How to Take the Ex Out of Ex-Boyfriend Read Online Free

monthly basis, keeps telling me I need to take responsibility for my actions. She says a bunch of other stuff I mostly ignore because I’m not really a juvenile delinquent. I’m just a person with convictions. Unfortunately I’m now a person with convictions in both senses of the word.
    See, last semester in biology class—for some reason I never fully understood—the teacher required us to dissect frogs. Mr. Clement told me it was so I could learn about internal organs. But here is my question: Don’t we already know what frog organs look like? They dissected frogs last year, and the year before. Didn’t someone already sketch out this vital information?
    Mr. Clement refused to see the logic behind my argument. He also refused to see my point that I was absolutely certain I would never in my life need to know what a frog spleen looked like. Very few people do. He gave me an F for the unit and sent me to in-school detention for the period.
    Normal parents would have called up the bio teacher and protested, or pled my case or something. After all, it was my father who gave Dante and me a tadpole habitat when we turned eight years old. So he at least should have understood that a girl who had pet frogs named Bert and Ernie was not about to slice one open.
    But he had completely forgotten the No-you-can’t-have-a-puppy-but-here’s-a-tadpole-habitat pets. Instead he told me, “Start worrying about your grades and stop worrying that the world might have to do without one more frog.” Gabby, of course, said more than that.
    I listened to her go on for a week about how I’d never get into a good college because I’d skipped out on my biology dissection unit, and what was the big deal about dead frogs anyway? Dead frogs weren’t scary. They didn’t bite. Never once had there been a case of a dead frog who’d reached out his slimy little amphibious hand and grabbed a bio student by the throat.
    The actual school detention wasn’t that bad. I met many interesting people there, including a guy named Tim Murphy that I suspected to be an escaped convict who was just hiding out in high school to throw off the police. He showed me all of his body piercings, most of his tattoos, and sent me several notes suggesting we run off to Aruba together.
    I declined on the Aruba thing, but when he offered to get back at Mr. Clements by breaking into the biology room and stealing the frog corpses, well, I laughed and told him it was a sweet gesture.
    As it turns out, you shouldn’t joke around with escaped convicts. The next day after school, a ziplock bag of dead frogs showed up in my locker.
    My first reaction, of course, was to fling them on the floor and scream. My second reaction was to find Tim, grab him by his eyebrow studs, and explain to him that, yes, women like to be surprised with flowers, but not dead frogs.
    I didn’t do either of these things, however, because I was too busy being grossed out to the point of nearly hyperventilating.
    When I could finally breathe normally again, I decided the best thing to do with the frogs was to put them someplace where everyone could see the results of the senseless frog slaughter. The trophy case in the front lobby would work, and Dante could unlock it. I knew this because he and two of his friends broke into it once. They put one of Skipper’s Barbie swimsuits on a little man that stood on one of the football trophies.
    I would take the frogs home, write an unidentifiable essay on the value of life, then put them all in the trophy case the next day.
    That was my plan, anyway.
    When I got home, Gabby yelled at me half the evening. It started out as a lecture on leaving my stuff in the living room, but quickly progressed into a treatise about how I didn’t take my responsibilities seriously. From there she slid into the You’ve-ruined-your-chances-to-get-into-a-good-college-over-frogs routine.
    So I slipped the