Page 101 of Guy's Girl
It’s only then that she sees the expression on Heather’s face: shock, verging on horror. Ginny glances down at the page to which the journal is open. It’s dated several weeks prior, when she was still in the thick of things back in Szentendre. Ginny stiffens. She can only imagine what her sister was just reading.
“Ginny,” she whispers.
Ginny turns around, snapping the journal shut.
“You never said things were that bad.”
“Yeah, well.” She walks over to her backpack and stuffs the journal inside. “It’s not really something you go around advertising, is it?”
Heather doesn’t respond, and Ginny busies herself with rearranging books that don’t need rearranging. After a moment, Heather walks over and lays a hand over Ginny’s, stilling it.
“Gin,” she says. “What happened with Adrian?”
Ginny blinks rapidly several times.
“Gin?”
“I—” Her voice is barely a whisper. “He saved my life.”
“What?”
“He saved my life.” She looks over at her sister. Tears start to well at the corners of her eyes. “I love him. And... and he doesn’t love me back.”
“Oh, Ginny.” Heather wraps her arms around Ginny and pulls her into a hug. Her arms are slim and delicate. Her hair smells familiar, the same perfume she’s worn since she was sixteen. Ginny doesn’t hug her back, just leans into the embrace, letting her face fall onto her sister’s shoulder. “He’s a fool.”
“You’re required to say that,” Ginny says into her collarbone.
“Maybe. But that doesn’t make it untrue.”
Ginny hiccups.
“But, hey—you know the good news?”
“What’s that?”
“I’ve figured out your next career.”
“What?” Ginny lifts her head and squints. “What do you mean?”
Heather reaches into Ginny’s backpack and pulls out the notebook. She shakes it back and forth. “You’re going to be a writer.”
“That’s ridiculous.” Ginny reaches for the journal, but Heather moves it behind her back. “Those are just ramblings.”
“They’re ramblings with avoice. I’m serious. I could hear you talking through those pages.”
“Having a voice doesn’t qualify you to write.”
“I disagree.”
“Well, you can disagree with whatever you want. It doesn’t make you correct.”
“Ginny.” Heather lays her fists on her hips, the notebook dangling from one side. “Do you remember the journal that you carried with you everywhere when we were growing up? The ugly purple thing with the fuzzy cover?”
“It wasturquoise.” Ginny snatches the journal out of her sister’s fist. “And there wasn’t just one. There were, like, twenty.”
“That’s what I mean. Every memory I have of you from that age, your nose is in some kind of notebook. And every time I tried to ask what you were writing, you told me that it was none of my business.”
Ginny crosses her arms. “Itwasnone of your business.”
