I do not own anything remotely beach-appropriate.
I drag myself out of bed and face the wardrobe situation with a sense of d.
I fear that neither of these options is going to be viable. It is 9.07 a.m., which means I have one hour and twenty-three minutes to develop a hospital-worthy disease, or for my parents to decide that we need to move, immediately, to Peru. I extract my feet from my tangled sheets and grab my phone from the nightstand. I can already tell that it’ll be way too hot today. The sun is streaming through the gaps in my curtains. To quickly assess the difficulty of the text, read a short excerpt:
What reading level is Life in Outer Space book?
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