My Almost Epic Summer by Adele Griffin

you tomorrow.”
    “Wait. Tell me your books.”
    “I can’t think of any right now.”
    “C’mon. Sure you can.”
    “Well, okay, I read . . . Monster and . . . The Cherry Orchard —that’s a play. And . . . and . . .” But it’s as if somebody is holding a straw to my ear and sucking out my brain through it. There’s a roar of emptiness inside my head where my book list should be. “It’s so late, I can’t think.” Then I laugh in a way that sounds suspiciously like a giggle.
    Drew laughs, too, as if my impaired conversation is subtly clever.
    “I guess I better go,” I say. “My mom . . .” But just mentioning my mom makes me feel too self-conscious, and I can’t finish.
    “Wait,” he says again. And then we are both just breathing in and out on the phone. The joined sound of our breath stands up the hair on my arms and the back of my neck. It strikes me that the last thing I would ever want to do is hang up this phone. “I’m almost done with this paperback,” Drew says. “It’s called On the Road . I’ll let you have it when I’m through.”
    “Great.” I don’t want to tell him that I’ve already read it. “And I’ll . . . I’ll talk to Starla tomorrow.” I wince. Saying Starla’s name is worse than saying Mom. It effectively shatters the moment.
    “Okay.”
    “Good night.” No, not good night. I could have said anything but good night. Good night means I am ending the call. What is wrong with me?
    “Oh. G’night.”
    I listen to Drew click off. The hand that held the phone is damp. I lie down in my bed, my eyes wide on the ceiling. My mind is all noodly and my whole body is tingling. I don’t know what to think first. As confusing, as complicated as it is, for the first time this summer, I realize that I am not living in the corner of my life. Something Epic is actually happening to me. Right now. And I didn’t even have to move to Los Angeles.

I Attempt to Explain Myself
     
     
     
    AN HOUR LATER, I am still awake. I go online. There’s one e-mail, from Whitney.
     
     
    From: [email protected]
    Um, Irene . . .
    Did you send me those bad jokes as a joke? B/c I did not laugh at any. I’ll give ya a tax free charity laugh to the one about what do bald guys put for hair color on their driver’s license. The others were excroosh. Way thumbs down.
    Get this today I find out behind my back Walt told this kid Rich Curie that I looked like an Australian prairie vole. I found one online and it is so so not true but I wonder how many people Rich told. So I broke up with Walt and I’m not speaking to Rich. I will never look at another example of the defect male species. From now on it’s tennis tennis tennis and nothing else which is what I should’ve been concentrating on in the first place . . .
    Send me a real letter and no nyuck-nyucks.
    W.
     
    Dear Whit—
    There’s this guy who might like me.
    Delete.
     
     
    Dear Whit—
    Do you remember Drew Fuller from a grade ahead of us? Well now he is hot and he called me at midnight.
     
    Delete.
     
     
    Whitty—
    That sucks about Walt. Think of it this way—if you’d married him, you’d be Walt and Whitney Waterman, which sounds like a cartoon and people would be smirky behind your back about it. If you’re feeling the need for revenge, you could always start a rumor that he told you he peed his bed until he was twelve.
    So there’s this guy, but I’m not writing about him right now because I don’t want to jinx it. You’ll be the first to know if anything happens.
    It’s almost three in the morning so I’ll send a longer letter when I’m conscious.
    Your-reen.
     
    Not great, and too brief for what I owe Whitney. But it’s better than no mail at all.
    It even feels like a jinx to mention Drew at all, but I hit Send.

My Resolution, and Its Sequel
     
     
     
    THE NEXT DAY, as soon as I see her, I tell Starla about Drew’s call.
    I’ve resolved to tell her because:
    A. It is the Heroine thing to