I stuck the note on the inside cover, right over her purple gel pen name.
Zoey nodded seriously. “The ‘no random annotations’ rule stands.”
My heart did a little tap-dance. The cover was worn, the corners softened like they’d been chewed by a golden retriever, and the spine had those beautiful white crease lines that meant someone had read it a dozen times. Someone had loved this book.
“Thank you. —M.H.”
I almost dropped it. Mackenzie Hollister? As in, my arch-nemesis, the queen of mean, the CCP (Crusty Cookie Princess) of Westchester Country Day? The same Mackenzie who had once “accidentally” spilled orange soda on my art portfolio?
This book belongs to Mackenzie Hollister. If lost, return to locker 119. And yes, I know I’m fabulous. 💅
Zoey found me ten minutes later, holding a stack of books two feet high. “Nikki? You okay? You look like you just saw a ghost wearing a glitter beret.” dork diaries used books
Then I saw the writing.
My breath caught.
Next to the scene where Nikki’s mom comforts her, Mackenzie had written: “My mom is always on a cruise. With her new husband. #whatever” I stuck the note on the inside cover,
“I wish I had a friend like Zoey. Or maybe just one friend at all.”
Inside the front cover, in sparkly purple gel pen, someone had written:
I stood there in the dusty aisle, holding a $1.25 book that felt like it weighed a thousand pounds. This wasn’t just a used book. This was a confession. A diary inside a Dork Diaries . The cover was worn, the corners softened like
I bought the book for $1.25. Then I went home and, on a sticky note, wrote a message. Not mean. Not revenge. Just:
