So I did something else.
But three days later, a new book appeared in my locker. Tales from a Not-So-Popular Party Girl . Used. Worn. And inside the front cover, in sparkly purple gel pen:
“This book belongs to Nikki Maxwell. If lost, return to the art room. Bring cupcakes.”
“Mackenzie—everyone cries in the bathroom sometimes. If you ever want to not cry alone, you know where the art room is. —Nikki (locker 237)” dork diaries used books
Next to the scene where Nikki’s mom comforts her, Mackenzie had written: “My mom is always on a cruise. With her new husband. #whatever”
I showed her the book.
“I wish I had a friend like Zoey. Or maybe just one friend at all.” So I did something else
“Thank you. —M.H.”
The smell hit me first—a dusty, sweet, sun-baked vanilla scent that no e-reader or brand-new hardcover could ever replicate. It was the smell of a thousand forgotten stories, and I was hunting for just one.
I almost dropped it. Mackenzie Hollister? As in, my arch-nemesis, the queen of mean, the CCP (Crusty Cookie Princess) of Westchester Country Day? The same Mackenzie who had once “accidentally” spilled orange soda on my art portfolio? If lost, return to the art room
Inside the front cover, in sparkly purple gel pen, someone had written:
We split up. Zoey took the “Young Readers” section near the front, which was really just three shelves of Goosebumps and old Baby-Sitters Club books. I headed for the labyrinth in the back, where the shelves leaned like tired grandparents and the categories made no sense. “Fiction” bled into “Self-Help” which bled into “Cookbooks from 1987.”
I pulled it out reverently. Price: $1.25.
And at the very end, on the last page, next to “The End,” she had written in faint pencil, as if she’d been trying to hide it even from herself:
The next Monday, I slipped the book into Mackenzie’s locker through the vent slats (long story involving a hall pass and a very confused janitor). I didn’t expect a reply. I didn’t expect anything.