Nature Girl Read Online Free

drive to Rutland, see a movie while they wait for the car to be fixed, and then spend the night with their friends, who probably have an Internet connection AND cable TV.
    Mom goes upstairs to get my sneakers and my school backpack. It’s still full of sixth-grade junk from last year. Notes from Lucy, unfinished homework assignments, my wallet with my emergency money, and a book that was supposed to be for independent reading.
My Side of the Mountain
. It’s about a boy who runs away and lives by himself on a mountain. Dad gave it to me last Christmas. It’s the kind of book grown-ups think you should read just because they liked it when they were kids in the last century. Dad wrote on the inside flap, “For Megan, who can do it too!” He always tries to be encouraging. Only I’m not sure what he means by “do it,” because I never read the dumb thing.
    Mom starts to take the book out, but then she puts it back in.
    “I’m not going to read on a hike,” I say.
    “You might want to read it when you’re spending the night with Sam’s family. Did I tell you that they have their very own cider mill?”
    This plan gets worse and worse. And then Mom puts things in my pack: two water bottles, a tube of sunscreen,a bottle of insect repellent, a sketchbook, three charcoal pencils, a pencil sharpener, a rain poncho, and a sweatshirt. Finally she puts this totally stupid baseball cap on my head. It says “I ♥ Vermont” (translation: I Am a Dork!).
    Of course I take it right off. “What’s all that junk for?”
    “These things will come in handy on your hike.”
    “Two water bottles?”
    “There won’t be drinking fountains along the trail. And you should never drink water from a stream. You’ll get sick.”
    If I have to carry all that junk, I definitely don’t want to go. “Maybe hiking is too dangerous for a girl like me.”
    Then Dad comes into the kitchen. “What do you mean? Hiking is just what you need. You’ll come back with a whole new sense of accomplishment. You’ll have a wonderful time. Just think what you’ll discover.”
    I know all I’m going to discover are new ways of being miserable.
    “So why don’t you take a hike?” I mumble. But like I said, as soon as
ART
time is over, they’ll drive off in the car and they won’t be back until tomorrow.
    Since I can’t drag them along, I decide to bring our dog, Arp. He’s sleeping peacefully in his usual spot under the woodstove. I yank him out by the collar and put on his leash. “C’mon. You’re going too.”
    He looks at me like he’s saying, “Why are you taking me outside? It’s not time to pee.”
    Arp is a city dog. He’s white and fluffy and about thesize of a bag of tortilla chips. We’ve had him since I was in first grade. I wanted to call him Poppleton. But, as usual, nobody listened to me. Instead Dad named Arp after a dumb painter who invented Dada. Dada isn’t baby talk. Dada is a bunch of guys who sat around talking about how beautiful painting was a bunch of baloney. I don’t get why teachers like Dad think those guys are such geniuses. If I say how dumb everything is, they drag me to museums and make me stare at paintings until I learn to APPRECIATE.
    Arp should be on my side, since he hates Vermont as much as I do. But Arp is Mom’s baby. He always whines until she picks him up and carries him around. He won’t even eat unless she feeds him from her hand. It’s disgusting how much nicer she is to him than to me.
    Mom puts a bag of dog food in my backpack and hands Ginia a paper bag.
    “What am I supposed to eat?” I say.
    “Your food is in there too.” Mom points to the bag.
    “Can’t Megan carry her own lunch?” Ginia says.
    “It was easier to put everything in the same bag,” Mom says.
    “But Ginia is such a pig, she’ll eat it all,” I say.
    “I am not!” Ginia says.
    “Are too!” I make pig noises.
    “Then you carry the lunch,” Ginia says.
    She shoves the bag at me. It feels so heavy,