Perfect Regret
by Julia Lin
Snowfall is the heart's kin. Sometimes, its vital
beat is a slow flurry, sometimes it is a blustery blizzard. When it descends as
fragile crystal, I sit down on a bench, completely still, to hear the
resonating echo of the twinkling bells that toll as the ice-encrusted flakes
ricochet off the concrete. I think my personal favorite, though, is when the
snow comes down in giant UFOs, those snow-pancakes that lazily flop down on
whatever terrain, forming a tight-fitting cap.
When I was a little girl, I was always the first one
outside when the flurries arrived, even before the snow had started
accumulating. I could feel the featherweights sitting on my hair before they
melted, with my hair acting like a miniature springboard when they touched down.
If you ever see me standing still in the snow, eyes closed, I am probably
trying to feel the flakes on my hair again.
I guess my connection to the snow was somewhat
intimate. I was quite a loner; I was friendly to the others, but somehow, I
knew deep in my heart that even though I had the same hairstyle and clothes as
them, and even though I spoke the same language as them, they could never
accept my heart. And so I confided in the snows.
Telling my parents I was going to go play outside in
the snow, I stole into the backyard forest to visit my special place, a small
clearing that always accumulated the most snow because no one touched it but
me. There, I would tell the snow about all my ideas since the last snowfall.
I was always thinking; I couldn't help it. Even in
the darkest hour - indeed, especially during it - a little particle of dust
would drift into my mind, and as it blew around, it would gather the clouds
about it, just as an incipient snowflake. It would grow and grow until it began
to drift down, and if I caught it, I would write it in my diary. It was
probably just about the only "girly" thing I did as a kid. I always
wrote in my diary, and I freely admit that it was pinker than a princess's
blush, with little iridescent hearts in the center.
I brought the diary with me when I travelled to my
secret hideout. I usually had at least a dozen fresh entries that I had jotted
down in the interim, but over the summer, I could easily amass hundreds. Before
you call me prolific, though, I have to tell you that some of these entries
could be dwarfed by a haiku. I was young, and I thought I was writing the
deepest and most profound of things, but now that I look back, I get a hearty
giggle seeing how I scrawled "Why am I here?" over and over again, as
if no one else had ever considered the topic.
By the time I reached third grade, I already foresaw
that I had the potential to run out of space in my diary, and the thought
filled me with fear. That's why I stopped beginning each entry on a fresh page.
I had to protect the diary at all costs!
You see, my best friend Anna had presented it to me
in first grade - my parents would never have bought me anything so
girly-looking, even if it were intended to spark my interest in my academic
pursuits. But in any case, we had made a secret pact to exchange the diary
every week until it was completely filled, and then we'd bury it as a time
capsule in the back of the elementary school, next to the blacktop where we
played four-square. We concocted all sorts of plans just like that one, but
they all came to a screeching halt when she had to move to Pennsylvania. Our
last day together, she handed the diary to me, making me pinky promise that I
would wait for her to write one last entry before we buried it. I was crying
and trembling so wretchedly that I could barely hold my pinky still for her to
intertwine it with her own.
The first time I tried to write in the diary, I
filled the page with tears that melted my pen ink into a puddle that radiated
like a wistful full moon, and I shut the book immediately. I promised myself
not to open it ever again, but a month later, I cautiously lifted a pencil and
began writing, and a soothing feeling overcame my body.
When fifth grade rolled around, I was writing in the
tiniest font I possibly could, but even so, I knew I only had a handful of
pages left, so I took a break from writing, hoping that I would find within me
the inspiration for something befitting the end of such a journal, something
that could be capped off by her entry and buried with a sense of satisfaction.
Two months later, I walked into the snow-covered
forest, and read to the trees around me:
Dear Diary ♥,
When I am grown up, will I
regret what I chose to do today? Walking to school everyday, I just wonder if I
am doing everything right. All my teachers say to just trust in myself and
follow my goals. But a lot of their dreams never came true after all. I think
most people's dreams won't come true. All those people who want to be famous
athletes or firemen or actors or Nobel prize winners, don't they know that only
a few hundred out of the millions and billions will be able to be those things?
Don't they realize that only 10% of people can ever be in the top 10% of their
class?
I know I will regret wasting
my time as a kid. This is the only time to be happy, right? Adults are all so
unhappy. And when they fall in love, they are even unhappier.
I want to be a kid forever.
