This will be the last text I send you for 9 weeks.

That text was followed by: What will you do without me?

Probably get more sleep.

True. Me too. What happens if I like being without a phone? No. That can’t happen. Even if I like it, I would never let my parents know. They’d enjoy that too much.

I smiled and rubbed my eyes. I’ll miss you! Don’t like any hot Italian boys more than me.

You too!

Pretty sure I’m not in danger of liking any hot Italian boys in the near future.

Funny. I meant the missing you part.

I know. Safe travels. Call me from a pay phone if you ever get a chance. Do you think they still have pay phones?

I don’t know. We shall find out.

I stared at my phone, but there was nothing more to say, and it stayed quiet in my hand. It really was going to be a slow summer without Rachel and Justin. My finger, almost as if it had a mind of its own, swiped across the screen and pulled up a website I had saved as a favorite. Wishstar Art Institute Winter Program Application. The program of my dreams. The program that my art teacher told me would bolster my college applications and help me get into a really good art school. Plus, it was Wishstar. They had amazing instructors, and I was dying to spend part of the winter holiday with other artists. We would spend two solid weeks learning new techniques, working with all sorts of mediums, and being inspired by the speakers sharing their success stories. I wanted to meet actual professionals in the field and, along with bettering my own art, this would help me do that.

I studied the page again, like I had a million times in the last six months. I read through the requirements, which hadn’t changed. Age, experience, letter of recommendation, display/sales history. I was finally old enough. They only accepted high school seniors and above. And in the fall I would be. I had heard most attendees were college students and even older, but that wouldn’t stop me. I had experience—a whole portfolio of paintings I could attach. I knew who I wanted to write the letter for me. I had only one more thing to accomplish before sending off my application: display/sales. I had never had my art on display anywhere outside of school. And I had definitely never sold a painting before. But I had a plan. I smiled, excited by the thought again, and threw my covers back.

I shuffled down the hall into my bathroom, where I nearly tripped over my mom, who was lying on the floor. The cupboards were open and shampoo bottles and hairspray and window cleaner lined the floor next to her. In one hand she held a flashlight, which she was pointing under the sink, and in her other hand was a flyswatter.

“Uh. What are you doing?” I asked.

“Have you ever heard of a brown recluse?”

“The spider?”

“Yes. I was just making sure you didn’t have one under your sink.”

“Did you see a web under there? Or is there a sucked-dry mouse corpse?” I squatted down to get a better look and sent a bottle of conditioner toppling.

“No, I read a story about a teenage girl who got horribly disfigured by a brown recluse spider when reaching under the sink for her Herbal Essences. Then I remembered that’s where you store your extra shampoo. I figured I’d better check.”

“Mom.” I picked up the bottles on the floor and began shoving them back under the cupboard. “Stop reading horrific internet stories and immediately applying them to our lives. If I’m going to be horribly disfigured, it better be in my own original way.”

She sat up and gave me a stern look. “Abigail. Don’t joke about that.” Her dark hair stuck up in crazy waves around her face, like she’d rolled straight out of bed and into my bathroom.

I clicked off her flashlight and brought it to my mouth like a microphone. “Can I have my bathroom now? I need to use it.”

She sighed and stood. “I have to check the other bathrooms anyway.”

I locked the door after her and turned on the shower. My eyes went to the cupboard. I opened the door and peered in, then shut it quickly. I rolled my eyes. There were no spiders in the bathroom.

After a quick shower, I pulled on my standard summer wardrobe of cut-off shorts and a tank top. I arranged my blond waves up into a ponytail and went to the kitchen. The oatmeal was on the top shelf in the pantry, so I stood on my tiptoes and fished two packets out of their box, poured them into a plastic bowl, and added water. By the time the oatmeal was done heating and the timer went off, my grandpa was awake. His feet made a scuffing noise on the tile because he didn’t pick them up very high when he walked.

“What’s this?” he asked, coming into the kitchen. “The princess doesn’t need her beauty sleep today?”

“Funny, Grandpa.”

“Your grandma used to think I was funny. No woman has found me as funny since. It’s a tragedy.”

“Her death or that no one has found you funny since?”

“Oh, a wise guy, huh?”

My grandma had died from cancer three months before I was born, so it was literally a lifetime ago. Not knowing her made it so I couldn’t really miss her. But I knew my grandpa did, even when he joked about it. Grandpa had moved in with us after she died.

“Do you want some oatmeal?” I asked Grandpa, holding out my bowl, which I hadn’t eaten from yet.

“No, I want something with lots of sugar in it.”

“I’m sure this has plenty of sugar. It’s two cinnamon-and-spice packs.”

“But it’s masquerading as healthy, and I can’t forgive it for that.” He got himself a bowl and a box of cereal from the pantry.

“Grandpa, how did you live to eighty when you eat so bad?”

“I am not eighty. Why do you always insist on adding years to my life? It’s like you’re trying to get rid of me.”

I retrieved a spoon from the drawer and sat at the table. I pulled my bare feet up under me and took a big bite, then immediately regretted it, because my tongue was on fire. I sucked air into my mouth.

“That’s instant karma right there,” Grandpa said.

“You’re mean,” I mumbled through my mouthful.

My mom joined us. “Our house is spider free.”

“Did you spend the morning killing spiders?” Grandpa asked.

“No, hunting spiders,” I said. “Internet spiders.”

She put her hunting gear on the counter.

Grandpa sighed. “You need to stop reading stories on the internet.”

She ignored his statement. “What are we eating?” She peered into my bowl and then my grandpa’s.

“Oatmeal,” I said.

She raised her eyebrows at Grandpa. “That isn’t oatmeal.”

“I didn’t say it was. Your daughter is eating oatmeal. I have Cocoa Krispies.”

“Dad.”

“What?”

“That’s too much sugar for a prediabetic.”

“Well, when you feel like going to the store to stock up our shelves with acceptable items, let me know.”

The smile fell from her face. My mom hated going to the store. She hated going anywhere outside of her comfort zone. Especially when my dad was gone, like now, deployed to the Middle East until the end of August. Eleven more weeks. We could handle eleven more weeks. My mom was always a lot better when he was around. It hadn’t always been like that. She used to have a tight community of military wives at each place we moved (five different cities between my first year of school and my seventh), who seemed to help her transition better. But four years ago she decided she wanted me to have more stability, so when we moved to the central coast of California, we bought a house away from military housing, and she declared it our permanent home. I was so happy. For the first time, I had friends I knew I wouldn’t have to leave. But my mom seemed to struggle. More every day.