It was funny to think that Ivy was probably right now packing to go to New England, which is somewhere near New York, I think. Good for her. I hope she gets the hell out of here and becomes a famous poet, though she’ll have to invent some stuff about the beauty of her youth since no one writes poetry about parking lots and burnout boys. She’ll probably write about the beauty of this island where, alas, mist drifts over mountains. Who gives a fuck. I know that’s what she’ll do too because all the poems we read are about nature, which is so obviously beautiful I don’t understand why you have to go to an American college to learn about it and so I don’t really wish her luck after all, because I’m jealous, but also because Ivy had been so busy trying to brownnose her way into college that she failed to even notice the most tragic fact of our entire high school year, which was this: Heather, the tough stoner girl who drank her father’s gin and kept tinfoil balls of hash in her Maybelline, one day limped like an old man on his way to death, and soon after she disappeared without a trace. Erase.

It killed me that Mr. Cool Star Skater Star had to have a morphine drip! I was sitting on the floor by these bald men in black dresses when suddenly I thought of that and I just started to laugh. That’s when I overheard a conversation. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop. I was doing fine, drunkenly laughing to myself, when I overheard:

The police are looking for her.

What’d she do this time?

She went too far, that’s what she did.