I never want to have to wear a bra. I never want to have a job. I never want to
kiss a boy.
Adults are too boring. They
always listen to the same songs over and over again that they listened to when
they were teenagers. They go shopping every day but never have enough. Mommy
has to spend an hour in the morning doing her hair and putting on her makeup.
Daddy doesn't come back home til seven, when Michelle is already snoring as
loud as the fire alarm. Michelle is loud, you know.
I want to just be me, the
little explorer. I like my small place in the forest when it snows. I want my
friends to be around me forever, and never have to move.
At least now, when I'm
lonely, I can go someplace quiet and be alone and not have to do anything. And
I guess I'm always lonely after all. But the forest understands me well enough.
No one else tries to listen to what I have to say, which is why they always
hear the wrong words. The wrong words all the time. I ask, "Why is it okay
to eat a pig but not a cat?" They reply that cats are pets. I ask,
"Why do people put on makeup in the morning when they know they have to
take it off in the evening?" They answer that they have to look
presentable at work.
I think that the adults have
never been to school, because in school we already know that you should be
confident in the way you look, just the way you are. People should be judged on
their hearts, not their skin or hair. Isn't that how it is?
But the most puzzling thing
to me is why I have to be the one reminding adults about the golden rule. When
someone calls in the morning, I pick up the phone and they want Daddy. But then
Mommy and Daddy moan and groan and say they're not available. Is that how they
want their calls to be treated? But that's just how adults are. I think they're
kinda rude, but everyone likes my parents just fine.
I think they just have lower
standards. After all, kids are the ones who are angelic.
Ah, I'm getting way
off-track! But the point is, when I bury you, could I bury myself, too? So that
when I come out in the future, I'll still be ten and a half? Pretty please? I
don't want live out my life in regret ... I'm afraid of who I will become, and
how I will think of now.
Yours truly,
Julia Lin *林雪花*
"Julia," sings my little sister.
"Uh-huh?"
"Juuulia!" she repeats.
"Yeah-huh?"
"Jujujujujulia!" I can tell she's getting
closer and closer to my room because her voice crescendoes to that annoying
zenith of little-sister squawkiness.
"What dooooo you want?"
Matter of factly, she replies, "Mom wants you
to take out the trash!"
"Tell her I'll be there in a sec."
"Right now!" insists Michelle.
"I said give me a sec!" I hastily dump my
diary into the right drawer of my desk and stand up, stretching my arms out
over my head. The sun's battalion of light-spears presses hard against the
woven curtains. I draw them apart, realizing now why I had felt dazed in a
twilight while I was writing.
I bump down the plastic-sheeted stairs on my butt,
relishing the gentle massage. At the bottom of the stairs, I intercept Mom, who
is looking at me intently.
"I'm getting the trash," I report.
"Julia, go dress properly first."
I look at my dinosaur-print pajamas and raise my
eyebrow. "I'm coming right back in, Mom," I argue. "There's no
need to change right now."
Scowling, I return to my room and fling on a t-shirt
from some freshman year math competition and a pair of really worn Levis. I
have a certain attachment to old clothes, as if I never want to insult their
age by sending them to the equivalent of a senior center (the closet of
disuse). But maybe, more than that, I just like how they seem to know me so
well, stretched in exactly the right places, and so soft to the touch. Like
people, clothes change to fit who they're around. Those people who buy too many
clothes never get close to any, and you can see how stiff or awkward they look,
even when they are exquisitely dressed up. They're the ones who tell you that
it's human nature to never really change, and if you want a different kind of
friend or relationship, you just have to find someone else.
I really beg to differ - neither clothes nor people
are so rigid like that.
Just a few years back, I utterly loathed denim in
all its incarnations. I had this conception that it was so rough and unforgiving,
but my mom wanted me to stop wearing "sloppy" sweatpants and gym
clothes all the time, so she bought me this simple pair of jeans. My friends
said I looked cute in it, but I really couldn't stand wearing them. Above all,
I felt really awkward, as if I had taken a nonretractable step into conflict
with the fashion police, who ignored those who were completely out of range,
but who preyed on the cheap imitations.
But the jeans changed for me, and I did likewise.
It's a sort of transformation that takes you by surprise, and that perhaps only
happens rarely in the real world. I think I even see a glimmer of beauty when I
see photos of me wearing them, and if you know me at all, you know that I'd be
the last person on this world to openly say "I think I'm beautiful."
