Summer Unplugged Read Free Page A

your grounding this summer."
    She says it like it's a business proposition. I think she's done a damn fine job of handling my grounding – I have no connection with the outside world thanks to her. What else does she want to do, put me behind bars?
    "What do you mean?" I prepare myself for whatever she's about to say. I bet it sucks.
    She looks at her cuticles. "I can't control you here. You're going to spend the summer with your grandparents. And you're still grounded while you're there."
    Oh my freaking God I am not prepared for this. "When?"
    Mom's lips are straight. She doesn't look me in the eye when she says it. "Tomorrow."
    I freak. Grandma lives in a creepy, presumably haunted house in the middle of nowhere. Even if I had a cell phone I wouldn't get reception. Why oh why is she doing this to me?
    I don't say anything.
    "Please don't try and fight this. I believe it's for your own good," She says. The pizza turns rancid in my stomach.

Chapter 6
    Since I'm the only family member going and I don't have a car, I'm forced to take the bus all the way into BFE where my grandparents live. The three and a half our drive is a nightmare without my cell phone or laptop. Mom had given me a lousy book to pass the time. Island of the Blue Dolphins …said it was her favorite book as a girl. I refuse to read it out of spite.
    The bus makes a few stops and is nearly always empty, disappointing me each time by having no interesting riders. The seats smell like pee and poor people. My dreams of sitting next to a group of hot college guys definitely won't come true. I don't talk to anyone. I don't do anything but stare out of the window. It's a boring view from start to finish.
    I arrive exactly on schedule and it's amazing how the bus companies do that. Grandpa waits in the parking lot of a small convenience store that doubles as a bus stop. He's driven the same black Ford F-150 truck since before I was born. It still looks brand new when I crawl inside.
    "Hi, Grandpa," I say, shoving my heavy suitcase into the backseat. He nods and pulls out of the parking lot.
    "Bayleigh, nice trip?" My grandfather is not a man of many words.
    I nod. His lips press together in acknowledgement. The wrinkles in his face have gotten deeper and the hair that doesn't fit under his cowboy hat is grayer than I remember. We say nothing for next fifteen minutes but it's not uncomfortable silence. Grandpa doesn't speak to anyone.
    We pass so many farms and ranches with massive wrought iron monogrammed gates that I start to wonder if it's mandatory to grow some kind of crop or raise livestock to live in this town. The house next to Grandpa's has a new lake in front it. An awkwardly shaped, rectangular ellipse hole in the ground that I'm only assuming is a lake. I can't see any water in it from the road. That definitely wasn't there last time I visited and neither were the dozen lumps of dirt that now separate the neighbor's house from my grandparent's.
    "What kind of farm is that?" I get out of the truck and Grandpa grabs my suitcase and hauls it up the porch stairs. I follow him.
    "That ain't a farm. It's a kid ruining the damn land."
    I don't understand, but don't ask any more questions.
    Gram knits a blanket and watches soap operas. "Who is this?" she asks, smiling when I walk in the living room. I don't know if she's joking or being serious. Gram is sweet but a little batty. Sometimes calls me by my mother's name, sometimes forgets my name altogether. She sometimes tells me the same story multiple times.
    "It's Bayleigh," I say, hugging her carefully to avoid becoming a Cyclopes with one of her knitting needles.
    "It's so good of you to come visit me. Old ladies never get any attention."
    I suspected this . Mom didn't tell her this was my punishment, but made it seem like I wanted to come see her. Right, because no internet and no cell phone is exactly how I want to spend my entire summer.
    At least the food is good. We eat dinner at exactly six. Play cards