hoodie lying on the bed.
“So, let’s start with that sweater of yours!” she says, reaching down to take it.
“Absolutely not!” I scowl, whipping it off the bed just in the nick of time. “Not my warm, cozy, special-occasion Hollister hoodie!”
“Special-occasion hoodie? How is that a ‘special-occasion hoodie’?” she asks.
Hmmm … out of all the reasons I just listed for why this sweater should absolutely not be included in the sell-it pile, she had to pick that one! Figures.
“Well … well …” I hesitate. “It was a special occasion when I bought it.”
“Hannah …” Rachel reaches to take it from me.
“No way!” I yell, tightening my grip.
“It’s too small for you!” She tugs at it.
“No, it is not!” I protest, tugging back.
“Yes, it is, Hannah,” she says, tightening her grip.
“No, it’s not!” I say, giving my hoodie a good yank.
“Hannah, the cuffs don’t even cover your wrists anymore.”
“Only when I lift up my arms or stretch or something.”
“Give it to me!” She yanks at it again.
“No, Rachel, please find something else,” I plead in desperation.
“Come on, you can do it,” she prods.
“No, I can’t,” I stammer.
“Yes, you can. Tough love, remember?”
“You really think it’s too small?”
“Yes, Hannah. It’s definitely too small.”
My fingers are stiff and getting sore and my knuckles are turning white.
“Are you sure? I mean they could totally be like three-quarter-length sleeves, you know.”
“They’re not three-quarter length sleeves. It’s TOO SMALL, HANNAH.”
“Really?”
“Yes!”
“Okay, fine. I give up.” I know she’s right. We’ll have to use this stupid “tough love” rule or we’ll never find anything to sell.
“Hannah.”
“What?”
“You have to let go of it.” Rachel frowns.
“Oh yeah, sorry,” I stammer as I uncurl my fingers. “Take it quick before I change my mind.” I turn my head so I don’t have to see her toss it on the pile.
“Now, that wasn’t too hard,” she says smiling.
“Yes, it was.” I flex my sore fingers, look over at the pile, and sigh.
“What next?” She rubs her palms together as she scans my room for more loot.
* * *
For the rest of the week we practise Rachel’s “tough love” method to sort our junk and it turns out there is a lot of it. I can hardly believe that tomorrow is the big day: Operation Yard Sale. We’re super pumped and ready to sell. Good thing, too, because up to this point the only thing Operation Win Tickets has produced is frustration.
We’ve been calling into the station every day since the beginning of the contest and we haven’t gotten through, even once! This is extra crappy because every time we called, we had the right answer. I’m not going to let it get me down though, because tomorrow is going to be a great day and our yard sale is going to be a major success! I can feel it in my bones!
* * *
BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! Bang! It’s 5:45 a.m. and I think I may have smashed my alarm clock. Oh well, at least I made it stop. I roll over and shake Rachel. “Get up,” I whisper. She’s not moving an inch.
“Rachel, it’s time to get up,” I say a little louder this time. Still nothing. I’m pretty sure she’s not dead; she’s just not a morning person. But this morning of all mornings she needs to move!
“RACHEL LYNN CARTER!” I yell.
She pries open one eye. “Mom?” she whispers.
“No, you loser! It’s Hannah. It’s time for our yard sale!”
She pries open the other eye and kind of stares right through me and then closes them both. Then she does the unthinkable — she rolls over and starts to snore. Unbelievable!
This won’t do! I grab her by the ankles and start pulling her out of bed. As she kicks me away from her, I remember just how much she values her sleep. So there she is, half hanging out of my bed, sound asleep. I have no choice but to finish the job, so with one swift pull of her feet, she is on the floor, moaning. At least she’s awake.
“What’s that sound?” she says with her eyes still clamped shut.
“What sound?”
“I think I hear rain,” she growls.
Just then a branch smacks against the window with a loud crack.
I rush to the window to confirm Operation Yard Sale is a complete washout.
6
Vegetarians Don’t Eat Chicken
So, here we are 6:00 a.m., Saturday morning with nothing to do but listen to rain, which is coming down in buckets. The wind is howling, and the lights in my bedroom just flickered. According to the guy on the radio, we’re in the middle of a tropical storm. No wonder the windows are rattling.
Rachel shrugs. “Too bad we couldn’t have had the yard sale last week when it was warm and sunny.”
“Guess we should have checked the weather forecast.”
“Yeah.” Rachel frowns. “Your dad is a meteorologist.”
“Well, maybe I could have asked him if he were ever home,” I say throwing up my arms in frustration. “He’s always working now, and when he is home, he’s tired and grouchy. You know what? His new job kinda sucks.”
“Yeah, your mom said the same thing when she was over for yoga the other day. Anyway, let’s remember to check the forecast next time, okay?”
“So, I wonder what else we forgot?”
Rachel throws her arms up. “Advertising! We forgot advertising.”