But alas, real people are never satisfied.
"Julia, why can't you wear your blouses and new
pants more? You really should pay attention to your appearance, since you're so
old now."
"Moooom!" I cry. "I'm not going to an
interview or going on a date! I'm going to take out the trash. Trash - dirty,
get it?"
"I'm going to take away those pants if you wear
them to school again," she says. "They're getting holes on the
knees."
I ignore her and walk over to the kitchen, where I
tie up the trash bags and dump them into the big movable canister in the
garage. I start whistling a little tune as I roll the huge plastic tub out to
the curb. I don't really whistle songs that I've heard before - I just make
these tunes up as I go. After a phrase or two, I'm already at the curb, so I
mechanically backtrack to carry out the blue recycling bin, which is chock full
of shimmering glass and plastic.
Instead of returning back
home, though, I decide that since I already changed, I might as well spend a
bit of time outside. I really need to sit down for awhile and have a good talk
with myself. Although I spend almost all my time thinking about one thing or
another, I've never bothered to devote a moment to thinking about the most
important things of all: who will I be, who will I become? I can't be at home
taking out the trash for the rest of my life. Almost everyone else knows for
sure what he or she wants to do, but I've foolishly stayed a kid all these
years, not thinking things through.
It's almost the end of Senior year. In a way, most
things are behind me. I got into MIT, went to prom (with just a friend, mind
you), took all my AP exams, decided on a career (yes, I'm Asian and I want to
be doctor. Bite me >_<). No, those are not the sorts of things I need to
worry about. I just get to wondering ...
// May 22, 2004 //
Dear Diary,
I overheard my friends
talking in Nettlebach's room the other day. I was supposed to be at an Art Club
meeting, but I had to run down to get some palettes that a teacher had
borrowed. For whatever improbable reason, I heard them talking about me. I
remember pretty well what they said, although I can't pretend like this will be
verbatim:
"Well, Julia's really
smart, but she's really incapable of saying no," said one girl.
"Yeah," agreed
another. "You can't be so eager to please in this world. You just get
trampled on - people too nice just get taken advantage of."
"Dunno, the way she
talks, it's almost like she wouldn't mind being taken advantage of. She just
wants to make everyone happy." The girl scoffed cutely.
"Well, maybe she can't
really think for herself. After all, she's always being sheltered by her
parents. I don't think she knows what this world is really like."
And on and on they went. It
really bothered me to hear all that. At first, I couldn't do anything but start
to slouch a little, beginning to doubt myself, but as they continued, their
tone of arrogance slowly got to me, and I had to leave before I gave them a
supersized piece of my mind.
What right did they have to
say that, as if I didn't know what this world is really like? I see almost
everything, more than most people see, in any case. I see so much that it puts
great stress on me. Ignorance is truly bliss; those who see no evil have no
responsibility to report it or fight it. Noticing who people are associating
with, always hearing their conversations, extrapolating small actions to peer
deeper - all this happens so naturally, so frequently. I know when people are
cheating on each other; I know when and where people go to cut drug deals; I
know where the big party this Saturday is going to be; I know who is trying to
hack into the school router. Knowing all this, what am I supposed to do?
Knowledge is poison as much as it is power.
And knowing what these
friends had to say about me was really a part of me that I could do without.
But the cut was already made, and it was bleeding freely.
No matter how hard I try to
do things right and not have to regret anything, I still end up disappointing
everyone and, above all, myself. Sometimes, I just want to escape to a place
where there is nothing to see, and no one to offend. A place where people will
honestly befriend me, and understand me. But being kind to everyone in this
world, this adult world, does nothing to make others be kind to you. People do
not even appreciate kindness anymore. Kindness is only a weakness, and as life
has proven, large breasts and a love of beer would probably do better for a
girl than sweet, undying kindness.
Come to think of it, I don't
really have any really close friends. I am an expendable person, because, by
doing favors for everyone and helping everyone, I am only a robot to them. They
think that I am kind to people in an attempt to buy friendship. But they think
that because it's the only way they can think. It's the prevailing line of
thought that even my parents subscribe to - you need connections to move
forward in life; you need friends for when you are sad. Everything is a
commodity that we bargain for with whatever chips we have on our side.
I don't belong to any of
this. I am kind because it brings happiness. I don't betray people because I
don't want to hurt them.
