That's going to be hard to beat so I scroll through my songs for the best song ever made and I love the remake evenmore.
"This song needs no introduction," I say, hitting play on Shinedown's version ofSimpleMan.
Once she realizes what's playing, she reaches over and yanks the phone from my hand. "You broke the rules, you lose. That's not fair. That's a classic rocksong."
I try to grab my phone back from her. "How is that losing? It'srock."
"No, it's classic rock"—she lifts one eyebrow—"You know there's a difference or I would have played somethingsimilar."
"So you like classicrock?"
"Of course I do. Who would deny classics like that? Though—" She pauses, pulling her legs up to sit cross legged like she's about to spill some seriousgossip.
It's a move I've seen my sister do plenty of times and instead of turning me off, it actually makes mesmile.
"I watched a documentary on John Lennon and I must say, I'll never look at him thesame."
"John Lennon,theJohnLennon?”
"You know what's his name shot him because he said he was a hypocrite,right?"
"No, actually, I never heard that." I turn her way, lifting my leg on the couch so I'm facingher.
"Yes. You see, he sang that no one should have possessions and stuff but yet he owned expensive art pieces worth millions and lived a different life than what he preached about in his songs. But, the thing that got me most was that he had a son who he basicallydisowned."
I bring my eyes together in confusion. "Really?"
"Right? I thought the same thing. He preached about loving everyone but barely showed his own son the same love. He openly said he was the outcome of a bottle of whiskey and no birth control or something crazy likethat."
She waves her hand around in an animated fashion that makes melaugh.
"But the mom was not some random chick. I think they were actually married the first few years of his fame. So, when he died, his will only left this son some sad amount like five thousand dollars or something. Can you believethat?"
Her story surprises me, but it’s not her words as much as her passion. It's so over the top and she's excited to share herknowledge.
"Okay, well that's your Beatles trivia for the day." She repositions herself and to my surprise brings her head down to lie on my lap. Like it's second nature, I move without thinking, straightening out my leg to give her a betterheadrest.
Holding up my phone still in her hands, she scrolls through until she finds a song she likes, and we sit like that, my playlist playing on shuffle late into thenight.
9
Dear Diary,
I’m falling fast.Too fast. I wish I had someone I could talk to, but no one knows my truth except Tracy and, um, yeah, the fact that he’s her brother won’t go over too well. I wish you could talk back to me, Diary, and give me some advice. I’ve never felt so torn. One part of me is saying I should throw caution to the wind and live my dream life. I’ve loved him for years, and he’s finally noticing me. But that love is breaking my heart because I don’t want to hurt someone I love. If I keep this going, he’ll get hurt, and it will be my fault. How can I live with that? Either way, one of us will be screwed. It should be me, I know it should be me, but I want this so bad my heart aches. Please give me a sign as to what I shoulddo.
Mackenzie
Connor
When I open my eyes,I'm momentarily confused as to where I am and how I got here. Blinking, I get my bearings and realize I'm in my living room, and I slept on thecouch.
Mackenzie is asleep on my lap. Memories of last night, of our little game and the conversation that followed put an instant smile on my face. It's been years since I've talked to a female like that where nothing sexualhappened.
I can't help but focus on the woman I've known since she was ten. I basically grew up with her, yet somehow I don't see that same girl I oncedid.
I never realized how beautiful she is. Her hair is a rich, dark auburn color I know is natural, because it's always been thesame.
The longer I stare at her, the more I wonder why I didn't recognize her at the club the first night. To me, she was always that ten-year-old girl making friendship bracelets in Tracy's room or standing right next to her at every dance recital I was forced to go to. At least that's who I envisioned when I spoke to her on the phone about lawschools.
