Book 3: The Definition of Insanity

Hollis

I’m a moron. Worse than that, I’m insane. That’s what Mother said when she found out I’d stuck my tongue to the frozen pole outside of the kitchen three times in a week and basically skinned the damn thing every time. But every time, I thought it would be like in a story Eva and I read, where it tasted exactly like peppermint. Creeping through the maze of tents in the dead of night, holding the jewelry box inside my pocket, feels like walking out to that pole the fourth time. Like knowing it’s going to hurt bad enough that I can’t possibly justify it–and doing it anyway.

Paper crinkles in my pocket. I know I’m going to have to explain this, somehow, but I couldn’t sit in the tent with a sleeping Eva and write a note to Candace. So I guess I’m going to do that crouched outside of her tent like a monster in the night.

I am a moron.

At least my tossing and turning kept me awake long enough that everyone else is asleep. I don’t have to wor