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Show Inside Out, 58 Then another nurse came and called me. I hated going to the dermatologist. It was worth it, though, finally being acne-free. In junior high, I had been the girl people called "pizza face." At least no one in Salt Lake would ever call me that. On the way home from the clinic the bus passed a cop making some drunk driver walk the line. I hoped he would nail him. I hoped that guy would get thrown into jail and never let out, but I knew there was not much chance of that. Drunk driving laws are way too lax. I hated drunk drivers. By the time I got home, it was raining, and I had to ask Leslie for a ride to the library. "Sure, I'll take you. Paul and I need to go there, too," Leslie said, with her squeaky, enthusiastic voice. "Do you think an hour will be enough time?" Which meant that I couldn't really settle in for a long session. But I had to talk to Joseph again. If he was still around. And I wanted to ask him one thing in particular: what happens to drunk drivers in heaven? After finding a table and logging in, I opened the IM window. But, of course, I couldn't send anything to him because he wasn't listed in my Friends fist. How was I supposed to contact him? Surely he would contact me any minute now. I sat and stared at the screen. |