Spent an hour and 43 minutes cleaning my room before Sydney came over to work on our report. Found $1.42, that math homework I searched all over for last semester, and half a sandwich that might have been turkey. The dinner pictures turned out good. Sydney scanned them in her computer and blew them up. Everyone has a cool computer except me. We’re not using the picture with my arm around her. Our cheeks look really red in it. I wish I wasn’t too wimpy to ask her for a copy. After we finished the report, we just talked. About Spanish class, swimming, cars, books. She’s read every novel Edith Wharton ever wrote. I dropped that I’d read War and Peace over winter break. She said she liked a man who could read Tolstoy. A man. When I showed her my complete collection of S. E. Hinton novels, she said “Wow” like she was looking at football trophies. Of course I didn’t mention my other collections—the box of comic books in my closet or the Scrabble stuff hidden under my bed. She volunteers at the Boys and Girls Club once a week.
