It’s official, my phone is toast. The screen screen is entirely blank, covered with tiny droplets of water. And I, powerless over technology, beg god for a second chance. This cannot be happening! That precious piece of metal and wires was my 17th birthday present. When I tore the wrapping paper, I recognized exactly what kind of phone it was. Weeks before, I had taped pictures of the phone to my mom’s everyday appliances, such as her coffee maker. She would groggily waddle downstairs, grab a mug, and observe the picture. I was amazed she didn’t take the picture off until 2 weeks later. Yes, my phone was my best companion, besides my best friend, Poppy. After my mom organized a texting plan, I slowly began to learn how to manipulate the keys. You see, my mom is one of those technological idiots. I wasn’t allowed to get a phone because my mom was afraid I would abuse it and she would not be able to turn it off or check my messages. My family owns only one TV set (Poppy has 7!) and a small computer, for my dad’s job. He’s a writer. Not famous yet, but he’s getting there. He uses a weird pen name; I think its J. Kooper or something. My dad’s always hidden in the study, which barely gives me time to talk with him. Months after I received my full keyboard phone, I became the queen of texting. My phone is always in my pocket, my thumbs eager to stroke the keyboard. That is why I am so devastated now, glaring at my broken cell phone. It’s all Billy Docking’s fault. He was the one who pushed me into the pool. He’s the one who lured me into coming to his party.
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