Our Lola, with all her "GOOD VİBES" grace and childhood innocence, is leaning against Drake's shoulder. She's whispering her most intimate, sweetest memories—how she used to sleep for hours in wardrobes as a little girl, waiting for the back wall to open into Narnia. Her soul is searching for magic, her heart is waiting for a "Miracle"!
And what is Drake doing? He's kissing her hair, leaning into her neck...
"STOP! STOP! STOP!" I screamed from the rafters, flashing purple lightning with my cape.
"Is our first kiss really going to be wasted on this bead-swinging macho crisis? As Madison, I cannot allow this!"
ASTIIII! I thundered so hard the heavens and earth shook!
And then came the moment... Mr. Drake proved with one poisonous sentence that he hadn't listened to a single magical word about Narnia. He wasn't focused on her soul, only on his own "ownership" of her body.
