The Black Notebook

by Isabelle Snow

I didn’t exactly tell her that I held almost all of the secrets of almost everybody in school within the palm of my hand—albeit I forgot some of them. The truth was that I was only starting to realize how unjustified the whole thing was for me. Whenever someone was sinking in a sticky situation, I’d grab their flailing hands and try to pull them out, even if it got me tangled up in the process. But I couldn’t say that people did the same for me. I suppose it wasn’t their fault, because I never said anything. I never shouted for help, I never flailed my hands around, hoping somebody could see my distress and pull me out—and there was a reason for it. From what I’ve witnessed, heard, and been told of, people could stab a sibling’s back as easily as they would a potential enemy. I certainly wasn’t going to trust them in helping me with my secrets and problems. I would just have to find a way to pull myself out.

Books have always been a safe haven for me, a key to another dimension where I could be someone who wasn’t Seven Warrilow and have an adventure that Seven Warrilow wouldn’t have dared to join.

was the one who told those who came to me with love problems to take courage by either telling somebody they loved them or to watch them with somebody else.