My Almost Epic Summer by Adele Griffin Page A

redundant,” I tell her, but I squeeze her hand back.

Two Postings
     
     
     
    From: [email protected]
    Teeny Ireeny where are ye? I hope you’re OK! You’re not mad at me right ? Have you forgotten all about your bestest pal?
    OK nuff about you, on to moi. . . . Soooo it was hasta la pasta to Oh My Ganzi yesterday and now I’m totally loving Walt Waterman. Don’t get me started on the name since his mom and dad must have been sucking on helium balloons the day they thought it up but lucky for him he is so awesome he transcends it. I’m not kidding. We had a barbecue last night and let’s just say me and Walt also got hot and smokin’ .
    More on my love life as it happens . . .
    As for other news: Big Mystery Hits Star Point Camp! Someone’s been planting dead mice in the girls’ sports bags. I am totally freaked but everyone agrees this joker’s an improvement on last year’s gift-giver known by all as the Crapping Bandit. Mia Whitbottom got moused 2wice so everyone suspects it’s this kid Jay Crane who used to go out with her till she dropped him for Vasilii Gubin who’s ranked #19 on the pro circuit.
    OK now back to you—you haven’t w/b since you were thinking about the babysitting job. Did you take my advice and chunk it? What are you up to? Living in a tree in your backyard eating raw lentils and protesting globalization or some other Ireney thing you’ve been reading up on is my bet. Britta wrote she hadn’t heard from you either. I got another postcard—she’s still in major love with Ernesto the parking attendant at her Dad’s condo who a) doesn’t speak a word of English b) won’t give her the time of day and c) is like ten years older so what is she even thinking?
    Anyhow, drop me a line and tell me how’s it going.
    t.t.f.n. (stands for ta-ta for now—how my roommate Grace signs off—so cute!)
    Witty
     
    The voice of e-mail Witty doesn’t remind me of real Whitney. E-mail Whit sounds relaxed and happy. Real Whit is a diehard tennis fiend who is sometimes too quick to tell you about the vast importance of the warm-up stretch or the saturated-fat content of a granola bar. Ever since we became best friends in fifth grade, we’ve had the same straight-aim focus on our L.A.N.J.—Life After New Jersey. And a shared sense of suffering counts for a lot. But these days, Whit doesn’t sound like she’s suffering at all. For that matter, neither does Britta, whose last postcard reported that her obsession with Ernesto the parking guy left her almost no time to write. I’ve always comfortably counted on Britta being the least sophisticated of the three of us. But what if, come September, I become the odd one out? What if Whit and Britta decide I’m cramping their style? And, worse, what if they’re right?
    My fingers hover over the keyboard, but I’m not sure what to e-mail Whitney—mostly because there’s nothing noteworthy happening to me.
    It’s like a galaxy separates us, and the name of that galaxy is called Whitney’s Fun Summer.
    After another minute, I move on to Starla’s blog.
    STARLAMALLOY’S JOURNAL
    Payback can be so Sweet. Today I was feeling the Need to get back at D. This Need is Never far from my Mind. But risking Captchure I knew I had to be Crafty and Underhanded, right? Without giving up the Detales let me just say—my Plan worked!!!!!!!!!!
    This is not a Lie. I have Proof.
    Who Ever is reading this, or even if U R not, U R the Secret Keeper!
    You Are the Witness!
    I reel back in my chair, stunned. She’s talking about Me. I am Who Ever. I am the Secret Keeper and the Witness, of course, because Starla showed the bag of stolen stuff to me. This must have been the only reason Starla dragged me over to Shady Shack in the first place. So that she’d have her “Proof.” Here I’d thought Starla was just trying to be friendly, but all along I was just a cog in the wheel of her Humbert-y obsession.
    Why would someone like Starla want to chase after