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No, not me. Another sample: pencil with Photoshop.

Dear Summer,

If you could just give me a new best friend I’d remember you forever. I don’t usually write letters to seasons but, here’s the thing, you’re the season where I get bored the most and times that by one hundred now that Lindsay’s moved away. And you’re the one I look forward to most of all. And, you’ve really let me down. It’s week two of Summer Vacation. What’s supposed to be golden. What I looked forward to during all of my classes, but mostly in Algebra. When I’m supposed to be having the most fun and I’m sitting cross-legged on my bed, writing in my journal like the biggest dork in DuPage County, with no vacations to look forward to this year because Mom and Dad can’t even afford to send me to camp. Outside my bedroom window, parked right across the street from my house a moving van doesn’t quite block my view of Lindsay’s old house and all afternoon men have moved dark furniture out of the van. I haven’t seen any new people, yet.

I’m crossing my toes and my fingers now. Please, please let my new best friend be the next person I see. A light comes on in Lindsay’s old bedroom. I think I’m hallucinating at first. Like my wish turned the light on. Like the way I clenched my fingers and toes together as tight as I possibly could turned the light on. I jump off my bed, turn out my light and walk to my bedroom window kind of like a burglar might if they wanted to be all quiet and stuff. I stand off to the side of my window so no one would see me from the street, and I peer through the sheer drapes. Try to get a better look at who turned the light on in Lindsay’s bedroom, thinking about all the nights Lindsay and I would use our secret light-on-light off code when our parents took our cell phones away. I whisper out loud, “Please let it be a thirteen year old girl,” over, and over as I lean into the window opening just the tiniest bit more to get a better look into Lindsay’s bedroom.

I stop chanting the minute I see the silhouette. A boy. No. A man? I’m not sure. But, it’s not Lindsay. And in that moment I know what I’d avoided thinking about since Lindsay and I said goodbye for good last week in a kinda rushed don’t-have-time-to-really-say-goodbye-really-rushed-because-her-parents-are-mad way. I’d never have another friend like Lindsay. And I’d probably never, ever see her again.

I sit cross-legged in my bed in the dark, pick up my journal and write my first non-boring thing I’d ever written in one of my dozen journals, Could I ever be best friends with anyone else? Could I ever be best friends with a boy?