The Writer Calls on a Friend
Well…there isn’t much to say.
He kept a lot from me.
It hurt me. As it always does. I feel like I’m back in high school.
I can just see it – there goes “Flame Head”, or “look, it’s the girl with the funny accent.”
But “she wears contacts” just takes the cake in my book.
I mean, I’ve never had any close friends, other than Emma – who was particularly swamped this week – and in the same manner swamped my cellphone with messages of : “I’m sorry!”
She’s the only one who actually stuck with me through thick and thin.
Emma always was there – when mama passed away, when Scooter had his first birthday.
She’s like the sister I’ve never had.
I wonder if she’d spare a moment or two for me.
I mean, the whole ‘girl talk’ scene is set up.
I’m in my bed upstairs, writing in my journal, phone on the nightstand.
Now I know why Raine was glad that Mrs. McCarthy didn’t own a television.
Heck, it explains a lot.
I put my pencil down, and picked up the phone, punching in Emma’s number.