In exactly seven minutes, the final bell would ring summer vacation into existence. I'd be rid of integers, fractions, and stupid poems about astronauts and spaghetti. But most of all, I'd be rid of Becky Martin and her chubby finger, poking me constantly to ask stupid questions or to just plain annoy me. I would be free like the wind. Free to roam the neighborhood on my bike with my friends from sun-up until the streetlights flickered and popped to life at dusk. Free to play ball till we were sore and weary, limp like a rag. Summer would be a chance to relax and be as worry-free as child could be. Sounds like summer in the West End is an electrifying thing, huh? Well, usually. But not this summer. This summer was about to be a total drag. This summer, I would get into the biggest neighborhood wedgie a kid has ever gotten into. And all of it is thanks to the nightmare known as my little brother.
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