This is sort of a short one...
"Hey, Renesmee, wait up!"
I didn't have to turn to know the voice. It was Mrs. Malagwa, my art teacher, the only person at Brenton who insisted on calling me 'Renesmee.'
I turned and smiled at her. "Is there a problem, Mrs. Malagwa?"
"No, no problem." she panted, out of breath, though she'd only jogged a few steps. I waited for her to continue. "The Valentine's dag Dance is coming up," she said. "And u have such artistic ability. We need meer members on the Decorating Comittee." she held up a sheet that was half filled with signatures.
Ah, the dance. I was...
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