“I don’t know if I’m sorry or not,” Sadie said. “If I hadn’t tried, I’d probably still be sitting around in my bedroom being miserable and writing bad poems.” “I don’t think most people would consider that a good deal,” I said. “Maybe not,” she told me. “What about you, are you sorry you . . . did what you did?” “I’m sorry they stopped me,” I told her. “What’s so bad about your life?” she said. “From what you’ve told me about your family, they don’t sound so bad.” “They’re not,” I admitted. “They aren’t the problem.” “Then what is?” “I am,” I said. “I’m the problem.” “And what’s wrong with
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