Instead Pamela smoothed the black coverlet with a white-gloved hand and perched on the four-poster next to Sam. She hoped her mom would take the hint and leave. "Extra credit always helps in high school, Mom.” Sam reached for a new color of highlighter as she flipped the page. "I know you're not taking Honors Law this semester." "But Sammiekins, midterms aren't coming up for another month, and." she picked up one of the heavy tomes and frowned at it. Black text glared out of the yellow ink:ĭespite apparent displays of sentience, ectoplasmic entities therefore cannot be described as human or animal, but are, in fact, nonliving electrical phenomena, and will be treated as such in a court of law. "Studying." Sam enjoyed the high-pitched squeak as she dragged the highlighter across the page. "Sweetie-” She paused, glancing around at the small mountain of books overtaking her daughter’s bed. Pamela Manson appeared, a vision of impeccable pink that clashed with the maroon-painted door. Sam groped for the clicker, turning the speakers on low. Her mother’s overly sweet voice drifted through the door, carefully pitched to pierce through the noise without actually shouting. "If it's not that special order from the courthouse, go away!” There were no locked doors permitted in the Manson household-an outrage mitigated only slightly by the fact that all of them were also compulsive knockers. Pausing over a passage, she scribbled down a page number, popped the lid off a highlighter and marked it.Ī loud knock penetrated her cocoon of sound. She bobbed her head absently to the rhythm as she flicked to the next page the song blared through her speakers so often, the chord shifts felt embedded in her psyche. The entire room vibrated with angry bass. Sam sprawled over her bed, nose buried in a massive book with tiny fine print. Whoever wishes to keep a secret must hide the fact that he possesses one.
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