AUGUST 19

Dad,

Millie showed up for volleyball today. I ignored her, which was difficult since I was always glancing over to see if she was ignoring me. The whole time Julie kept making her usual snide remarks, not to Millie’s face, but loud enough so everyone could hear.

“Oops! Someone really botched that last serve!”

“It helps to be awake when you play volleyball.”

“What team is she on, ours or theirs?”

Julie made me so mad, but Millie made me madder. Why doesn’t she defend herself?

After the game, Wendy and I headed out. I couldn’t bear to look at Millicent as we left.

“Why did you stop hanging around with her?” Wendy asked. She was sipping her ever-present water bottle. Wendy says that drinking water all day tricks your stomach into thinking you’re full.

“Oh, I don’t know. It just wasn’t, you know. We just didn’t, I don’t know.”

“Is it that genius thing I told you about?” asked Wendy. “I’ve heard that she’s really weird. Is she really weird? She seems nice, but definitely different.”

“She’s not weird! She’s … quirky.”

“Let’s go this way,” Wendy said, pulling my arm.

As we walked through the park, I could hear children playing. One little girl was stuck on the top of the slide. Below her, the other kids were yelling at her to come down, but she kept shaking her head as she gripped the rails.

“Look!” Wendy said reverently. “They’re here.”

Through the parted trees, I could see why Wendy was gawking. There on the basketball court was a group of five incredibly good-looking boys. I was riveted by the sight of them, and one in particular.

Stanford snuck the ball away from a red-headed boy. Then he leaped up like he was flying through the sky and made a basket. Three of the boys high-fived Stanford. One stood off to the side. I just stared.

“Those are the Roadrunners.” Wendy whispered even though no one was near us. “The most popular boys in the whole school.”

“Really?” I choked.

“You know Stanford Wong, don’t you? We’ve all seen you talk to him after volleyball. He’s the leader of the group. Couldn’t you just die thinking about him?”

I was dying as Wendy spoke.

“Stanford is going to be on the A-Team when school starts. It’s, like, historic. No seventh-grader has ever played basketball on the A-Team. Usually it’s only eighth-graders. He’s that good — and sooooo cute too. Well, I’m sure you already know that. How do you know him?”

“His family’s friends with Millicent’s family,” I mumbled.

“Oh! That makes sense. Anyway, see the tall Roadrunner? His name is Stretch. He’s the one we both saw that day in the grocery store, remember?”

How could I forget? The movie-star boy was right in front of me. The one who handed me the Doritos.

“He’s the strong silent type,” Wendy was saying. “And I do mean that. It’s said he hasn’t talked for two years because his vocal cords got damaged when he saved toddler triplets from drowning. But who cares if he can talk or not? Just look at him, isn’t he the dreamiest guy you’ve ever seen?”

Second dreamiest.

“Over there,” Wendy went on, “the boy with all the really curly, dark brown hair, that’s Gus. He gets in lots of trouble for all the pranks he plays — he once released white mice into the girls’ locker room. But he’s super-funny and can make anyone laugh — even the teachers can’t stay mad at him. And the little guy, that’s Tico. He’s really nice and friendly. All the girls love Tico.”

“What about that boy over there?” I pointed to the one with red hair. He had a scowl on his face.

“That’s Digger Ronster. His dad owns Ronster’s Monster RV World.”

“The one with the commercials on television?”

“Yep, that’s him. The Ronsters are really rich, and Digger likes to remind people about that. Digger’s sort of scary. No one wants to get on his bad side.”

We hid behind the trees and watched the Roadrunners play basketball. Sometimes Stanford made spectacular shots, other times he played just like the rest of the guys. Only, to me, he would never be just like anyone else. I miss Stanford. I miss you, too. How pathetic is it to miss people who don’t even care you exist?

Emily

P.S. I’m still writing this to you because I’m still holding out a teeny-tiny sliver of hope that I misinterpreted the phone call. So if that’s the case, then just ignore all the bad stuff I’ve written.

Oh! And I bought you another pen. This one’s even better than the other ones. It’s called a Montblanc, and Mr. Miller of Stahl Miller guaranteed me that whoever owns one of these will never want to stop writing.