No one wants to be that girl who locks herself in the bathroom on her birthday like she’s on the brink of a nervous breakdown, but here I am, leaning my elbows on the toilet bowl, inhaling God knows how many private-part diseases, all in the hope of freeing myself of this birthday cake while freeing myself of my best friend’s wrath.
When Elizabeth Somers tugged open the gate to her aunt and uncle’s yard and saw an envelope ducttaped to the front door of the shabby house she shared with them, she knew it was bad news.
