I posted this already. It's just a recap. I've written more, but this is just for the people who didn't read any of it.

This has got to be the hottest day of the summer, I thought, turning the notch on my pocket fan onto full blast.

It was June 19, the day after school let out in Addison Hollows, New Hampshire. When I checked my iPod touch in the morning, it was already 87º, and I bet it had reached the high 90s since it was 2:45 pm.

I really wanted to go inside, but my mom kicked me out of the house. “Go outside and enjoy nature that isn’t made out of pixels!” she had said.

Yeah right.

So there I was. Suddenly, I heard a loud, angry rrrrrring sound and my ponytailed dark brown hair fell into my face. “Shoot!” I cried. “Battery’s dead.” I chucked the fan across my yard, slamming into the basketball hoop and landing on my mom’s car.

I heard a snicker, and a familiar and irritating voice called from behind me and I jumped. “What’d the fan do to you?”

I turned around and saw a redheaded boy with countless freckles, a mischievous face and elfish features. He was riding a burgundy mountain bike with no helmet, and wearing a stupid-looking t-shirt that said, “I LIKE NARWHALS. YOU’D BETTER TOO.” Freddy Paterson.

Freddy Paterson made me upset to live on Lodgement Drive. He was the most annoying boy in my town, and I tried to avoid him as possible.

I picked up a tiny pebble smaller than my nail and hurled it at him. “What are you doing here?” I growled.

He threw me back the rock. “You mean in my neighborhood?”

I glared at him. “No,” I muttered angrily. “I mean at my house.”

“I’m not in your house,” he said, clearly amused by this. “I’m in the street, technically not in your house. Or your property.” I glanced down to his feet. He was right; his orange and black Reebok sneakers were planted on the asphalt.

My face felt hot. “Whatever,” I said, my voice in a mad whisper. “But what are you doing here anyway?”

“I came you annoy you.”


He smirked, and I guessed that was what he wanted all along. “Whatever the queen asks,” he sniggered. And with that, he hopped back on his bike and pedaled his way onto Ginger Street, the main road little Lodgement Drive was connected to. Good. He was gone.

I need shade, I thought, my sweat dripping into my open palm. Literally dripping buckets, I dragged myself to the back of the cul-de-sac and slipped through the towering oak, spruce, elm, and pine trees in the small forest at the end of the street.  Finally, I appeared at the street at the other end of the forest, Pembrook Lane.

            I dashed through somebody’s yard so they would not see me. Leaping up stairs, I rammed on a dark brown door of a blue house. 

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