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288 pages, Paperback
First published August 13, 2019
I know I can be too much with all my opinions, and my cursing, and I'm aware that my friends aren't always ready for or interested in my tirades about women's rights, especially abortion, and black lives and immigrant issues, or whatever. In seventh grade, Delaney, who's the most tranque of us all, because she takes twenty milligrams of her antidepressant every morning, called me relentless. The word had been on our vocab test. Relentless. Too true. I never shut up. I never give up. I ask too many questions. I'm a contrarian. So I started my blog, This Little Light.
In order to remain calm-ish, I'm going to write our side of the story. I'm afraid we'll be tracked to the shed if I post entries in real time, so I won't submit until I know we're safe. This old lap-top has had a long-life battery upgrade, thank God. I could write all night. Maybe I will. Wouldn't be the first time. Won't be the last. Writing? It's the only way I've ever been able to make sense of my life.
It was only hours ago, and with everything that happened afterward it should feel like a blur, but I remember every detail from the second we walked into the ballroom – the twinkling fairy lights strangling the pillars near the stage, the flames from hundreds of candles dancing on either side of the long aisle where we'd stand to take our vows, the bleached tablecloths and gleaming dinner plates, snowy roses in porcelain vases and clouds of pale gardenias on pedestals around the dance floor. Girls in gowns. Celestial. But even before anything went wrong, I could sense a vein of malice slicing through the whiteness of it all, hiding, like a razor blade in snow.