“It was my fault. Hope’s death was my fault. It was an accident. I’m sorry.” I read and reread these words repeatedly on the crumpled-up peace of white paper. My mom calls me down for dinner. I ignore her. Still holding the paper, my phone rings. Its Sammie, the cruelest girl in my 9th grade class. I have no idea why she is calling me. I answer the phone. “Hi Tia,” she says in a quiet voice, “I am so incredibly sorry about Hope.” “Why the hell do you care?” I scream, “All you have done all my life is make my life and Hope’s life miserable! And now she is dead! Aren’t you happy?” “No!-“I hang up. My mom pounds on my door. “Tia?” “Are you all right?” She bursts in my room without asking. My mother is beautiful. She has milk chocolate skin and
