Dear Person Who THINKS She is in Charge of MY Story,
First I thought it was an accident. Now I’m not so sure. Maybe I meant to do it (which is dumb because I didn’t even know that Mrs. B was going to be there. I didn’t know she was going to have her iPod plugged in and turned up so loud that she wouldn’t hear me coming. I mean, come on, old people don’t use iPods, do they?) so I guess it was really just an accident.
And it’s not like I killed her. If you kill someone it can’t be an accident, can it? Killing someone is permanent. You can’t undo it. You can’t fix like you can fix a broken mailbox and a fence. She didn’t even want to go inside. She just asked me to go into her house and bring out a couple of cans of soda.
But you can’t trust anyone, don’t you know that by now? And you really shouldn’t trust me because I’ll just let you down.
Dear Author Whom I Know in Her Heart Really Wants to be Working on my story,
I can’t tell you about my “thing” but maybe you should check the books on Mr. Mac’s nightstand. Under the plant books, there’s another one, a medical one. He’s got the pages bookmarked.
Kid with perpetually dirty fingernails
To anyone who reads this,
They took Max away today. They won’t tell me where. I don’t know if I will ever see him again.
I will never, ever forgive YOU for letting this happen. NEVER.
The only person who REALLY loved Max