yours.

[1] Miles

Up. Down. Up. Down.

I toss the dentist-office rubber ball up, and it floats for a brief moment, then falls back into my waiting palm. Up it flies, down it falls. And up, and down, and up, and down.

Finally, it rolls from my hand, breaking my fifteen-toss streak and landing harmlessly on the blanket beside me. Grunting, I scoop it up with a tired hand and let it rest against my chest. With nothing left to keep my attention, I can't help my brain from wandering to the one thought I've been trying to avoid since the start of this summer -- a whole two days ago. My heart sinking, I glare at the cream-colored ceiling above me, wondering why.

Why all my friends had to leave for the summer.

Why my family can't ever think of anything fun to do.

Why, for the first time in my life, I want to go back to school.

I glance down at the red-and-black spotted ball in my hand and throw it as hard as I can against the wall across the room, cringing as the resulting sound echoes out of my room's open door.

My older sister Chelsea pauses outside my room on her way down the hall. "Miles, what are you doing?" she snaps. Her eyes trace down my body, which lies stretched out on the navy sheets of my bed. "Did you not listen to a word Mom said this morning?"

I roll my eyes, fixing my gaze on the ceiling again. "I didn't. You know I didn't."

She leans against the doorframe and clutches a thick, textbook-like thing to her chest. "Well," she starts, and I hold in a groan at her usual pretentious tone, "she told us to stay productive this summer. 'Ten weeks is enough time to do anything you really want to,'" she quotes.

"Inspiring," I mock.

Chelsea pushes away from the white frame. "Say what you want, but I'm taking it to heart." She pats her book lovingly. "I'm finally starting this beauty right here. Why don't you start... going to the gym, or something? You need it."

"Ha-ha, very funny," I call after her as she disappears into her own room. 

I let my eyes shut as I refuse to let myself mull over my mom's words. And of course, the more I try not to think about them, the more I want to. Sometimes I can't help but hate my brain.

Relenting, I sit up on my bed, definitely not thinking about how, even though I'd never admit it, my mom's reasoning makes... a little bit of sense. I know I can't just spend all summer slumped on my bed like I am now -- that would be no fun for me, or anyone else in my house, really. And I have been working on reaching level 50 of Strike Brawl lately...

My eyes drift to the PlayStation connected to the dark, dormant monitor against the wall opposite me. Then I let my head fall back against my pillow, which is now a gross, sleep-repelling kind of warm.

Going over to start up my monitor would take too much work, and I don't want to move, not yet. Not ever, maybe.

I roll over with a huff and stare out of the window beside me. I'm not the great, "productive" son my mom wants me to be right now, but it's fine. I don't meet most of her standards, anyway. For now, I resolve to relax, maybe take a nap... and that's when I see the moving van.