It's only been a week and I'm already sick of this wretched house. As each hour ticks by, I often find myself wondering what my friends are doing back in Florida. I always place myself next to them on the bus or in the school hallway, but I know that in reality, I'm just a memory to them. Instead, I'm going chores in Wyoming. Wyoming is cold. Wyoming is boring. And worst of all, it's where I'm living now. Why did Dad get this promotion? Why did we have to move here? It just isn't fair. To top it all off, we were each assigned a chore to improve the new house. Mom was in charge of the unpacking and redecorating. Dad had window-repairing duty. My older brother, Sam, had to tidy up the backyard. And I had to clean the attic.
The attic. It was small and cobwebs were stitched in every upper corner of the room. Two or three layers of dust made it almost impossible to breathe. I told my mother that she knew I was claustrophobic and that I was going to slowly rot up there like all the junk the previous owners left behind. She didn't buy it.
"Brooke, you are going to clean that attic, whether you like it or not!" she exclaimed as she handed me a dust mask, gloves, and a few garbage bags. "Now, go."
I stomped up the stairs, making sure that my pounding footsteps could be heard throughout the house. When I tried to open the door to the attic, it wouldn't budge. After ramming my body against the door, it finally opened. I secretly wished it hadn't...
