been furious. But I’ve never been able to be mad at Charlotte. Not when I was nine and she was three and she cut my hair when I was asleep; not when I was thirteen and she was seven and she poured chocolate milk in my favorite boots; not when I was sixteen and she was ten and she told Bradley, who was my boyfriend, that I wished Ryan would ask me to the junior prom. Charlotte slides into the booth and sits up straight. When we were younger,
