Your glanced over your bookshelf, and grabbed a biography you'd been meaning to read. Most of your small collection was, in fact, non-fiction. When your life is as crazy as yours, you don't need made up stories. You laughed a bit bitterly at the thought.
Propped up on your bed, you tried to lose yourself in someone else's life. Hours must have passed, because before you knew it, you could hear the mail truck pull up near your house. You snaked a finger through the blinds to get a peek at the mailman making his rounds, finally pushing a decent number of letters through your mail slot.
You turned back to your book, but something seemed to be buzzing in the back of your mind. What was it? The mail? Why would the mail bother you? What came in the mail?
Report cards.
You slacked during your last and final quarter of high school.
Oh, God no.
You leaped up out of bed and tore downstairs. Maybe, if you were lucky, you would be able to get there before anyone else. You could shred the card and pretend it got lost in the mail or something. You exploded into the living room, out of breath.
No luck at all. Someone was already bending down to grab the mail. Who was it?
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