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This summer had better be better than the last， I mumble to myself as I wipe a thin sheen of sweat off my brow. The paper towel is soaked through， so I crumple it in one hand before tossing it out an open window.
Oops. I shouldn’t have done that—littering is what hooligans do.
I cast a furtive glance around the smooth damask curtains. There is no one out and about， no one to witness the crime I had just committed—of course， any sane human being is indoors， comfortably enjoying their air-conditioning and flipping through glossy magazines， sipping from icy glasses of watermelon granite.
I’m not half so lucky. A teenager of my caliber can ill-afford to be caught reading celebrity gossip. No， instead I am concentrating on an old， battered copy of Faust， a special translation by Bayard Taylor. This guy is a genius—he made every line rhyme perfectly， somehow managing to capture the beauty of each canto in its original Germanic melody. Shame I never learned German.
I slam the book shut， a trifle pettishly. The heat is oppressive， absolute torment， but at least I can amuse myself by tapping incessantly on the giant goldfish bowl in the living-room. Tiny colored pebbles staining the glass bottom. Its three small inhabitants scramble for cover as my face looms over their horizon.
There used to be more of them， nine at least， but they all died off due to constant neglect on my part. I hadn’t spared them a single look in the past few weeks， my mind trapped in a constant state of panic—high school looming over MY horizon， pressure and expectation and self-doubt. I hadn’t given much thought as to how I would survive the next three years; the human life span is so much longer than that of the average rabbit—Wrong move， I chide myself. Those two rabbits Mama raised last year are still stuck in the freezer. They had been my loyal companions for six months straight， but in the end they had to go. The community service wouldn’t let us keep them. Plus， they smelled simply awful， and weren’t at all entertaining to boot. So we got rid of them， one bright summer morning， just like today.
That wasn’t my first experience concerning pestiferous pets. One of my earliest memories was of sticking a finger between the bars of a rabbit cage. The stupid animal bit me straightaway. I refused to scream， only glared at it until it let me go， strange for a five-year-old， yes？ This was before we moved from one province to another， before life turned upside-down and memories became a mere diversion.
Oops. I shouldn’t have done that—littering is what hooligans do.
I cast a furtive glance around the smooth damask curtains. There is no one out and about， no one to witness the crime I had just committed—of course， any sane human being is indoors， comfortably enjoying their air-conditioning and flipping through glossy magazines， sipping from icy glasses of watermelon granite.
I’m not half so lucky. A teenager of my caliber can ill-afford to be caught reading celebrity gossip. No， instead I am concentrating on an old， battered copy of Faust， a special translation by Bayard Taylor. This guy is a genius—he made every line rhyme perfectly， somehow managing to capture the beauty of each canto in its original Germanic melody. Shame I never learned German.
I slam the book shut， a trifle pettishly. The heat is oppressive， absolute torment， but at least I can amuse myself by tapping incessantly on the giant goldfish bowl in the living-room. Tiny colored pebbles staining the glass bottom. Its three small inhabitants scramble for cover as my face looms over their horizon.
There used to be more of them， nine at least， but they all died off due to constant neglect on my part. I hadn’t spared them a single look in the past few weeks， my mind trapped in a constant state of panic—high school looming over MY horizon， pressure and expectation and self-doubt. I hadn’t given much thought as to how I would survive the next three years; the human life span is so much longer than that of the average rabbit—Wrong move， I chide myself. Those two rabbits Mama raised last year are still stuck in the freezer. They had been my loyal companions for six months straight， but in the end they had to go. The community service wouldn’t let us keep them. Plus， they smelled simply awful， and weren’t at all entertaining to boot. So we got rid of them， one bright summer morning， just like today.
That wasn’t my first experience concerning pestiferous pets. One of my earliest memories was of sticking a finger between the bars of a rabbit cage. The stupid animal bit me straightaway. I refused to scream， only glared at it until it let me go， strange for a five-year-old， yes？ This was before we moved from one province to another， before life turned upside-down and memories became a mere diversion.