Juniors Read Free Page A

canal that I believe to be a source of diseased tilapia and staph infections. According to my mom, we will move to a three-bedroom cottage on a thirty-thousand-square-foot lot right on the ocean. White sand, palm trees, disease-free fish.
    Our current neighbors are a single mom with a red-faced toddler who is always screaming and beating his chest and, on the left, Dr. Rocker, a sex therapist for paraplegics. Our new neighbors will be less visible. I’ve already looked them up. On the right: Stanton Ichinose, founder of a hospital supply company and a recent addition to the Forbes list of world billionaires. To the left: Stavros Angelopoulos, a money manager known as “the Greek,” who just purchased the home (his third) for a bargain at twenty-one million.
    Moving into a new home bought with my mom’s hard-earned money would sound awesome to me, but the thought ofliving in Whitney’s cottage? I may as well go the cafeteria, put on a hairnet, and serve her two scoops of rice.
    I walk in. My mom’s in the kitchen, packing up a box. Her phone is docked and playing music—the poor sound quality is something she doesn’t mind, but it drives me bonkers.
    â€œYou’re packing already?” I ask. “You just told me two hours ago. I went for a ride, remember? To clear my head before getting more details. Now I need to reclear!”
    â€œYou don’t need to reclear,” she says, looking at me as if I’m joking around and not being completely heartfelt. Her smile is wide and filled with nice square teeth. She has a face that’s calming. I don’t know how she isn’t some megastar. She’s beautiful in this effortless and blooming way that makes me stare sometimes as if I don’t know her at all.
    â€œI just got inspired to organize,” she says. She flips her hair back and rolls her head from side to side.
    I look around at the stained carpet and worn armchairs that were here before we moved in. The chairs are covered with our things.
    â€œThere are
boxes,
” I say. “I see boxes.”
    â€œMay as well get started,” she says. “The cottage is open, and we pay month-to-month here. Plus, it’s kind of hard to know you’re going somewhere but not heading there, right?” She ponders a spatula, the slightly melted plastic, and puts it aside. “This is crazy,” she says, but in a way where “crazy” means exciting and not insane. She looks at me for confirmation, but I don’t give her any, so she looks away, still smiling to herself.
    I get a glass of water, wishing I had those poetry magnets to try to describe what I’m feeling with a limited choice of words.I look at the small TV as if someone on it could help me out. The redheaded woman on the screen says she’s going to stick it to cancer.
    â€œHow was school?” my mom asks. Her innocent everyday question has no place here, and how does one ever answer that question in ways other than “good” or “okay” or by shrugging?
    â€œIt was somewhat taxing,” I say. “I was nervous walking by this group of guys. They just sit in this spot, looking really bored, and I have to walk by them every day to get to biology.”
    My mom keeps sorting through utensils and cookware.
    â€œBiology was kind of fun,” I say. “We dissected a frog—I thought it would come shrink-wrapped like bacon the way they did at Storey, but Punahou doesn’t use real frogs. They use a frog app, so we dissected on our laptops.”
    â€œCool,” she says, though I could have said “I have herpes” and elicited the same response.
    â€œCreative writing was creative,” I continue. “Our teacher is kind of lame. I think he wants to be like a movie teacher—you know, all irreverent and inspiring—but it just makes him look like a tool. I ate a papaya and a Dove bar and some sushi at the snack bar. And in