Mom had made it extremely clear—be polite and act helpful. "It's only for a month," she said, "and then I'll be back from my bus
iness trip."
"But Mom, it's the summer before high school! And what about my friends? I won't know anyone in Georgia."
"Sorry, Marissa, this can't be helped. Once you're there, I'm sure you'll meet kids."
That's how it was decided that I'd spend August with Grandma and Grandpa. It's not that I didn't like them; I just didn't know them. Mom and I lived in Massachusetts, and they lived in Georgia. Mom traveled on business, and they didn't travel. So the amount of quality time we'd spent together was pretty limited. In fact, I hadn't seen them since second grade—six years ago.
Mom flew with me to Atlanta and then caught her flight to London. The minute after she left the old farmhouse—the only house on the street—Grandma stood like a granite pillar in the kitchen and said, "You can put your stuff in the spare room." She pointed up the stairs, so I trudged up the staircase with a suitcase in each arm. The room was pretty basic—bed, desk, closet, clean sheets. Be polite and act helpful, I thought. I hung up my clothes and told myself that I was lucky to have family to help me and Mom when we needed it.
"Thanks very much," I said when I returned to the kitchen. "I hung up my clothes so you wouldn't have to."
"I wasn't intending to."
I took a deep breath. "I don't know if Mom told you, but I know how to do laundry—a little. I'm no expert, but I'm happy to help." Though, actually, I was hoping she'd tell me to go rest from my flight. . .or go get some fresh air. . .or meet some neighborhood kids. . .
"Wednesday is laundry day," she said, "but if you're eager to help. . ." She handed me a broom and dustpan. "The kitchen floor needs a thorough sweeping, and you might as well do the front porch, too."
I smiled, said something polite and helpful, and got to work, wondering if I'd have better luck with Grandpa.
I was sweeping the dust off the front steps as best I could when a streak of orange whizzed by. Actually, it wasn't a streak. It was a girl. A redheaded girl, maybe my age, on a bike. Where she came from, I had no idea, but she was the first sign of life I'd seen in this town except for my grandparents.
"Hey!" I called after her, but the orange streak just streaked off.
That night at dinner, after I'd helped wash the dishes, I asked Grandpa, "Does that girl with the red hair live around here?"
"Who?"
"There was a girl riding a bike on the road today."
"No kids live around here. Maybe it was a dog."
Grandma chimed in, "You're seeing things."
The next morning, as I politely stirred the oatmeal, I thought about "the dog"—the redheaded dog riding the 10-speed bike. Maybe she rode by around the same time every day. So after washing the breakfast bowls, I asked Grandma, "Do you want me to sweep the front porch again?"
"What a helpful young lady," she said.
I took off toward the porch. I must have swept it for 20 minutes before I saw the orange fireball rolling up the road.
"Hey!" I cried, jumping down the steps as she cruised by.
She hit her brakes. "Finally!" the girl said. "Another kid to hang out with!"
At the end of the story, how is Marissa's conflict resolved?
A. Marissa finally talks to the redheaded girl.
B. Marissa's grandparents buy her a 10-speed bike.
C. Marissa returns home to Massachusetts.
D. Marissa's mom comes home from London.
