All right, readers, admit it. I know you all secretly hate me. Hey, it's not my fault I haven't written here for over a month!

Ok, maybe it is.

But, just to make it up to you guys, this time I'm posting something really superfantastiraddaraddaraddabulouslyapipically special. It's...drumroll please... a short-ish story, posted in parts, called "Someone Else." In a nutshell, it's a series of letters, emails, IM exchanges, and one in-person conversation between a posse of friends, centering on the recent death of one of their group. I hope you like it.

Someone Else

Dear Dora Joan,

When I heard from Ian that Molly was gone, I could barely eat for days. This is just the sort of thing you always expect to happen to someone else, but unfortunately, we're all someone else to someone else.

Jeez, why did it have to be Molly, huh? The girl everybody likes. Sometimes when I think about it, I get so sad I want to disappear, and sometimes I get so angry I want to smash something. Other times I feel this awful emptiness, like without Molly life is nothing. She was my best friend, you know? More than Lisa or Calder or Marilee or anyone else in our little pack. Every time I go to the movies or the diner or the park, I keep expecting to see her there, buying a large popcorn with extra butter, or eating fries and laughing at her favorite table, or sailing a bright green frisbee through the air, her long brown hair flying.

Listen to me, spouting images of Molly like a poet. I should probably end this letter. Here I am, troubling you with my rambling feelings while you have your own to deal with. Well, please try to reply as soon as possible. I just needed someone to write to, and you seemed right, DJ. You're so understanding.

Sincerely yours,

Kirby

Dear Calder,

I feel terrible, and I need to tell you something. I think it was my fault.

Aaaurgh, why did that stupid car have to stupidly come along at exactly the stupid moment she was crossing the stupid street? I'm never going near that crosswalk again. So what if I have to get to the diner from the drugstore? So what?I'll go some other way. There are too many memories at that crosswalk. When you witness one of your best friends getting hit by a car and dying, and it was almost your own fault, you get traumatized.

My sister says the best way to calm yourself down after a traumatic experience is to give someone a full description of what happened. So here goes.

I was sitting outside the cafe underneath one of those table umbrellas they've got, when Molly started to cross the street. I hadn't seen her for days, so of course I called out, "Hey, Molly!"

She turned her head, and took her sunglasses off, and waved. "Hi, Marilee! How are you doing?" she called.

"Fine," I yelled. "I-" And then - I was distracting her, I should have waited until she got to the other side, God I should've - and then this blue Dodge Caliber came blasting out of absolutely dang nowhere, I swear the driver was speeding! It zoomed right into Molly, she just disappeared, it was just like she was there one second and gone the next, and suddenly the car was gone and Molly was there, lying in the street. She looked just like she always did, except her eyes were shut and there was a trickle of blood on her head.

Of course about thirty quadrillion people gathered around her, screaming and standing there and calling 911. I had to push past all of them just to get to her, but I didn't care, not even when I dropped my drink on the ground and it exploded and spewed everywhere. I was in a kind of dream, the only thing I was thinking was that just as soon as I got to where Molly was, she would sit up, laugh, wipe away the blood (which would of course have been ketchup) and tell me she had faked it, faked it all just to fool me, and she would look up expectantly, waiting for me to laugh, and I would be mad, but also relieved, and everything would be just fine.

Just fine.

Just like it always had been.

But it wasn't.

Molly wasn't laughing, she was dead, and it was my fault. My fault she would never laugh or smile or run or jump or swim or eat or throw a frisbee ever again, forever and ever and ever...

I think I screamed. I think I started to cry. I think I started to shake her, the way I always had to to get her to wake up at sleepovers. I think someone pulled me off gently, and I think I fainted and woke up in Kirby's spare bed so exhausted I could barely breathe. I think. But I don't really know any of it for sure. All I know is that Molly is dead, and she will never play ultimate frisbee at 3:00 PM on Saturday ever ever ever again.

Oh, dang, I'm so guilty.

You won't tell anyone, will you?

Marilee

Dear Kirby,

I need to talk to you. About Molly and Marilee. Check your IM at 3:00 PM tomorrow.

Best, Ian

(The following IM conversation occurred at 3:00 PM the next day.)

Curbee2461: Okay, Ian. What do you want to talk about?

SamwiseGamgee67: Marilee. And Molly. I told you.

Curbee2461 : But what about them?

SamwiseGamgee67: Well, as you probably know, Molly's dead.

Curbee2461: No, really!? I hadn't noticed. I thought answering my door to find DJ holding up an unconscious Marilee and explaining through tears that something awful had happened and then leaving without so much as a goodbye was just a coincidence. Wow, I never knew!

(----)

Curbee2461: Ian, I'm sorry. I shouldn't be so sarcastic. It's just that I'm so completely exhausted I don't have the energy to even be nice.

(----)

Curbee2461: Ian, are you there?

SamwiseGamgee67: Yep. Sorry.

Curbee2461: S'ok.

SamwiseGamgee67: I need to talk to you in person. Can you meet me at the park under the Frisbee Tree tomorrow at 3:00 PM?

Curbee2461: Sure. Whatever. You know, I think we should stop using Molly's names for stuff, like the Frisbee Tree in the park and the French Fry Table at the cafe. It brings back too many things.

SamwiseGamgee67: All right.

Curbee2461: Thanks, Ian. Goodnight.

SamwiseGamgee67: You're welcome. Good night.

(END OF PART 1)