Read Online My Almost Epic Summer by Adele Griffin - Free Book Online Page B

He got the snake with his best friend Dingo but he won’t tell me about the heart only gets a mystical look in his eye and says it’s complicated. When W.W.’s not being mystical & complicated he’s the funniest guy at camp—in that scary way that makes you glad you’re on his team. Choice Walt lines: “Let me translate that into moron for you” and “I didn’t realize you were fluent in clueless.” But it’s more the way he says it—kinda gotta be here . . . and I kinda wish you were here even if you claim tennis gives you heat rash.
    Drop me the news or give me 1 good reason why you won’t. What’d I ever do to chafe?
    t.t.f.n.
    La Whit
     
    I have zilch to report to Whitney so far, but I know that if I don’t write my best friend very, very soon, I’ll be in deeper trouble than anything my bargaining skills can navigate.
    So I hit Reply, take a breath and go for it.
     
     
    Whatsup Whitty-whitpecker—
    Wow do I get the Neglectful Friend Medal or what ??? but so much is Up—the Prior job is paying me big $$$ and I met this girl Starla who is the coolest and we’ve been hanging out. Last nite we met up with these two awesome guys in the Lotsa Tacos parking lot—Matt and Lars—surfers visiting from Malibu Beach!! I got together with Lars after—
     
    My fingers stop. Who am I kidding? Even my most brave and vivid flare of imagination starts to sputter when attempting to picture myself hooking up with some random surfer dude named Lars in a fast food parking lot.
    I send my cursor chomping backward and try again.
     
     
    Whitly—
    Sounds like you are having an amazing summer. Lucky you to get to go tennis camp, and here I can’t even afford a tennis racquet! So much for justice in this world. Some of us get bonfires and sing-alongs, others are resigned to the grim fate of the downtrodden, underpaid for overtime and nothing to—
     
    Nope. I delete that one, too. I stare at the blank message Reply space, hypnotized by my inability to spin my summer into anything that sounds remotely fun, and feeling a touch sorry for myself that I have so little news to work with at all, until the sound of the front door unlocking snaps me from my trance. It’s Mom, with our Chinese takeout dinner.
    Which makes it easier to decide that I’ll tackle the Whitney write-back issue on a full stomach of egg rolls and shrimp fried rice.

A Bad Angel
     
     
     
    THE NEXT DAY, it’s Evan’s turn to go work at the Plugged Nickel. “I do the inventory, since I’m gifted at math,” he tells me, his chest puffed out like a superhero. Though he has absolutely improved from last summer, there’s still a good chunk of dork left in ole Evan.
    But Judith doesn’t seem to mind or notice. She reaches out and rumples his hair. “Say, Irene, you should ask your mom to hire Ev. She’s always talking about the chaos in her stockroom.”
    I don’t answer. I’m still on guard about the Priors deciding that I’d be an unwelcome addition to the world of small-business owners. Now it seems to be Mom’s turn under the Prior spyglass.
    When Lainie and I ride out to Larkin’s, I make her work hard to keep up. Judith’s comment has annoyed me.
    “Jeez McCheese, I’m happy you don’t ride Evan’s bike every day!” puffs Lainie as we lock them at the stand. “ ’Cause you sure are a fast bike rider! I bet you could win that big ride they put on television.”
    “The Tour de France.”
    “Yeah, I bet you’d clobber.”
    “I’ll go slower on the ride home.” It’s not fair to take my petty grudges out on Lainie. I open a juice pouch and give it to her to rehydrate.
    Starla stands leaning against her chair, her chin uplifted, hands resting lightly on her hips, watching the water like a supremely bored sea captain. I’m coming to realize that there’s something slightly unnatural about how Starla expresses and arranges herself, as if she knows about all the attention people are beaming onto her—even when she isn’t