Losing Logan

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So what if Logan was dead? I mean, it’s not like he owed me money or anything. I pause at the top of the stairs, letting my mom move around me and walk inside. To my left a group of girls are holding each other and ugly crying. I try to assure myself that the display is genuine and has nothing to do with the swarm of reporters behind me, their cameras clicking like insects.

“I bet not one of those girls even knew Logan,” I grumble.

“Firstly, everyone knew Logan. And secondly, quit being such a judgy-Mc judge-sickle.”

To my right, Carlos holds out his hand, which I take and allow him to lead me inside and down the hall. Leaning over he whispers in my ear.

“I can’t believe you wore that.”

I look down at my dark jeans, carefully tucked into tall brown boots. My steel grey scarf hangs over my light tan sweater. I’d even taken the time to throw my long brown hair into a messy bun.

“We can’t all afford to look like movie stars,” I mumble back.

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