An alien on my own pl
Argh, Mei-Mei is calling me. Probably wants me to do some chore that she ought to be doing herself .... Oh well, I'll finish this later.
Yours truly,
Julia
I glide my feet along the forest carpet to gather
pine needles into a time-out huddle.
Once the nest is complete, you
can see the dirt paths I created radiating all around the stack, pointing
straight to where I casually sit down my bottom.
I exhale slowly, slowly enough that my cheeks puff
slightly. Then, I rest my face on my
hands, letting it sink lower and lower.
I vaguely sense my heartrate calming down, and I fall into a windy
trance.
Once upon a time, I had fabricated a massive,
intertwining set of worlds that I would explore during the summers on the
grassy fields and in the forests like this one. When there wasn’t snow, I had to amuse myself somehow.
I imagined that I lived in a small village called
Trimbusen, in a war-torn country; it was a small valley town, largely
agricultural, along the fertile Sonosan River.
Because of the war, there were hardly ever enough police, since they
were stationed elsewhere as stations, and there would be bandits, and my
friends and I would defend the town against these conniving thieves.
I was a new member to the group, but Anna and Maya
were there to make me feel welcome. We
were the only girls in the ten-member coalition, but we got along just fine
with the guys, too.
At first, I spent most of my time drawing up maps of
all the secret passages by which we could surprise-attack the looters and
assigning special powers to all the items we reclaimed so that we could use
them in future adventures. But as I
grew older, I found myself devoting more and more of my time to imagining
conversations with a friend in the group, a boy my age named Seth. Unlike Anna and Maya, Seth was totally made
up.
I guess you could call him a Prince Charming,
although I didn’t realize that my character was developing feelings for him for
at least a year. He wasn’t one of those
gentlemen who gave you roses while wearing a tuxedo. He originally liked the youngest princess of our village (not
really a princess, but a daughter of the mayor), and for her birthday, he made
her a cat out of the mud in his backyard that was said to have a natural
nourishing power that allowed things to prosper, such as the large camphor tree
that was the centerpiece of his backyard.
But the princess could only see mud, and Seth was
devastated. When he came back that
night crying, I held him tight, but I didn’t want to make him feel even worse by telling him that I loved him, but I
really did. I loved him more than just
as a character in my story. I think I
was really falling for him. My heart
quickened as if he were really nearby, as if I could really feel his tears on
my nightshirt.
Something in me screamed to me that it was all
wrong, but maybe it was just too late, or maybe no one gave me an alternative,
or maybe I just didn’t care. I wonder
if it’s the same kind of “didn’t care” as teenage smokers and drinkers who
completely ignore the consequences of their actions. I would really hope not, but still, all I could care was that for
those minutes or hours that I spent in my world, I could be truly at ease and
so happy and so blissful. Sure, there
were problems, but they were external.
Between Seth and me, nothing ever went wrong. We were an inseparable team, and he always said the right things
without even trying to do so.
And one day, he made me a clay cat, and I was
overjoyed. I didn’t care if he had
offered the same thing to the princess; I didn’t care even if it was made out
of the same clay. I just cared that it
was from him and that he thought it was magical. That was the first night that I kissed him. I was wearing a patched-up blue tunic and
peasant’s pants, but he didn’t care and said I was so beautiful anyway.
So beautiful …
His face lingers in the forefront of my memories. Even now, when I am so much older, I can
still see his outline in this forest, smiling at me. I want to run up and hug him, but I know I can’t because if I do,
I will know for sure that he doesn’t exist.
And, maybe, all I need is to let this illusion live on just a little
longer. Just one little bit longer …
~ end Chapter 5 ~
Chapter 6
The May sun wraps its fragrant rays around my
shoulders, gently nudging me onwards to school. After an entire week of on-and-off showers, it seems as if the sun
has come to stay, and I see all the students in the lots and fields lingering
just a bit longer than they normally would, perhaps considering in their minds
the sun’s invitation to take the day off and just sunbathe.
But the warning bell pushes the sun aside, and the
students rush in; I scuttle into first period, sliding efficiently onto my seat
with a horizontal glide. Something is
slightly different than usual, but I can’t quite put my finger on it at the
moment. As I pull out my notebooks, I
suddenly hear Joshua’s voice.
“Are you new here?”
I look up and realize that a desk left empty when a
student switched over to another period is now occupied by a relatively tall
girl with long, blond braided hair.
“Oh, I guess …,” she replies, turning her head
around and lowering it slightly to be on the same level as Joshua. “I actually used to live here, but it’s been
awhile since then – at least nine years.”
“Where did you just move from?”
“I lived about thirty minutes out from
Philadelphia,” the girl answers. This
comment catches my ear, and I scrutinize her face carefully.
“Um,” I half-mumble, half-cough. It doesn’t catch anyone’s attention, so I
try to go straight to the point.
“Er, excuse me,” I begin, “Which elementary school
did you go to when you lived here?”
The girl looks at me, and I see the fullness of her
eyes, which resemble little moons. “I
went to Lakeridge, why?”
“Hmm … oh, I was just asking because you look really
familiar.”
She grins a little and then turns back to Josh. I sigh and stare at my English
assignment. Instinctively, I know it’s
her, but I didn’t want to acknowledge that realization because I was sure I
would end up disappointed, seeing how much she had changed, or even worse, how
easily she forgot about the diary.
Throughout the day, I watch her, see how she
interacts with the others, and realize that she fit easily into a completely
different crowd. She still retains that
outgoing, positive demeanor, and now that I think of it, the one who changed
was probably me. I had all of a sudden
become so cautious, so conservative, so studious, while she was still so
carefree. Carefree … and true to
herself.
I sighed again … I’d probably end up spending a good
part of my day sighing. All this while
envying her, I wonder if I would ever want to return to her lifestyle. It seems so inviting, yet something holds me
back.
I finally work up the courage to inquire if she
remembered the diary at all, and I approach her at the bus stop at the close of
the day.
“Anna,” I say, not having to check her name first.
“Oh, hi!” she responds in her brisk soprano voice.
She smells faintly of perfume and burnt tobacco, a
strangely intoxicating and sultry odor that initially repulses me slightly.
“Um, I don’t know if you really remember me at all,
but I’m Julia. We used to keep a diary
together in elementary school.”
“How could I possibly forget!” she cries with a grin
that fully fills her cheeks. She lunges
forward to hug me, and I return it graciously, even though the scent irritates
my nose. “My goodness, ‘Lilia. I’m really so so sorry that I didn’t
recognize you! You’ve gotten a lot
cuter over these past years,” she says with laugh, pinching my right cheek with
her thumb and index finger.
I blush a little bit, instinctively rubbing my cheek
lightly, letting the little bit of sweat residue soften the skin.
“So,” she continues, “Do I get to write that last
entry or what?”
A promise is a promise, no matter how much time
changes the situation. “I’ll bring it
tomorrow!” I announced.
But deep down, I feel lonelier than ever before.
~ Chapter 7 ~
wuz up, diary!!!
you feeling down too, huh. well, I just moved back here.
its good to see all the people but its like no one is the same. they don’t even talk the same. i dunno what the hell i’m doing with my
life. Ruth’s begging me to go crash at
Ben’s with her next Sat, but I don’t want to have a fscking hangover on my
mom’s b-day, you know what I mean? any
day but that one. we never doing
anything for mom and she’s always so crabby but silent about it.
but Ruth’s the only one i’ve been keeping up with,
and she’s going to be so pissed if i outright diss her in front of
everyone. i don’t wanna be a freaking
outcast all over again. it feels like
shit knowing no one cares about you.
oh enough of that depressing stuff. there’s this really cute guy in my english
class named Josh. he’s got the greatest
nose and dude he’s so ripped he could probably grab down the moon for me if i
asked for it. whenever i …
xoxo,
Anna
~ Chapter 8 ~
The Saturday breeze is almost titillating, and I
feel the lightest of fizzing desires bubble gently within me. The diary is safely tucked under a blanket
of Earthen dust, and the new day brings new things to worry about. After all, today is the meeting for all the
new MIT students in my region. The
whole event reminds me of those pilot episodes of TV reality shows when you are
suddenly introduced to a random sampling of people who you will have to live
with for the rest of the year.
I hope that I can find at least one friend among the
crowd, but I know I am not very adept at making friends at all. I guess, my greatest fear is that they will
all clump among each other as they always do, and I will assume that they’re
all already friends, when in fact they probably are all meeting each other for
the first time, too.
I put on a slightly frilly, sleeved top and a deep
blue denim skirt, which will probably be just dressy enough to pass my mother’s
inspection. After washing my hands
(after doing some requisite business …), I pause briefly in front of the
mirror, recalling Anna’s comment from the other day. I shake my head, deciding she was probably just humoring me.
