It was raining. Not a downpour, but still hard enough to get me wet.
“You can walk,” my mother said.
I could, but didn’t want to. A mile – straight uphill – isn’t exactly a walk in the park. Especially for an undersized seventh grader.
“I packed you an umbrella,” she continued.
I checked my backpack. So she did. But it was the cheap one, the one that turns inside out at the slightest gust.
“I’ll see you at home,” she said before ending the call.
I hung up my phone.
Maybe she won’t, I thought.
Maybe I’ll never make it home.
The Weekday One Hundred 