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M. J. Padgett

The Prom

I stood at my locker with trembling hands, a yellow note clutched tightly in my fingers. Sam was right. He predicted Noah wasn’t done as the author and warned me to be prepared. The time had come. Noah was ready to admit he was the author of the love notes I’d been receiving since freshman year. I read the note repeatedly, written in Sam’s trademark triangular writing just as they always had been.

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