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CHARLOTTE JACKSON'S QUEST for the creator of the notes began at approximately one fifty-three on a chilly January afternoon as she sat, questioning the meaning of life [what she often did when she was bored, with her thoughts clogging her brain simply because she had no one to talk to] on the cold, plastic bus seats, riding on home.

It was when she dug her hands in her fuzzy hoodie pocket that she felt the crumpled-up note from yesterday, which triggered the realization that she hadn't received any notes.

It was odd, to say the least, because they would always show up sooner or later within the day, whether it be in homeroom or at the dismissal bell.

But she was on the bus, and no note had come her way.

Maybe she didn't notice it today. Maybe it was too hidden. Maybe she just missed it.

Or what if something happened to the writer of these notes? What if they were sick, or got hit by a car on the way to school? Or maybe they were poisoned at lunch. Oh god, that's morbid.

These notes were strange. She liked them, she did. They got her through the day, and they've helped her through the year so far. But it was weird to think, someone made these for her, every day. She hadn't processed this thought since the first couple notes came her way, when she had freaked out that an anonymous person was contacting her through little notes and [strangely] cute, encouraging phrases.

This was extremely odd, as she hadn't not gotten a note all year.

Maybe they just didn't feel like making notes for her anymore.

But Charlie suddenly felt the need to figure out the person who wrote the cheesy pickup lines and [creepily sweet] compliments after realizing someone took their own free time to write down every single comment and joke, and they paid attention to details about her no one else had.

As soon as the bus roared to a stop at her bus stop, she speedily walked home and sauntered through the door.

When she had her mind set on something, she had her mind set on something.

The bell to the bookstore where she lived dinged, a sign of her entrance. She climbed up the long hike of stairs after stairs, finally reaching her room and completing the task without any siblings or parents disturbing her train of thought.

She dove onto her puffy comforter lying on her bed and reached out for her drab, ratty notebook with pages falling out.

She plucked a pencil off of the side table beside her bed and rolled it around, weaving it through her fingers.

Her legs were crossed on the bed and her long, brown waves of hair floated around her face as she stared contently at the journal. She blew a puff of air at her bangs, that were blocking her vision.

One way to start off, she supposed, was to remember all of the people who had been absent to school. She could take that list and narrow it down by looking at everyone on the list's handwriting to compare it with the note's style of writing. If the results were negative [meaning no one's handwriting matched up], she could always try another approach, like maybe make a list of all the people that would want to write a note to her every single day [that list was extremely short].

Detective Charlotte was in the building today.

She eagerly scribbled on the top of a blank page, mentally applauding herself for that ingenious idea. Her writing stated, in big letters:


On the first line she scrawled: POSSIBLE REASONS FOR BEING NOTE-LESS TODAY underlined multiple times. She slapped a couple bullet points on the page, so it now read:

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