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.


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