Brie announces. She peers at her nails as she paints them a sparkly silver color, the tip of her tongue stuck out in concentration. I snatch up my copy of Robinson Crusoe from my desk and hold it up to the top shelf of our bookcase next to the closet. I’m re-organizing the shelves, mostly for Brie’s sake, since she’s been moaning about how I keep my books lined up in order of awesomeness. Too messy, she claims. I managed to convince her to not make me do alphabetical order, so now I’m organizing by the color of the spine. Trouble is, Robinson Crusoe has a dual-colored spine, white at the top and red at the bottom. “It goes with the reds,” Brie says, noticing my hesitation. “And he likes you. And I’m going to keep saying he likes you until you do something about it.” “Brie, we’re not having this conversation again,” I say, shoving the book on the bottom shelf with Inferno and my other red novels. If Brie says that’s where it belongs, I’ll trust her. Ends up, she’s even more of a book nerd than I am.
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