I make as much noise as possible as I enter the house and stomp my wet feet up the stairs. No one comes to see what the fuss is about. Just Simon being Simon.
There is no air conditioning in my second floor bedroom but this early in the summer the room is only slightly stuffy. It’s not yet sultry and unlivable with the thick summer heat. I turn on my box fan and drape my wet clothes over it. I clamber into the bed, pull the comforter over myself, and wrap myself tightly. As I nod off I can only imagine that this summer will be as boring as ones past.
I’m woken by the rising sun poking through my tiny window. Both me and the blanket are soaked in sweat. The box fan had fallen over and was making a noise not unlike a jet engine. Again. No one comes looking. Just Simon again.
My clothes, now trapped under the fan, are dry and though they smell like chlorine – the aroma now comforting – I put them back on.
I walk into the kitchen day dreaming of breakfast. Bacon, eggs, toast, more eggs. Mmm. I’ve dabbled in being vegetarian though I’m usually halfway through a piece of bacon before I remember my shoddy commitment. I once ate a Slim Jim and tried to rationalize it to myself as not real meat.
As per usual there is no picture perfect breakfast waiting for me on the dinner table. Why is it called a dinner table anyway? I make a mental note to later look up the denotation.
All that waits for me in my usual spot at the table is a Foster’s Travel Guide New York City Edition.
“Mother?” Her head twitches in recognition though she makes no move to respond.
“Is this, umm, is this for me?” I finger the edges of the book with much reservation and skepticism.
“What did I tell you about saying “umm”?”
“That’ll make me seem slow.”
“You and your father are going to be staying with your Aunt and Uncle in New York.”