Boys. Great. I can’t talk to boys. (Okay, I can’t talk to anyone . . . but especially not to boys.) I slow my pace, praying they’ll see me and move in the next thirty seconds.
To stall, I pretend to text Brianna on my dumb phone. (One of those old-fashioned flip phones they used, like, ten or thirty years ago. It was my mom’s. All I can do with it is make calls and send simple texts. My parents won’t let me buy a smartphone until I’m in high school—which is so annoying because I have enough money in my bank account from birthdays to get one.)
25
Emmie_txt_des5_CC15.indd 25
2/23/17 1:02 PM