DEAR DIARY,
Who will be my number one guy?
Who will be first to take me high?
Who will be first to say good-bye?
Who will be the first—the first to die?
Diary, sometimes I get so hungry.
Nachos just won’t do the trick. You know what I mean. You know better than anyone.
The guys were so welcoming. The girls, too. My new friends. I like being one of them, one of a gang, one of a group. It’s something I’ve always wanted, even though I have to work so hard to be normal like them. I have to rein myself in, put on a face, be someone else.
And they accepted me right away.
Ha. They don’t know my game. They don’t know so much that I know. Of course, I wish it were different. Of course, I wish . . .
I don’t know what to write, Diary. I sat there with them in that comedy club, and I didn’t feel like laughing. That was the last thing on my mind.
Winks and Zane and Liam. They were all overcome. Drooling like puppy dogs with their tongues hanging out. They were so obvious, so uncool. Like they didn’t care what they looked like, how eager they were to impress.
When you’re squeezed around a little table, all squeezed together, I have so much trouble keeping it together. Because I can hear the nectar flowing. I can hear the blood pulsing through their veins. And the sound starts a deep craving that is impossible to hold down.
But I have to be careful, Diary. I can’t let my frustration show. I can’t let anyone see my hunger.
Winks . . . Liam . . . Zane. I want to taste them all. And I will.
But, as it read on that old pillow in my mother’s bedroom, “Patience is a virtue.”
