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"On a scale of one to ten, how in the mood are you for some juicy drama?"

I hide out in a random single-user bathroom in the central building, wanting to make sure no one will hear what I'm about to say. This conversation could work over text, if I had anyone to text. Maybe it's my fault for surrounding myself with a social circle so small that my best bet for gossip is my older sister—over the phone.

"A fat fucking ten," she says. "Anything to get my mind off wedding dresses. I swear, I'm starting to see white lace in my sleep, Whitney."

"Okay, great. Well, believe it or not, there is something weirder going on in my life than my secret fantasies of kissing my trainer and sudden love of running outside in ninety degrees."

"Wait, what?"

"I know right, me running? It's still hard for me to believe."

"No, what the hell, Whitney. I'm talking about the first point. Last time we talked you told me you guys could barely hold a conversation."

I laugh sheepishly, eyeing the door's lock. "Yeah, well, you could say things have...progressed. But that's not what I'm here to talk about. I'm calling to finally tell someone about my indirect encounter with a moron—or some morons—living out their great big Pretty Little Liars fantasy with me."

A pause ensues. "Is that the crappy show about four high schoolers trying to figure out which letter of the alphabet keeps sending them stalker notes?"

"Funny how it hits home right now." I laugh humorlessly. "Get this: over the last two-and-a-half, almost three, weeks, I've been finding these small pieces of paper with fake-threatening messages written on them in my room. They all say slightly different things but have one central theme that I am one, a bitch, and two, a whore."

"What the fuck? How are you so chill about this, Whit?"

I laugh, shuffling the pieces of paper in my hand. "Because the notes are almost funny when you actually read them. Here let me tell you what these last two say."

The first: If only you'd known that I wouldn't have given a shit about you had you kept your nose in your books and not in my boyfriend's pants. – X

The next: This isn't so fun anymore. Maybe because you can never change the fact you're nothing more than a boyfriend-stealing bitch. – X

"Boyfriend?" I can imagine Poppy blinking on the other end, a blank look washing over slim face. "Did you even date anyone in high school?"

"No. But that's exactly the problem." I pause and rub my fingers against my throbbing forehead, the symptoms appearing out of nowhere this morning. I usually don't get headaches, let alone this near-migraine-level pain. "The first few notes were vague enough that I thought maybe they apply to me, but now I have no clue what this dumbass is going off about. But, to be honest, if she's anything like this in real life, maybe I should have stolen her boyfriend—for his own sanity."

She lets out an airy laugh. "Is there any chance these notes aren't meant for you? Don't you have a roommate?"

"Yeah, I thought that for a second, but get this, I found two of these in my makeup bag and my pillowcase. I don't think this person could have made it any clearer." I release a small sigh, adjusting my position on the uncomfortable toilet lid. "Look, I could just let this go, and I bet it won't matter at all when I come back home. But you know that's not like me."

"No, I couldn't imagine ignoring something like this either." She sighs. "Look, if these notes are intended for you, you have to think a little deeper. Did you at least get close to any guys in high school? Or know someone who would spread a rumor about you dating someone?"

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