Juniors Read Online Free PDF Page B

servants’ quarters with her dad, the chauffeur for the rich family.
    â€œRemember, she falls in love with one of the sons,” I say, reaching down for my backpack. “He treats her like shit. And the other brother treats her like shit too, but he’s moreresponsible and good in the end. I forget what happens. I just remember she’d watch their lavish parties from a tree.” I look at the coconut trees. Too tall and nowhere to hide.
    My mom laughs. She has the widest smile—it spans her face, practically to her ears. She looks like she should be splashing in the surf for a J.Crew ad.
    â€œWhat?” I say and open the door, but stay seated.
    â€œNothing, it’s just . . . you’re so articulate. So when you talk like a teenager—or swear—it makes me happy.”
    â€œThat’s funny,” I say. “What a lark.”
    She pats me on the head, then keeps her hand there. “This, too, shall surpass.”
    â€œI don’t like that saying either,” I say, moving away. “You need new sayings.”
    â€œIt’s from the script,” she says.
    â€œOh God,” I say, getting out. “No wonder we’re here.”
    â€œCome on,” she says. “Let’s look around!”
    I don’t mimic her optimism. Expressing acceptance seems risky somehow. Naive. I know there will be a cost to this. Still, I’m infected and am trying to tamp my enthusiasm down.
    My mom pops the trunk and takes out her rolling suitcase. I take my backpack and bags of groceries from our emptied-out fridge and follow her up the stone steps and into our new home.

4
    I HAVE A ST RANGE RESPONSE WHEN I FIRST WALK IN. The place feels affectionate. Like it welcomes and wants me there. Maybe it’s the flowers that someone left on the dining table, but it’s other things too. The light, the view, the colors, even the bright material of the furniture. The walls are a soft yellow, like butter pecan ice cream; the air is crisp and quiet. It’s air-conditioning, I realize, which we didn’t have in the condo. At our Kailua place, I was always on the verge of a sneeze—the mildew, the mold, the humidity. Everything here is pure. It makes me feel like I’ve done something right.
    â€œNice,” I say, relenting. I run my hand over the back of the sofa just beyond the dining table. The kitchen, eating area, and living room are all one great room.
    â€œOh my God,” my mom says, taking it in. “Isn’t this awesome?”
    â€œYeah,” I say. “It is.”
    The furnishings are all unique. Nothing matches—there’s a light green couch and bold, floral-printed love seats, and the dark wood dining table and the glass coffee table aren’t from the same set. Still, everything goes together. This makes each thing seem valuable, like it’s been collected over the years, ormulled over and chosen just for this room. It feels like our San Francisco apartment. I eye the flat-screen and the stereo. Music! My mom is inspecting the appliances in the kitchen. This doesn’t feel like a place where the leftovers are stored. It also doesn’t feel like something out of a catalogue, though it’s beautiful enough that it could be. It’s a home.
    â€œLook at all this fruit,” my mom says. I bring the groceries to the kitchen, where there’s an array of fruit in a basket. I wash an apple and bite into it.
    â€œMelanie’s so thoughtful,” my mom says. “Isn’t this amazing?”
    â€œThe fruit basket?”
    â€œEverything.” She spreads one arm out like a model on a game show.
    â€œAmazing,” I say.
    â€œGod, Lea.” Her face falls.
    â€œWhat?” I take another bite. “Whenever I don’t match your pep levels, you freak out. It’s great! It’s insane, okay? It surpasses. Oh ma haw, catchphrase.”
    â€œI’ll go unload some more,” she