Delia pretended to water her one sad plant for about fifteen minutes so that she could listen in, but being monitored was better than not getting to talk at all. I needed my cell phone situation remedied in the very, very near future. “I have a hit out on you,” Doon said. “You picked the worst week of my life to run away. I think my parents are shopping for bars for my windows. My mom just threatened to ground me until you get back from California. You are coming back, right?” Doon was eating cereal. I could tell because she kept slurping between sentences, and whenever she and her parents were fighting she’d eat ten bowls of Corn Flakes at a time. “I guess,” I said. “It’s that or move in with my lunatic sister forever.” I was a little nervous that Doon wasn’t telling me something, that she’d been dead serious when she joked that I was a “traitor” the other night. A few weeks ago, I’d taken the fall for a bunch of texts that the two of us had sent together, texts that had been Doon’s idea to begin with.
