Chapter II

Knock knock knock. I jump and glance in the direction of the hallway.

"Coming!" I hop off the stool and walk through the arch and to the door. I part the curtains covering the window a tad, then open the door. "Hello."

I press my lips together tightly, waiting for the sudden verbal impact. "Ya-hoo! Amy, Amy, Amy, Amy, Amy, Amy, Amy, Amy! Guess what?"

Joan Kibson. She's one of the neighbors; she loves to talk, obviously. I suspect she loves to hear her own voice, she's vain that way. Bet that's the way she was born, too. She's a middle aged woman, though you wouldn't guess her age correctly at first sight. She has mousy brown hair that comes down to her shoulders and sits in tight curls. Today, her hair looks extremely curly; also, a bit... Stiff. God knows how much hair spray she used. Her face is plastered with makeup, as it is everyday. She complains she has "wrinkles" at her age already. Though I'm sure the eyeliner, eye shadow, and heavy mascara don't help hide her so called "wrinkles".

Today, she's wearing a long, loose skirt that comes down to around the middle of her shins. Also, a top that exposes her arms, shoulders, and quite a bit of her chest. She's perched on tall, black, strap on, leather high heels. She's holding a small brown box in her hand.

"Okay, so listen to this---"

I sigh. "Hey, Joan." I try to change the subject before I let her have her way with me. Injecting as much enthusiasm into my voice as possible, I say "Oh, is that a new lipstick you're wearing?"

"Oh my God! You noticed?!" she squeals. She reminds me of a preppy, young high school girl in a middle aged woman's body.

Then she launches into a long, very detailed, explanation of her new bright pink lipstick.

I glance at my watch; 10:02. "Ah, look at the time..."

"Ah yes! Almost forgot! You weren't home last night, and your grandparents dropped by your house; they wanted me to give you a message and a... Package...? They said it was left on your doorstep; guess they didn't want to have it stolen..." She shrugs and hands me the box, "Anyway, the old people told me to tell you, 'We could barely get any answers out of your at the hospital while you were recovering, are you alright? What happened that day? Please talk to us, we want to know what happened. But know this, it's not your fault in any way, and you should not blame yourself.' Well, something along those lines... I don't really remember. Honestly, I think they should get a phone and just call you. All this messaging stuff, in my opinion, is complete bu---"

"Thanks, Joan. I'll talk to you later, okay?"

"Oh... Alright. Where are you goin'?"

"The library, I think."

"Well, if you're going somewhere besides back to bed, I suggest changing."

I glance down. I'm still wearing my bright blue pajama bottoms, wool sweater, and short white tank top; although you can't see my top because of the sweater. I touch my head. Yup. I was right. I still have bed hair too.

I groan and nod and Joan. She spins on her, impossibly high, heels, and walks gracefully to her front door, and then disappears inside.

I glance down at the box in my hands. It's a bit heavy. I dare not shake it, though I have a growing urge to do so. I walk back inside the house, closing the door behind me. I set the mysterious package on the kitchen island counter before I run upstairs again. Once I enter my room, I dress in jeans and a plain green t-shirt; then I run a brush through my fine, long black hair.