Whitney goes running past me, obviously upset, and I have half a mind to chase after her and ask what's wrong. Knowing that she probably doesn't want to see me or speak with me, I keep my pace and look down at the path below me.
I'm never what I like I'm double sided And I just can't hide I kind of like it When I make you cry 'Cause I'm twisted up, twisted up Inside
It starts raining and I find her sitting before a tree. Sighing and looking up at the sky, I stop and hesitate before taking my jacket off and setting it over her head. I sit at her side, keeping my distance, but say nothing.
I'm never what I like I'm double sided And I just can't hide I kind of like it When I make you cry 'Cause I'm twisted up, twisted up Inside
What really knocks me out is a book that, when you're all done reading it, you wish the author that wrote it was a terrific friend of yours and you could call him up on the phone whenever you felt like it. That doesn't happen much, though. — J.D. Salinger, The Catcher in the Rye