Trust - ?
My smile is crumbling.
Falling piece-by-piece into the abyss, into a realm of non-existence.
Like a mushed cookie in the hands of a one-year old.
Stupid, very stupid! Chants Melinda Two, the bunny-rabbit me who eats all her vegetables, never sleeps in the dark, and, during brief moments of irrational insanity, attempts to "make nice" with Mr. Neck – she's mad at me.
You shouldn't have let him kiss you. Touching is bad. We hate being touched.
Leave her alone, and just be happy we're allowed to have fun now – remember how life was before? Home – school. School — home. BOR–ING! Melinda One decides to show, giving me a hard mental pat on the back, doing cartwheels in my brain, and twirling around like a Disney princess.
The thought of spinning makes me sick, catching all the pretty-winged butterflies in an industrial-strength net, and hauling them off somewhere.
The two Melindas are too busy fighting to get them back.
Stupid Melinda! Bad, bad Mel! Melinda Two carries a rolled-up newspaper, while Melinda One gives me a thumbs-up, and tackles the over to the ground like a pumped-up football player. Her eyes are almost red.
Question One: Is there an asylum somewhere that serves decent meals?
Question Two: If not, is it too early to join a convent?
Mel Two loosens her head-lock on poor, blue-cheeked Mel One and glares at me.
I had just taken notice of the that David, my future-surgeon friend, had gotten his braces off the summer before last year, and, true to my ninth-grade beliefs, he was pretty cute.