The Square Root of Summer Read Online Free

friendship. I never told her I had different plans, once we switched schools right before junior year—it was easier to wait for her to notice I wasn’t at the next easel.
    â€œPhysics quiz,” I explain.
    â€œWhatcha do to get thrown in the gulag?” she croaks. For a white-witch-tiger-balm-super-hippie, she sounds like she gargles cigarettes for breakfast.
    â€œDaydreaming.” I fiddle with my pen. “What about you?”
    â€œNothing,” she says. “It’s time to spring you.”
    When I look up at the clock, she’s right. The teacher’s gone. The room’s empty. Detention ended an hour ago. Huh. It doesn’t feel like I’ve slept for that long.
    â€œThey lock the bike sheds at five.” She stands up, fiddling with the strap on her portfolio. “Do you want to catch the bus with me?”
    â€œOkay…” I say, only half paying attention. I stare at the notebook: it’s only paper, but I shove it right to the bottom of my book bag like it’s to blame for what just happened.
    Was I really asleep? Is that where the last hour went? I think back to Saturday, a whole afternoon lost before I found myself under the apple tree.
    Perhaps I am insane. I take that thought, and shove it as far down as it will go too.
    Sof’s waiting for me at the door. The silence that rides between us all the way home is so heavy, it deserves its own bus ticket.

 
    Monday 5 July (Evening)
    [Minus three hundred and seven]
    Schere. Stein. Papier.
    It’s after dinner, and we’ve been standing outside Grey’s bedroom door playing rock-paper-scissors for twenty minutes. Food was eaten in silent disbelief after Papa suggested Ned and I might want to clear out Grey’s room.
    â€œDare you,” says Ned. Stein beats Schere .
    â€œYou first,” I say. Papier beats Stein .
    â€œBest out of, uh, fifty?”
    I’ve only been in there once all year. It was right after the funeral. Ned was leaving for art school in London and Papa was falling apart and pretending he wasn’t by hiding at the bookshop, so I did it. Not looking left or right, I took a garbage bag and I swept in everything I needed to—deodorant sticks, beer bottles, dirty plates, half-read newspapers. (Grey’s cleaning philosophy: “Here be dragons!”)
    Then I went through the house, picking out the things I couldn’t bear to look at—the enormous orange casserole dish and the Japanese lucky cat; his favorite tartan blanket and a lumpy clay ashtray I made; dozens of tiny Buddha statues tucked into shelves and corners—and I put it all in the shed. I did the same with his car. Papa didn’t notice, or didn’t say anything, not even when I rearranged the furniture to hide the spectrum of crayon marks on the wall, marking our heights as we grew up—Mum, Ned, me. Even Thomas, occasionally.
    Then I shut Grey’s bedroom door, and it hasn’t been opened until now.
    Paper beats rock, again. I win.
    â€œWhatever.” Ned shrugs, no big deal. But I notice his hand rests on the doorknob for a full minute before he turns it. His nails are pink. When he finally pushes the door open, it creaks. I hold my breath, but no swarm of locusts emerges. There are no earthquakes. It’s exactly as I left it.
    Which is bad, because there are books everywhere. Double-shelved from wonky floor to sloping ceiling. Piled up against the walls. Stacked under the bed. Word stalagmites.
    Ned clambers past me and yanks open the curtains. I watch from the doorway as the evening sunlight pours in, illuminating approximately eleventy million more books and sending up dust tornadoes.
    â€œWhoa,” says Ned, turning around, taking it all in. “Papa told me you cleaned it.”
    â€œI did!” God. I lurk in the doorway, afraid to go in any farther. “Do you see any moldy coffee mugs?”
    â€œYeah, but…” He turns away and starts