For the second time that night, I threw my phone with indifference to the side before reaching for my Macbeth book from underneath the bed to study. On a Friday night. I was such a dork. But hey, I'd rather get some work done instead of secretly indulge in my guilty pleasure, that of writing love poetry. Sssh! (No one knew that!) Er—except my grandmother, who had frowned about my interest in such a “sissy subject.” Emily Boyle was also aware of my hobby—she had gone through my notebook last year in Biology when I was doing a presentation and had taken it upon herself to quote some of my writing behind me in the lunch line or at our lockers. She had only stopped after she used one of my couplets to get a date with Connor. I had noticed she had become significantly nicer to me after that.
M
