(no subject)
Her sunburn finally gone, faded to a faint tan, Jo felt brave enough to wear shorts again. In slightly-too-big denim cutoffs and her old white t-shirt, she wandered into the rec room, which was mysteriously empty. The bookshelf offered her several things, among them the Narnia books and the Da Vinci Code, but she picked up a battered, leather-bound copy of Little Women and curled up on the couch, tucking her bare feet under her, to read. The jukebox whirred to life and REO Speedwagon came on. Jo smiled to herself as she turned the page.
"Christmas won't be Christmas without any presents," the book declared, and Jo was lost. There was something oddly comforting about turn of the century chick lit.
[Come one, come all, if you don't mind that I'm a bit slow right now. Feel free to make fun of her for her choice of literature.]
"Christmas won't be Christmas without any presents," the book declared, and Jo was lost. There was something oddly comforting about turn of the century chick lit.
[Come one, come all, if you don't mind that I'm a bit slow right now. Feel free to make fun of her for her choice of literature.]