a gaggle of neighborhood girls rounded the corner down the way, marched right up to my front door, passing me reading a book on the porch, and started walking into the house.
TROY
whoa. whoa. where are all of you headed?
LEADER
inside.
TROY
who do you want?
LEADER
bella.
TROY
she's not there. she's next door.
LEADER
then we want to get something.
TROY
what is the something you want to get?
(the girls pause and look at one another.)
LEADER
just something.
TROY
you ain't going in until you can be more specific.
LEADER
ok. bella told us that we should come down here and get her diary.
(they again turn to go in.)
TROY
whoa! whoa! for something like that you need a wax sealed note from bella in her handwriting telling me that is what you need. and without that you can't go in or have her journal.
after looking to one another for inspiration and finding none, they about-faced and storm-troopered back around the way in as stately a fashion as they had come.
that night at the dinner table i told bella of my encounter. she was vexed at this near violation of her personal space and quickly announced her rules for who could look at her diary:
BELLA
nobody but you or mom can look at it. not even alex. not even friends i heart and write sidewalk notes to.
in a hundred days i could not have expressed her criteria more eloquently or succinctly myself.
