my jotter, I write out one word on it: No. Curiosity niggles me, I want to know what is in the letter, I need to know. I squash the paper and tear out another piece to put up a new response. A lie.
Yes. Sorry.
Before my conscience weighs in on me, I shove the note into the novel, run out of the library and drive out of the school like a cast of Fast and Furious. I don’t stop to think until I am
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