When the word “FREAK” appeared scratched in the persimmon colored paint on her locker, she knew that in some fragile young woman’s mind a war had escalated from imaginary to physical. He hung vaguely for a moment as she passed. It had felt wonderful to pick up the fiddle again. " "Before I leave this place, I must see my mother. They don’t count, and I don’t care. Though it’s very kind of you. "That's odd. He was walking listlessly along, well-dressed, debonnair, good-looking. But also this must not go on. “She is living there now,” she remarked.
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