Getting Over Garrett Delaney Read Online Free

bit.
Nothing.
Garrett and I talk for hours, about everything under the sun: politics, philosophy, religion. He challenges me to think about the world in a whole new way. That’s real love: when you’re intellectual equals. The Ted Hughes to my Sylvia Plath.
    Except, of course, without that whole sticking-my-head-in-the-oven thing.
    I’ve barely closed the front door behind me when my mom bounces out of the kitchen, resplendent in matching aqua velour yoga separates. I swear she’s the only woman in the known universe who irons her loungewear.
    “Honey!” She beams. “I’ve been waiting! Are you ready for your surprise?”
    “Sure,” I say. “Let me just go change and —”
    “No need! Your gift is upstairs.”
    I follow her up. Everyone says that we look alike, with our Jewish coloring and dark, wants-to-be-curly hair, but she’s the petite, polished version, while I got my dad’s awkward height and bony figure — forever doomed to the Extra Tall section at department stores, and the continual assumption of gym teachers that I should be good at organized sports.
    “Close your eyes,” I’m ordered for the second time today. I wait patiently while Mom opens my bedroom door. “Ta-da!”
    I open my eyes — and promptly let out a wail of distress.
    “What did you
do
?”
    Gone are my haphazard photo collages; all my pictures are now neatly pinned on a bulletin board in the corner. My messy but totally personalized desk system has been reduced to color-coded storage boxes and a gleaming in-box. My collection of battered old books is nowhere to be seen, and the clothes I had carefully — well, lovingly — strewn across the night table, floor, and dresser …
    “What do you think?” Mom spins around, proud as a catalog model. “I reorganized the closet. See? Everything is color coded, with sections and boxes. And your desk is set up for maximum functionality, with a proper filing system and —”
    “Mom!” I interrupt, staring in horror at the organization she’s wrought on my perfect mess. “I thought we agreed: you keep your life coaching out of my life!”
    She’s unswayed. “But honey, you’ll love it. You can be so much more productive now. You know what I always say: an ordered environment means an ordered internal life!”
    “And you know what Nietzsche says?” I counter. “‘You must have chaos within you to give birth to a dancing star’!”
    Mom blanches. “Birth?”
    “It’s a
metaphor
!” I catch my breath. “And where did all my books go?”
    “They’re here.” Mom shows me the shelf full of neatly ordered volumes. Shiny, brand-new volumes. “They were all so battered and old. I replaced them with brand-new editions.”
    “But …” I gasp, lost for words. Are we even related? “That’s the point! That they’re old; they’ve been passed along from somebody else. They had notes in them! History, and meaning, and —”
    “OK, all right!” Clearly, Mom realizes that tampering with my library collection is an intrusion too far. She puts a soothing hand on my shoulder and back-tracks. “They’re still boxed in the garage. We can go get them back.”
    “Thank you.” I sigh with relief. “And, um, thanks,” I add, not wanting to seem like a completely ungrateful brat. “For all of this. It’s a … nice thought.”
    She smiles. “I promise, just a few days of the new system, and you’ll be convinced. It’s the first thing I do with my clients. And look, I even made you a wall chart with space for your personal goals and achievement schedule!”
    I sigh. “Thanks, Mom.”
    It was inevitable, I guess. For years now, she’s been just itching to get her hands on me: to turn me into one of her little clones, following their checklists and seven-step plans that she hands out like a grade-school teacher passing around paint-by-numbers sheets. She used to be cool, once upon a time — scatterbrained and artistic. She was into pottery, these weird abstract sculptures,