An hour later, we arrive at the host’s clubhouse,
the barometer rapidly dropping as the wings of rain’s eagle swoop over the
landscape. I glide out of the car and
admire the rows of May flowers along the sidewalk.
There is so much talk of jobs and futures and
résumés that I begin to wonder just what I can hope to find in my life. Will there ever be a chance to be a child
again? To talk to the snowy forests
again?
I know that becoming a doctor can truly fulfill all
my dreams, and yet I fear that it would be no different if I became a janitor
or a bus driver. For isn’t it all for
money? Wouldn’t I depend on people
becoming sick for my livelihood?
That is why I realize, in this spring hour, that
none of this adult business could ever fill that one void. Specialization is inadaptable, and
capitalism is an addiction.
Except.
Except that one thing that can bridge all people,
all countries – the only investment where you can lose money and end up happy –
the reason why I can become a healer who strives to heal all, forever. If I can find it, searching through this
world, then maybe I can rid myself of his clawing ache that withers my heart.
~ End Chapter 8 ~
~ Chapter 9 ~
“Seth!” I cried.
“Seth, you have to wake up.” I
gave him an urgent shove.
He rolled half a turn before opening his eyes, straw
dangling down from his hair.
“There were a few of them spotted over near Kassa
Valley. I think they’re after the
farms.”
Seth sprang into action, grabbing my wrist as we
charged out the door into the brilliant night.
The roads were dim, but the lightly glowing grains lit our path as we
raced down the dirt paths.
“Over there!” announced Seth, under his breath, “I
see one of their horses, so they probably dismounted nearby.”
I nodded and we ducked into the crops together,
where he finally let go of my wrist.
“Sorry, Julia,” he said. I swatted him playfully on the head for nearly choking off my
blood supply with his firm, loving grasp.
I heard rustling at two o’clock and responded by
drawing my knife out of its sheath.
There seemed to be just three of them, judging from their sounds.
All of a sudden, I heard a loud rip in the crops,
and one of the bandits tackled me. I
quickly slashed him on the side before he could pin down my arms, and he
“yarrgh”ed before letting up just enough for me to plant a juicy kick in the
groin.
He crouched in anger, an aura growing out of him;
his partner leapt on his back, and the two melded into an enormous ogre,
wielding a large slingshot. I dodged
the first rock, but the second one knocked the wind out of me, and I crumpled
into the dirt.
Seth and I had never seen bandits of this kind
before, so we tried to improvise. I
gestured at a grain branch and made a small dusting gesture with its tip
gracing my stomach. Seth nodded from
the other side of the ogre.
I yanked off a large stalk from a particularly tall
grain plant, hoping that the damage to the crop would be minimal. When Seth signaled “three” with his fingers,
we jumped in and rolled to the side of the arches of the ogre’s foot, waving
the silky grain-heads onto the bottom of the feet before the ogre could try to
stomp us.
Although its feet were certainly calloused, one
never really develops thick skin on the parts of the feet that never touch the
ground. And thus, we successfully
tickled the ogre until he began to wobble.
Seth’s eyes widened in fear, and then everything happened so quickly
that I could hardly catch up with time.
All I know is that a large shadow crashed over me,
but something warm and vaguely fragrant was over me the time I felt a
gratuitous plop.
I opened my eyes after a minute, breathing deeply.
“Seth, are you okay?”
He nodded.
“Um, J-Julia, would you like a cookie?”
~ End Chapter 9 ~
~ Chapter 10 ~
“Um, J-Julia, would you like a cookie?”
I blink my eyes a few times and see a boy standing
in front of me, staring quizzically.
“Er, sure?” I say, pulling my hands out of my
pockets.
“You looked a little spaced out there,” he comments,
reaching out to grab an M&M cookie from the dessert table.
I look at the cookie and realize that it has three
blue candies on it. “Ah, did you just
pick that one up randomly?”
“Well …,” he says.
“Actually … I picked the one with the most blue M&Ms.”
I laugh and tell him that the blue ones are my
favorite as well, and thank him for letting me have that lucky cookie.
“So, daydreaming or something?” he asks as we sit
down on some lawn chairs lined up outside.
“Something like that,” I say, contemplating whether
the ogre had fallen unconscious or not after its great fall, and also wondering
if Seth