You couldn't unburn the books. You could only buy new ones.

In history, she wasn't there while we reenacted the Lincoln-Douglas Debate, and Mr. Lee tried to make me argue the Pro-Slavery side, most likely as punishment for some future liberally minded paper I was bound to write.

Sunday night, I reread The Catcher in the Rye until I felt tired enough to fall asleep. Only I never got tired enough. And I couldn't read, because reading didn't feel the same.

Got it. Demon. Death. Doom.

Because life goes on, L. The birds do their thing, and the bees do theirs. Seeds get scattered, and everything grows back.

You're so full of crap, you could pass for a toilet.

Just as I lay back, she sat up. I sat up, and she flopped back down. Awkward. That was my every move when it came to her. Now we were both lying down, staring up at the blue sky.