Text me at 9:45.

Sorry. Have to work today.

I kick out of bed, get dressed in my summer uniform of jean shorts and a tank, and braid my hair. After breakfast, I head across the street to the Weeks house, where I’ve been acting as mother’s helper to Mrs. Weeks for the last few days.

“Hello, little Mr. Cooper,” I say to the smiling infant in the bouncy seat, giving the seat a nudge so that the lights and music above will go on. He squeals with glee.

“Are you sure you’re okay, staying here with me?” Mrs. Weeks calls as she cleans out bottles in the kitchen. “Kane and the others are going to Long Beach Island for the day. I don’t want you to miss out on summer on account of me.”

“No, I’m good,” I tell her. I wasn’t invited, not that I would’ve gone anyway. I know that everyone’s going their separate ways at the end of August, but it already feels as though I’ve left that part of my life behind. I needed to. I only see Juliet once a month now, but when I do, she tells me that separating from my old life was probably the best thing I could’ve done.

On cue, Kane jogs down the stairs. He’s wearing swim trunks and an Under Armor shirt and has a beach towel stuffed under his arm. He puts his sunglasses on and snaps at me. “Hey. You here to babysit the Pooper?”

I nod, as Mrs. Weeks gives him a look. “What did I tell you about—”

“I know, I know,” he says, muttering under his breath, “Even though the kid is a poop machine. Catch you.”

He leaves, and Mrs. Weeks shakes her head. “Like he’s ever changed a diaper. So”—she looks around—“now that he’s out of the way, I wonder if you could help me with a job.”

I nod.

She brings me upstairs into Kane’s disaster of a room. “Yesterday I found ants in here. Crawling up the baseboard,” she says, shuddering. “He throws things around, and I don’t think it’s been thoroughly cleaned in years.”

I clench my teeth. “You want me to clean Kane’s room? Won’t he be upset about that?”

She shakes her head. “I don’t want you to clean. I want you to indiscriminately throw out stuff in there. I’ve warned him to do it on his own. This is war.”

She slides open his closet, and I stare in horror. There are no clothes hung in there. It’s like a Jenga tower of assorted belongings, all crammed in tightly. If it wasn’t all so tightly jammed in there, we’d be buried under an avalanche. “Oh my.”

“Just toss it. Toss it all.”

“Even the—”

“All of it.”