Tuesday, February 11th, 1997
Dear Diary,
Hi. You probably don't know me yet, so I'll introduce myself. I'm Amber McClay. I'm 13. My sister's name is Tara, and she just gave me you as a friend, since I don't have any. I'll name you something eventually, because 'Diary' is so cliched. And a stupid name. How about Deirdre?
No.
Okay, that's creepy. How can you talk back? Though seriously, you're right. Deirdre is even more cliched, as a 'D' name, than 'Diary'. What should I call you, since you can talk?
I like the name Miranda. Did you know Shakespeare made that name up for his play The Tempest? It's a good play, you should read it. And I can talk because of you. Your power bewitches me. To talk! Not in a lovey way. Not that that would ever work, anyway, because I'm a book and you're a person... I once dated a pink journal with hearts on the cover, but he dumped me. Ironic, right?
What? Yes, ironic, I guess. And no, I didn't know that. We're reading The Tempest in school next year. But, WHAT?
You have power. You are a rare True Wicca. More I can't tell you, as I don't know myself.
Goodbye, Miranda. I'll talk later. Bye!
Amber left her room, determined to tell Tara that her diary could talk. Tara, of course, didn't believe her, but she never did. She tried to be a good sister, though, giving her the diary- no, Miranda. It- she- had a name. A self-given name. That was freaky. However, not as freaky as that weird guy who sprang at her neck yesterday who was in desperate need of a facelift and a dentist appointment. He must have been part of a light show or something, because he turned into dust. He had an aura, though, which is hard to replicate in a light show, and he felt real. And then this short blond girl asked if Amber was okay. She was, just shaken up. Nobody believed her about anything.