My sincerest apologies to all Sarah Dessen fans!!

While Sarah Dessen doesn’t have an extremely distinct style like Stephen King or some of the other authors people have written about, she’s still (in my opinion) a very good author. Her books always involve a lot of introspection and character development. So, while both of these are difficult to imitate in about 500 words, I’ll do my best.
Pine trees are sticky. This fact became abundantly clear to me about three branches up from the needle-blanketed ground, and was something I probably should have thought of before I started climbing, but then again, if I’d actually planned something out before doing it; I wouldn’t be Claudia, would I? My complete lack of forethought, coupled with my impulsiveness, has gotten me into some pretty sticky situations, no pun intended.
As I pushed through the last painful, bothersome, sharp-needled branch, a breeze washed over my face, gently at first, then more forcefully, almost threatening to knock me off my perch on top of the pine tree. I settled myself on top of one of the branches, and looked out at the roofs of all the houses stretching out beneath me, remembering one in particular.
My feet dangled from the windowsill, the edge sticking into them uncomfortably. I squeezed the berry as hard as I could, but it was too much for my seven year old fingers. I reached back in frustration to hurl the berry as far as I could and laugh as it spun through the air, but before I knew it, it was snatched from my fingers and squished between my best friend’s. He handed it back to me and I grinned as I merrily squished the berry against the fence in front of me until it stuck, red juice trickling down the fence like a dying stream. We attempted to write various words and phrases, but never got more than a few letters before the berries started falling off. I was picking one of them off when I felt the fence tremble, and looked over in time to see my friend pulling himself onto the roof. He waved at me from the top and I followed immediately, climbing as far up on the fence as I could, then hopping up to the roof.
We ran around on the roof for a bit, relishing the view and the fact that we were on the roof, definite no-no territory for any seven year old. We continued frolicking until we heard the distinctive melody of the ice cream truck jingle and my friend bolted off the roof, lowering himself over the edge until his feet touched the fence, then throwing his weight onto those few planks of wood we were vesting so much trust in. He called impatiently to me from the ground, the prospect of frozen goodies fading as fast as the sound of the ice cream truck song.
“I’m coming meany butt!” I called back. There was just one problem; I wasn’t going anywhere.
My feet didn’t reach the fence.
While jumping from the roof to the fence would be just as easy as jumping from the fence to the roof, landing would not. Needless to say, we didn’t get ice cream that day.