First off, thanks sooo much to everyone who participated in our Game of Secrets Event, and to The Mod Podge Bookshelf for playing hostess to us :) Choosing a "winner" was definitely not an easy task, but in the end we managed to come to a consensus. So congratulations are in order for....*drumroll*....
Courtney Washburn!
Courtney, please email your address to us at secret.life.of.writers@gmail.com so we can get prize stuff sorted out.
And now for the winning entry!
Ha! Simon Roberts, love Isabelle Stone?
Give me a break.
It was almost too easy, manipulating these sheep. Flash some puppy eyes, stutter a few oh-so-helpful words, spilling secrets like breadcrumbs, and they do exactly what you’d expect.
So predictable.
Behind these thick black frames, I see so much more than people think. Just because my vision’s 20/400 doesn’t mean I’m blind. You don’t think I know they use me? Bat their f***ing spidery lashes, stick out their Wonder Bras, ask me to do their homework like I’m some chump who’s deluded enough to think Miss Ice Bitch herself could actually be interested in a bona-fide nerd?
Not likely. I have an I.Q. of 163. It’s f***ing insulting.
I didn’t do it for me, though. I did it for her.
They call her ‘Mouse,’ when they’re not even worthy of licking dog sh*t off her Mary Janes. They pull her hair. Shove her in the hall. Even that ball-buster Emery can’t protect Amy from the constant attacks. Last month, Is-a-bitch Stone snapped a cell phone pic of Amy changing in the locker room and posted it on Facebook with the caption: Country Mouse wears granny panties. Now, a month later, people still call Amy ‘grundy-undies’ and pants her in the hall between classes.
Something had to be done.
It was almost too perfect when two days later I caught that skank Haley slipping in those extra ballots. A month of planning, of doing Isabelle’s Advanced Calc homework and following her around like a spineless, lovesick dope, and I’d scored a pity invite to her party. Like I said—predictable.
All it took was a few concerned words about Haley’s cheating to separate Isabelle from the herd. My knowledge of circuit design and electrical engineering—courtesy of a few summers at MIT robotics camp—did the rest. I overrode the electricity without having to trek through the mansion to the basement and back. Some flickering lights and darkness and those drunken morons stayed right where they were, allowing me to sneak past unnoticed.
And Isabelle…well…she didn’t know what hit her.
Well, I did.
When Amy touched my shoulder and stared at me with those big, beautiful eyes, it was almost like she wanted me to do it. Was begging me to do it.
For her.
So yeah, I confess. Ding dong, the bitch is dead.
Does Amy know I did it for her? Maybe. I watched her afterwards to see. Maybe I wanted her to figure it out, to know. Because I love her.
Turns out, love hides all manner of sins. Like motive. Getting close to Isabelle gave me the perfect cover—after all, I loved her. Why would I kill her?
And my “confession” to the police? Well, let’s just say they bought the nerd-in-love sh*t just like all the brainless masses that make up public education’s student body. I even got to say, I confess; it’s my fault, right to their faces. The little needle on their lie detector didn’t so much as flicker.
As for Amy, well, no one at school is going to be yanking down her pants on Monday. Maybe the rest of these jokers will think twice before choosing their next victim. Before tormenting the meek and defenseless. After all, they’re the ones under fire now. They’re the ones with the motive. The vendettas and scores to settle.
Isabelle found out the hard way—live as a bitch and then you die.
