Ill Met By Moonlight

  Amy stands in front of her locker, cussing and muttering as she wipes the remnants of the tomato off her book. She has cleaned the juice that was splattered on her face as she walked into the school, but her book had been the one that had taken the brunt of the assault. It was lucky that her reflexes were fast else she’d have been well on her way to being named Tomato Pie before the day ran out. She pulls another tissue from her locker, groans, and begins to wipe the book. It is no good, she knows, because the book is already soaked through. Nonetheless, she hopes to at least eradicate the red stain on the book. When the cover page of the book sloughs off because of her vigorous scrubbing, she lets out another groan in anger and bundles up the tissue into a soft, soggy ball and throws it down along with the other tissue papers she has wadded up. She groans again and stands staring from book to pile of soggy tissue to bo