“What do I do with it?”
My heart did a little tap-dance. The cover was worn, the corners softened like they’d been chewed by a golden retriever, and the spine had those beautiful white crease lines that meant someone had read it a dozen times. Someone had loved this book. dork diaries used books
It was a drizzly Saturday afternoon, the kind that turns your hair into a frizzball and your mood into a soggy paper towel. My mom had dropped me and my BFF, Zoey, off at “Second Look Books,” a massive, cramped used bookstore downtown that looked like it had been built by stacking old cottages on top of each other. The owner, Mr. Pumble, had a white beard and wore cardigans with elbow patches, and he didn't care if you sat in the aisles for three hours as long as you didn't bend the spines. “What do I do with it
“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)” It was a drizzly Saturday afternoon, the kind
Zoey found me ten minutes later, holding a stack of books two feet high. “Nikki? You okay? You look like you just saw a ghost wearing a glitter beret.”