Operation: Best Break Ever
Ten days.
Two hundred and forty hours of absolute, uninterrupted freedom, and I have every single minute of it planned out in my head like a general preparing for battle. No math homework. No Mr. Denga asking me to "please explain your work" when the honest answer is that I guessed. No alarm clock except the one my body sets on its own at 6 a.m. out of pure trauma, which, fine, I haven't figured out how to turn off yet, but that's a problem for future Travis.
This is going to be the Best Break Ever. I know that because I wrote it at the top of my notebook in letters so big I had to turn the page sideways, and underlined it three times, and one of those times I pressed so hard the pen nearly went through to the next page, which Mom says means I "have a lot of feelings" but I say means I have a lot of *plans*.
I'm sitting on my bed with said notebook open on my knees, running through the list one more time before we leave for Vages Bay, because a list is only as good as the number of times you reread it while wearing your favorite hoodie and eating cereal directly from the box like a raccoon who's figured out how to use a spoon.
The list goes like this:
BEST BREAK EVER —…
