Upstairs in my room, silence crawls around me. The bed feels larger than I remember, even though I'm sure I've grown an inch taller this year. I think she'll probably come and save me. I think if I wait long enough she'll come up here with something to eat or she'll persuade me down to dinner. I wait forever. Eventually, I fall asleep. The windows are dark when I wake. My room has grown cooler, and other than that, the only thing I can feel is hunger.

By August, I start to sense that the season will end soon. The ice cream trucks will be replaced with school buses. My play clothes will dissolve into uniforms. The heart of my summer nights outside will drift from the low-lit, softly humming skies to the smooth, rounded cushions of the living room sofa. But when school fi­nally starts, neither excitement nor anxiety hit me. I do not worry about the home­work, or the newness of a classroom on the third floor. I sit in class all day thinking about what I will cook when I get home.