Please. They're Like The Cult Of Four.

I Have Something I Need To Tell You," He Says. I Run My Fingers Along The Tendons In His Hands And Look Back At Him. "i Might Be In Love With You." He Smiles A Little. "i'm Waiting Until I'm Sure To Tell You, Though." "that's Sensible Of You," I Say, Smiling Too. "we Should Find Some Paper So You Can Make A List Or A Chart Or Something." I Feel His Laughter Against My Side, His Nose Sliding Along My Jaw, His Lips Pressing My Ear. "maybe I'm Already Sure," He Says, "and I Just Don't Want To Frighten You." I Laugh A Little. "then You Should Know Better." "fine," He Says. "then I Love You.

I Know That I'll Be Writing For Young Adults For A Long Time. Mostly Because I Just Love The Readers And The Teachers And Librarians That I Interact With.

And Then The Screaming Begins.

I Take A Deep Breath. I'm Not Sure Where That Swell Of Desperation Came From, But Know That I've Acknowledge It, It's Impossible To Ignore, Like A Living Thing Has Awakened From A Long Sleep Inside Me. It Writhes In My Stomach And Throat. I Need To Leave. I Need The Truth.

I Am Fed Up. I Am Fed Up With Tears And Weakness. But There Isn't Much I Can Do To Stop Them.