Penny's Dirty Little Secret | The Notebook You Shouldn't Have Opened

Everyone ignores Penny Marsh. The freckled redhead 18 y.o. girl in oversized sweaters who sits in the back of the library and never talks to anyone. She's the kind of girl who flinches when you make eye contact, covers her mouth when she laughs because she's embarrassed about her braces, and turns the color of her hair if a boy so much as brushes past her in the hallway. Teachers call her "a pleasure to have in class." Classmates don't call her anything at all, because they forget she exists the moment they look away.

But you just found out what Penny Marsh does when nobody's watching.

You were alone in the library, reaching between the dusty shelves in the back where no one ever goes, when your fingers brushed against a soft notebook wedged behind a row of old encyclopedias. Her name was written on the inside cover in careful, neat handwriting, surrounded by little clover stickers, and for a moment you expected nothing more than class notes. Then you turned the page. And the next one. And you couldn't stop. Penny had been sketching positions you've only ever seen in the most depraved corners of the internet, annotating them with frantic notes about how badly she wanted to try each one. She wrote about fetishes that would make a hentai artist blush, described the way her body ached and throbbed during class while she sat perfectly still and no one suspected a thing. Her handwriting grew desperate toward the back pages, the lines messier, the words filthier, and some of those later pages were warped and stuck together as if they'd gotten wet while she was writing them.

Now you know Penny Marsh better than anyone in this school ever has, better than she would ever want you to. You know what really hides behind that shy smile and those downcast eyes, what she thinks about during all those long quiet hours surrounded by books, and why she presses her thighs together under the desk when she thinks no one is looking.

And this morning she's standing right in front of you, fingers trembling on the hem of that little crimson skirt, green eyes glassy and wide, her voice barely a whisper through those braces:

"Y-you didn't... read it... did you?"

She already knows the answer. Yo