This is just an idea I've had. I wanted to see if I could write an OC story without creating a Mary Sue. You can decide on how sucessful I was in this endeavor. Anyway, I hope you enjoy the story.
To You, Love Emily
The best thing about imaginary friends? They can't judge you. That's why I'm writing in this notepad/diary/journal/whatever you want to call it. Then again, I guess you can't call it anything because you're just paper. If there is a You, then you only found this by rummaging around in my stuff(Matilda, I'm looking at you! Get out of my bag. Now.). That, or you live on the other side of the blue-bricked wall between fantasy and reality, along with faeries and dragons and other people's imaginary friends.
"What are you writing?" my sister asked me five minutes ago over the spluttering of the car engine, peering over her glasses at my notepad with a raised eyebrow. "Tell me you're not going to write out any of those dumb twu wuv quotes." The words "true love" were accompanied by a high, whining tone and a pair of green eyes swivelling in their sockets. "You know the thing about Romeo and Juliet is that they die at the end".
Feeling my cheeks go red- redder than usual- I shook my head.
"No, Mattie," I mumbled.
"No, Mattie," I promised, a little louder this time. My sister grunted, appeased, then stuck her headphones back in. Pointlessly, by the way- seriously, I think she must be the only person in the world who listens to Beethoven on full blast. But I shouldn't be complaining. Her life's been uprooted thanks to me. Well, technically she got expelled on her own, but it was over me... I don't want to talk about that. I'd rather get that out of my head, or at least throw it in a secret compartment in my brain and leave it to disintegrate.
So. I guess I'm going to be writing to you a lot, now I haven't got any friends. Just in case Jane decides to read this, I should probably say that this is just until I get some friends at my new school: Bullworth Academy. I don't need this little, pink notepad. I don't. It's just to get rid of brainfrizz- stuff I can't tell Jane or Aunt Deirdre.
Maybe I should think of a better name than You. I was thinking of naming you Charlotte, like my mother, but she doesn't like her name. She doesn't even like "Charlie" or "Lotte"(which I personally think is kind of cute). It'd be a compliment to you, definitely. Mom's gorgeous. You'd never think she was in her forties. And really clever. Smarter than me, though that's not saying much. That said, I don't think I want to talk to Mom about... It's so... What would I say to her? "Hey, Mom, sorry about the "slut" thing! Hug and make up?"
Anne Frank called her diary "Kitty", but I have a feeling that's not a good idea considering all the cats Aunt Deirdre keeps. If she sees me writing "Dear Kitty", she'll think I'm out of my head. Still, it was nice of her to get us a placement in Bullworth. Most places aren't willing to accept people who've been expelled.
Some variation on my name, maybe? Emilia? Emilie? That'd be fitting, I guess, since I'm sort of talking to myself by writing to a notepad like it's a penpal. I suppose I could say that you're a penpal, but where would I post the letter to? Could I give you a boy's name? Oh for the love of coconuts, what am I saying? You're a notepad, you don't have a sex. Gender.
The car's only ten minutes away from Bullworth now, so I'd better put this away. I'll pick a name for you when I'm unpacked. Or I could always just stick with You. Then again, maybe I'm better off not writing any name at all- if I get attatched to my imaginary friend then I'll be totally screwed.