Oh. My. Gods. - Weebly

“You’re right,” I say. “There is no good time to tell me that.”
“Phoebe, I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry?” I say, stunned. “I’m sorry you didn’t learn from my
mistake. You’re too good for him, Cesca.”
“I . . .” Her voices drops to a whisper again. “. . . I know. I just
don’t know how to end it.”
“If it’s already over for you why did you tell him what I said?”
“I didn’t.”
“He found out somehow,” I explain. “He tried to post about it in
his blog.”
“Well, I didn’t—” She gasps, then shouts—thankfully not at me—
“Why you rotten, sneaky bast—”
“What?” I interrupt.
“Hold on,” she says into the phone. Then I hear the click of the
receiver being set down on her desk. “How dare you read my private
IM chat? You went on my computer and read my personal files,
didn’t you?”
“I, uh,” Justin stammers in the background. “No?”
Bad move, Justin. If you’re going to lie, at least do it with conviction.
“Get your privacy-invading stinky ass out of my room.” Cesca
is screaming so loud it sounds like she is talking directly into the
receiver. “I never want to see you again. When you see me walking
down the hall you’d better step out of my way!”
Two seconds later a loud thwack echoes through the phone.
That, I think, is the sound of Cesca slamming the door after kicking
Justin out of her room.
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