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hate to admit it, but I’m bored. It feels wrong to not take advantage of summer, but there’s only so muchI can do on my own. Benji is fully occupied with drama camp, which seem to be taking up some of his evenings, too. In past summers, whenever things got dull, at least we were bored together. Being bored on your own is a totally different story.
    I keep finding myself hanging around the Hair Emporium out of sheer desperation.
    “What’s wrong with you?” Denise asks, barely looking up from her magazine. “You’re spoiling the lovely, peaceful ambiance with your sulking.”
    Oh right, and her snapping her gum and tapping the toes of her shoes against the metal bar of the stylist chair isn’t?
    “I’m bored.”
    Denise sighs. “Must be nice to be young and have the luxury of being bored. These days I don’t have time to eat, let alone get bored.”
    “And yet you manage to make time to drop by here every day,” I point out.
    Denise ignores me and continues ranting. “Do you know how much time I’ve spent in the car this week? Twenty hours. That’s almost a full day! These sales calls are going to be the death of me. If I don’t drop dead from exhaustion, I’ll probably die in a head-on collision.”
    Mom makes a supportive murmuring noise and folds another strand of Denise’s red hair up in a little foil package.
    “Don’t you think you’re being a little paranoid?” I ask.
    “Think about it: I spend more time in a car than anyone I know. Odds are if anyone’s going to get in an accident, it’s me. I’m not being paranoid; I’m just considering the numbers.”
    “Didn’t you fail grade ten math?”
    Mom gives me a warning look that Denisecan’t see. “Why don’t you give Benji a call?” she suggests.
    “He has drama.”
    “It’s Saturday; I thought drama camp was just weekdays,” Mom says.
    “He’s decided to help out with the little kids,” I grumble, still not quite believing it.
    When Benji told me he’d decided to volunteer with the Kiddie Camp, I was completely shocked. Benji has never shown any interest in kids before.
    “But why?” I’d asked.
    “It’s good practice.”
    “Practice for what? It’s not like you get to act! You’re basically babysitting for free!”
    “No, but I get to help out backstage and with costuming. And Charity says any time spent with Dean, the director, is valuable. Did I tell you that he goes to theatre school? He had to audition to get in. They only take, like, ten people a year!”
    I knew then that he was a lost cause. Benji takes everything Charity says to be the final word. If
she
told him it was a good idea, I’d never be able to change his mind.
    “That Benji. What a sweetie,” Denise says now. “That kid is going places, just you wait.”
    I’ve had about enough Denise for one day. I stuff the magazine I’ve been idly flipping through into the rack and stomp up the stairs, making as much noise as I can.
    “Where are you going?” Mom asks.
    “Anywhere but here,” I say. “The smell of hair dye is making me nauseous.”
    “Come back, kiddo! I want to talk to you about dresses,” Denise calls after me.
    Fat chance.
    It’s after four. Surely Benji is back from babysitting future
Toddlers in Tiaras
contestants.
    But when I call him, his line flips right over to voicemail, which means someone is on the phone. The Dentonator isn’t a phone person, so it can only be Benji. I wait a few more minutes and try again, only to hear a click and the voicemail message, like before.
    Next door, the lights are on in the Dentons’ house, but everything is shut up tight because of the Dentonator’s obsession with air conditioning. Walking into Benji’s house in the summer is like walking into the frozen foods aisle at the grocery store. Before long your teeth are chattering and goosebumps have exploded all over your arms.
    I decide to head over to put in some face-time. The Dentonator answers the door, and cold, refrigerated air leaks