*Some sexual content
It started with a letter, written in stupid poetry. Stupid poetry that read me like an open book. It was signed 'Your Friend', like I would know who it was from. And worse, I didn't even recognize the handwriting.
Being Heather Gibbs' best friend was like being an awkward, pimple-faced thirteen year old girl all over again. She was overly... well, everything. Overly-gorgeous, and funny, and perfect.
And then there was me, with my straw-colored hair and tiny, tiny frame. She looked like a Victoria Secret model; I looked like a children's clothing model.
And yet, Your Friend had chosen to write to me. And I was determined to figure out who they were.