Read Pictures of You for Free Online Page B

me. Not being able to take another photo. Why?” I rolled onto my side to study her face. She was beautiful even at fourteen, with unlawfully clear skin, chopstick thighs and silky orange hair.
                  “I don’t know. Just wondering.” She bit her lip.
                  “What’s yours?”
                  “Losing you,” she said without hesitation. She was gazing at the ceiling then, playing with the charm bracelet on her arm, the one I gave her on her twelfth birthday. She did that—looked away when things got too sentimental, too gushy.
                  “You won’t lose me,” I said, but I knew it was a promise I couldn’t keep. Even then I knew life was unpredictable, like the weather on a spring afternoon. There were no guarantees. “What else are you afraid of? Besides spiders and country music,” I added, jokingly.
                  “I don’t know…well actually…promise you won’t tell anyone?” she asked, her eyes cutting into mine.
                  Surprised by her sudden intensity, I laughed. “Sure, I promise.”
                  She hesitated before saying, “I’ve always been afraid of dying young. And…I’ve always thought that maybe—”
                  “What?” Again, I laughed. “Of course you won’t die young. You’re not allowed to. We’re growing old together, remember? We’re going to be each other’s maid of honor and our kids are going to be best friends…You’re going to be a rock star, just like you imagined. And then someday we’re going to be the coolest old ladies around.”
                  She tugged her brows together and bit her lower lip. “I guess you’re right.”
                  “You’d better not die on me,” I threatened. “If you do, I’ll make you eternally miserable, I swear it. I’ll put spiders in your casket. Lots of spiders. And I’ll play country music at your funeral. I’m not kidding.”
                  She raised her hands, stick-‘em-up style. “Okay, okay. I get it. I’m not dying young.”
                  “That’s right. And never forget it,” I said before throwing a Twinkie at her face.             
                  As I came back to the present, I was shocked to see half of the Twinkies gone. High on a sugar buzz, I took the remaining five and hid them under the bed. Maybe the cat would find them and finish them off. I stretched out on the bed, upside-down and hugged her pillow against my chest. I noted her scent of Jasmine and Suave shampoo and her natural Abby scent in her bedding. The smell filled my throat with cotton balls and caused my insides to ache. And then I felt a crushing feeling, like a brick wall fell over onto my chest.
                                I sobbed fiercely, the kind of sobbing that causes your whole body to tremble. And then, without fully realizing it, I kicked Abby’s headboard. One swift blow punctured the flimsy wood. A strange noise escaped my throat. A sound so alien, it scared me. But seeing the hole somehow filled the void in my heart—just a little. I kicked some more and some more and laughed a bitter, angry laugh. The kicking /laughing/crying felt oddly therapeutic. Cleansing. I stopped kicking when a splinter pierced the sole of my shoe, the sharp edge poking through my sock. I only felt a tad guilty for ruining her bed frame—she told me once it had been her grandmother’s—but overall I felt relieved to have damaged something.
                                So much for expressing anger in constructive ways . I rolled up into fetal position, smashing my face into the pillow.
                  “Why did you leave me? Why? ” I whispered.
                  Despite my sugar high, grief yanked me down into a long but restless