Evie Replied With An Eye-roll. “do You

Harold Brodie Is A Louse And A Lothario Who Cheats At Cards And Has A Different Girl In His Rumble Seat Every Week. That Coupe Of His Is Pos-i-tute-ly A Petting Palace. And He’s A Terrible Kisser To Boot.” Evie’s Parents Stared In Stunned Silence. “or So I’ve Heard.

Evie Wanted To Cry. From Fear. From Exhaustion, Yes. But Mostly From The Cruel Uselessness, The Damned Stupid Arbitrariness Of It All.

She Was Too Much—for Zenith, Ohio. She’d Tried At Times To Make Herself Smaller, To Fit Neatly Into The Ordered Lines Of Expectation. But Somehow, She Always Managed To Say Or Do Something Outrageous—she’d Accept A Dare To Climb A Flagpole, Or Make A Slightly Risqué Joke, Or Go Riding In Cars With Boys—and Suddenly She Was “that Awful O’neill Girl” All Over Again.

I Knew It. You’re An Alien,” Said Her Former Best Friend, The Pale, Bespectacled Creature With The Spectacular Cleavage. “yes, I’m An Alien And I Still Made Cheerleader. And Now I’m Going To Steal Your Boyfriend To Prove Girls Can’t Really Be Friends.” “i Sat Back Timidly When You Torched My House, Killed My Parents, And Ate My Dog. But Now You’re Stealing My Boyfriend? That’s A Step Too Far!

The Mere Suggestion Of Fame And Fortune Casts A Glamour All Its Own. It Is Rather Alarming How Quickly People Will Turn Someone Else's Fiction Into Fact In Order To Support Their Own Fictions Of Themselves.