Hi. (part three)

This probably doesn't need to be said because I'm sure no one will either read or want to steal this, but if you do want it...IT'S MINE. I SPENT FIVE DAYS WRITING THIS AND BY GOLLY, IF YOU TRY TO TAKE IT I WILL BEAT YOU.

Have a nice day. :)

--------------


The next month we were inseparable.
Not in a we’re-together way. No, we were best friends, Sandra and I. We wandered the mall together and scavenged used book stores together…and I learned more and more about her every day.
Her mother had taken off when she was three and left Sandra’s dad almost penniless. He stuck by her, though, and raised her like a loving father should. He had to work a lot, but he also spent all of his free time playing with her. They did logic puzzles and brain teasers and read together. I envied her childhood—I’d had both my parents, but they ignored me in favor of the baby or the oldest. I had to struggle to find the brain pleasers that were so few in my household of TV and garbage music growing up. At first, I didn’t tell her about it because I thought it made me sound ungrateful for my full family unit. But she eventually pulled it out of me and, by golly, she understood. That was by far the best thing about Sandra; she always understood.

Things progressed more as we slowly approached the second semester. One day we were sitting in her room, just lounging about. She was doing something to my left hand but wouldn’t let me see. Every time I tried to sneak a peek, she’d throw a fit like a toddler. So I gave up and stared at the ceiling as she worked. Ten minutes later, she proudly proclaimed: “Okay, you can look now!” Again, she reminded me of a little kid.
I lifted my hand to my face and looked at the back of it. At first I didn’t see anything, but then my attention was drawn to a red something on my thumb. Upon closer inspection, I saw it was a red heart painted in nail polish. My face flushed.
“Sandra!” I whined. “Why’d you do that? People’ll think I’m weird. What am I supposed to tell them?”
She looked at me, bottle of red nail polish still in her hand. She looked hurt. I started to apologize, but she stopped me with her hand. I was tired of that hand, but it still stopped me. Slowly, she drew my hand close to her and kissed the heart.
“Tell them it was put there by someone who loves you,” she murmured, looking down at the heart fondly.
I sat up rigidly, stunned. Then I left quite promptly.