Summer Unplugged Read Free Page B

for an hour after that. Watch the eight o'clock news and then go our separate ways for bed. Only it's eight-thirty and I'm not sleepy. The crickets and the howling wolves outside aren't sleepy either. I don't hear a single car honk or loud bumping music like I would hear at home.
    I keep reaching for my cell phone but it isn't there. I keep thinking of things to post as a Facebook status but there is no Facebook here. I'm only a few hours into this summer and it already feels like I've been dumped on an isolated island and left to starve to death.
    I'm staying in Mom's old bedroom. It still has the same canopy twin bed and writing desk she had as a child. Her stuff is all over the place. I used to think it was fascinating, but now I hate it. All of the memories and heirlooms of my mom's just remind me of her and how rude she was to send me here. This isn't a mere punishment – this is hell.
    The only cool thing about this room is that it's upstairs and has a balcony with a view of, well acres and acres of nothing, but still – it's cool. I hang out here for a long time, dragging a beanbag out so I don't have to sit on the wooden balcony. I stargaze for an eternity that is actually only five minutes. I count as many stars as I can see, and get bored after thirty-six. Then I try closing my eyes and daydreaming about Ian. Wish I could pull out my cell phone and text a status update to my Facebook. It'd say:
    Bored as all hell. So bored in fact, I may just drop dead.
    A voice catches me off-guard. "You should learn to take a hint." It's a male voice, coming from the neighbor's backyard.
    I freeze in the beanbag chair, not wanting to move and give myself away. A shadow comes into view just to my right. I turn my head and squint in the dark to see him. He's a younger guy, definitely not a grown man but probably older than high school. He's wearing dark jeans and no shirt, holding a cell phone to his ear. I guess some phones can get reception out here. "I don't care what you feel," he says, running a hand through his short hair. It looks green from the reflection of his porch light, but it's probably brown. "You should have thought about that before you fucked that dude."
    I gasp and turn away, feeling guilty for eavesdropping on such a private conversation. I'm glad he doesn't know I'm here.
    "Stop calling me," he says, his voice weary. "I don't want to hear from you again, or I swear I'll break this phone in half."
    I let out a deep breath. Break his phone in half? He has no idea what life is like without a phone.

Chapter 7
    Bright and ridiculously early the next morning, I help Gram dust the obscene amount of pig knick-knacks that stretch from the living room into the kitchen and down the hall. She's been collecting pigs since the invention of time. She doesn't even own any real pigs. As we work, Gram sings oldies – not the oldies that I know, but the old oldies. I pray to stumble upon a time machine so I can go back to last week and not piss off Mom.
    I can't seem to shake the habit of slapping my back jeans pocket, reaching for a cell phone that is not there. Not that I have anything of importance to tell anyone, but some random friend 's text would help so much right now.
    We finish the pigs and Gram makes us turkey sandwiches and then settles into the living room to catch the beginning of her soap operas. She doesn't give me any more chores to do so I assume I'm free for the afternoon and that actually sucks more than cleaning. It is so boring here. There is no cable TV so the only channels are playing soap operas, divorce court, a show about cheating spouses and Spanish soap operas.
    I decide to take a walk outside, hoping I'll trip and fall off the porch, slip into a three-month coma and wake up in time to go back to school. A police car turns into the driveway. Dust from the gravel road puffs around the four tires. Grandpa was tending the flowerbed and now walks up to the officer's car door to talk to him. I sit on the