Dear Enemy

Beneath me, Macon shifts a bit to get more comfortable. But he doesn’t let me go. “Did you say something about a book?”

My laugh is weak and lazy. “When you distracted me with your sexy pecs? Yes.”

He snorts.

Slowly, I ease off him and pick up the book that ended up on the floor. “It’s my childhood diary.”

Macon’s dark brow quirks high. “Do I want to know?”

Grinning, I crawl back onto his lap and rest my head on his big shoulder. “It’s probably just as you suspect. But I read through it now, and all I feel is a happy fondness. Here, take a look.”

“You sure?” He’s eyeing the diary like it might bite.

“Baby, there is nothing between us now but love. Besides, I added to it, and everything is as it should be.”

Delilah’s Diary

Dear Diary (age 11),

I still do not have a dog. Mama claims I am allergic, and Daddy won’t listen to reason. It’s a conspirisy conpr It’s a sham!

In other news, today I called Macon Saint an ass canal, the most vile and disgusting thing I could think of. I am sorry to say, Mama agreed. Had I known she was behind me, I would have waited until later to call Macon that.

Now my fingers are pruny and smelly because I spent the day polishing all the silver—including old Grandma Belle’s holiday service ware. The only justice is that Macon had to polish it too because Mama heard him call me a fuck-munch.

But it’s still not fair because Sam—who started the whole thing by blabbing to Macon that Mama’s oyster soup gave me diarit diarrhea—got away free as a bird. SHE had a clear view of the den’s doorway and shut her big mouth as soon as she saw Mama coming.

I don’t know who I hate worse, Sam or Macon.

Sam.

Macon.

Both.

No, definitely Macon.

Dear Diary,

Today was the day I planned to enter my first pie in the summer church bake off. I’ve been waiting forever to be thirteen—the official minimum age for entrants. Mama convinced me to wear the sky-blue eyelet sundress that has been hanging in my closet since spring, and I had to admit that it looked quite pretty on me.

I soon came to regret my decision. Upon seeing me, Macon Saint, shithead and ass face, asked (in a loud voice) if I was smuggling baby bananas under my top. Right in front of Jonas Hardy—Macon knew I had a crush on him. Stupid Sam tells him everything.

Jonas laughed, and Macon started calling me Banana Boobs. And I . . . I got so mad that I threw my beloved Bountiful Banana Cream Pie (oh, why did it have to be banana cream???) at Macon’s fat face. Only the rat turd ducked, and my beautiful pie hit mean old Mrs. Lynch square in the face.

The humiliation! I am now grounded for the remainder of the summer and banned from entering any pies in any of the church bake offs.

I hate Macon Saint. Hate. Him!!!

Dear Diary,

Last night, I kissed a boy. First kiss. It was nice. Until it wasn’t. All and all, I am greatly disappointed.

I only went to Geoff Martin’s birthday party because Mama said it would be rude to ignore the invitation. I didn’t feel like telling her that I’d likely been invited because Geoff was desperate for Sam to show up.

As suspected, the party was horrible. We had to play a stupid game called The Shed. Basically, everyone took a numbered paper and, when your number came up, you’d go in the dark garden shed and kiss the person who had the matching number. The idea being you never knew who you kissed until the end of the night when you held up your number and found out who had the same one.

I wanted to throw up. Run. I don’t know. Sam called me a chicken, so I stayed.

I never saw the boy’s face. All I know is that his breath smelled like peppermint, and his lips were soft and sweet. I was so shocked by the contact, and the way it made my insides warmly flip, that I ran out of the shed as if it were on fire. Like a chicken. And that was that. Surprising, but ultimately a letdown of my own making.

It was no surprise to me, however, when Macon and Sam both revealed they had the number six. Macon has shot up several inches and has become the most sighed over boy in school. Yuck. Every girl except me had wanted to draw his number. I don’t know how she did it, but I know Sam cheated to get that number. She was Miss Smug Socks the entire night.

My night got worse. We were about to leave when I found out I kissed Xander Dubois, one of Macon’s friends, who winked at me and said I could feel free to slip him the tongue any time I’d like as long as he got to feel my boobs in return. Gross. I went home disappointed, and Sam ended the night as Macon’s girlfriend. Lord help us all.