First off, I'm afraid of heights. I'm thirteen and already I know I won't be a pilot or lighthouse keeper. My mother usually leaves me alone. I'm the oldest of five kids. That's why I was surprised when she told me I had to build a tree house. She even bought the wood and nails and a schematic from Home Depot.
She said it was a constructive way to spend my summer vacation and would make it easier to invite friends over. I hated inviting friends over. I much preferred daydreaming.
I spent four weeks working on that thing, positioned within a large oak in our yard. Dad was at work all day and always too tired to help. When I finally pounded in the final nail I felt so proud. However, when I called up friends and invited them to join me, they all asked if it had WiFi.
At this point I have not spent one moment in this house. Why? Because I figured out why mom made me build it. I came home from school in September only to find my brother Allen cutting up a magazine for no reason, sister Allie had spit up Cheetos in the parlor, the twins, Lisa and Gilbert were fighting over the TV, our chicken dinner was burnt in the oven, the phone was ringing, the toilet wouldn't stop running and something smelled really bad.
Mom? Mom was up in the tree house, eyes closed, listening to an Enya CD.
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