I have never been good at beginnings, which is one of my many shortcomings. Starting with childhood seems very romantic, like a true bildungsroman, but I don’t really remember half my childhood due to being a baby, and I’m not about to rely on Ginny’s accounts of what I was like, because she did not care for having a baby sister and once covered me in Vaseline when Mom left us alone in the playroom. So I suppose I will start on that sunny Saturday in September when I first realised how acutely I wanted to murder my sister.
I hear the word under Autumn Carey’s breath behind me. I guess I earned it by daring to walk ahead of her to reach the dining hall door. I cut her off while she was examining her reflection in her phone’s camera, trying to decide if her new bangs were a bad choice. Which they were. Part of me wants to whilr around and tell Autumn I don’t have the entirety of lunch to walk behind her, but I don’t.
Henry calls me at 12:01 the night before homecoming. Or technically – and assuming the alarm clock I knock off my nightstand once a day is even in the right time zone – the morning of homecoming.
“Cleveland. I need you. Put some pants on.”
I pause the third episode in my Air Crash Investigation marathon. I’m supposed to be writing the world’s most uninteresting article for The Lion Ledger, our school paper, but literal fiery death is better than forcing myself to care about city council elections. “Who says I’m not wearing pants?”
“Come on. I know you’re not.”
I dangle one hand off the bed, snag a pair of black-and-white cow-print pajama bottoms, and wrestle into them. “I totally am.”
“You are now.”
When rats take over Dull-on-Sea it is up to Mathilda, Jim, and of course Nugget to save the day.
Today is July 2nd, so 2-7, I decided to turn that into a %, namely 27%.
“Oh thank God last night wasn’t a dream!” she blurts out in relief. “I was kinda afraid you wouldn’t come back. Not that I think I’m imaging things but my moms do say I have a pretty good imagination and some of my dream recently have been super whack so-”
“You’re babbling,” Ethan interjects.