bobbing than actual writing.
For the past hour, my nose had been stuck to these pages. I’d managed to find a notebook with a few blank lines in an old drawer and used it for plotting out my article paragraphs.
More than ever, I hated myself for throwing away my prized possession—my writer’s notebook. Mrs. Gao would’ve had a heart attack. I missed the familiar texture of it, the stickers that covered the front. It was like I’d thrown away my best friend. But it was gone, and I’d have to get used to its absence.
I always found this method of plotting fun. First, I worked on a hard-hitting headline, which ended up being The Curveball Truth Behind Bayview Baseball. It was always fun playing with the phrasing, trying to get enough of a unique, eye-catching header.
After I got the headline down, I moved onto the hook and the thesis. They had to be enticing enough to attract a person who didn’t normally read.
Basically, I needed to attract a Walsh Hunter. With ‘baseball’ in the headline, I doubted I’d have much trouble.
Once I thought of Walsh’s name, my train of thought snagged on earlier this afternoon. We’d gone to a small little ice cream place by the bay, where I could order a slushy and Walsh could order his rocky-road. Strangely enough, I had a nice time. But that could’ve been from the fact that Walsh didn’t talk much, what with trying to keep his ice cream from dripping down his hand. Still, it was…nice.
Weird.
Mom’s signature sigh sounded as she walked down the hallway, a harsh exhalation that hinted at a long day. From the corner of my eye, I saw her figure drift into the kitchen.
We were soundless partners in this house. Despite that, I still strained with the one ear free of music, listening to the sound of the fridge opening.
“Of course!” Mom shouted from the kitchen.
I reached up and pulled the other earphone from my ear. My mouth shouldn’t have opened, but it did. “What’s wrong?”
Mom came back through the open kitchen, stepping into view. She still wore her workout clothes, sneakers loosely tied. Her hands were on her hips, her signature your father is irritating me stance. And, sure enough— “Your father ate my portion of dinner that I’ve been saving. And it was leftover spaghetti. I love spaghetti!” She threw her hands into the air. “Now, I have to cook, and it wasn’t my night to. Ugh!”
Of course she immediately blamed Dad. Did she ask me if I’d eaten her spaghetti? No. I mean, I hadn’t eaten it, but still.
Mom turned back into the kitchen and started slamming cupboards loudly, huffing under her breath. Open and shut, open and shut. A symphony of anger.
“I can make you something,” I said slowly.
Mom jumped at the chance, as if she’d been waiting for my offer. She pulled off her headband. “Oh, Sophia, that’d be great! Maybe some sandwiches? I’m going to go take a hot bath, wipe off the grime from the studio. Come get me when it’s done.”
With that, she turned on her heel and disappeared toward her bedroom.
I sat still on the couch, looking at the words I’d written down, but now they hardly made sense. What had I been expecting? Her to offer to help out? That we’d have a mother-daughter bonding moment over stolen spaghetti? Of course that wouldn’t be the case.
That would’ve required Mom to actually wake up and remember she had a daughter.
Slamming my notebook closed, I pulled the blanket off of my legs, wishing I’d never opened my mouth.
Chapter Seven
Most kids had summer jobs at their uncle’s farm or served at the downtown burger joint. I’d tried the whole waitress thing once, last summer at Mary’s Place in Greenville, the next town over. It went really well, up until I dumped a tray full of greasy French fries on this ancient man with more lines on his face than I could count.
The funny thing was that he didn’t even realize I’d dropped them onto his lap until I scrambled, face flaming, to pick them up before they burned him. He then threatened to call the police on the “groping waitress.”
My job there didn’t last long.
To compensate for my failure, I walked dogs.
Two feisty, blood-thirsty dachshunds currently tried to pull my arms from my torso, weaving in and out and wrapping the leashes together. The plastic retractable leashes that Mrs. Vasquez owned were broken, so the lead didn’t retract, leaving just knots of