Free Alone at 90 Foot by Katherine Holubitsky

leans back, aiming so Lupus gets a good run, just short of the house. He hurls the stick. Lupus tears after it.
    â€œNow that’s a healthy-looking specimen,” Jenn comments.
    â€œYeah. He begs to play every time you walk by the house.”
    Jenn looks at me with her eyes smiling. “I didn’t mean the dog.”
    I feel my face flush. She must have seen me looking

TEN
    I’ve decided that I’m going to be a shiftless drifter when I grow up. With no fixed address. It’s the easiest out. I am fed up with people asking me what I want to be. I can’t even think about it. These last few years have been so screwy, I can hardly think ahead to the next day. Even plans for the next hour can be iffy. Six years from now? It may as well be sixty.
    Mrs. Dalrymple came into homeroom yesterday to discuss course choices for next year. We should have a good idea of where we’re going, she said, so we don’t limit our options in the future. We haveto think hard about our interests and abilities. And discuss it with our parents. And remember, the world is our oyster. What a gross saying. It doesn’t make the least bit of sense.
    Some people know exactly what they want to do. Darla Miller wants to be a veterinarian. She’s been big into horses since she was six years old. Mike Ortega is going to take over his dad’s garage someday. He’s never considered anything else. Danielle Higgins wants to be, big surprise, a supermodel. Never mind that she’s only five-foot-two. Joanne is considering becoming an elementary schoolteacher, an engineer or a talk-show host.
    â€œIs that something you just decide to be?” I asked after Mrs. Dalrymple had left the classroom. I was referring to her third choice.
    â€œYeah, I guess so. If the world is my oyster, I can decide whatever I want. What about you, Pam?”
    â€œI already told you. A shiftless drifter.”
    â€œCan’t,” said Mandeep. “You’re already over qualified. You should have dropped out in grade eight. I’m going to take fine arts and play flute with the Vancouver Symphony Orchestra. What about you, Lynn?”
    â€œMy mom wants me to be a dentist.”
    â€œOoooo!” we all groaned.
    â€œHow could you stand to put your hands in just anyone’s mouth?” I asked. “Can you imagine, like,Carl Jenkins’? Or — or Mr. Bartell’s?”
    â€œOoooooo!” we all said again, including Linda.
    â€œI’ll be so good, I can be super selective.”
    Joanne looked at me. “Seriously, Pam. There are so many things you are good at. Look how well you did on your English essay. What about a writer of some type?”
    It was true. Mr. Bartell gave me ninety-six percent on the in-class essay we wrote on Thursday. He said I showed “incredible insight into the group dynamics of the tribes.” I think he was sucking up to me for causing me to lose it in class. “I don’t have any ideas,” I answered. “And nobody wants to listen, if you don’t have anything to say.”
    â€œWell, what about a forest ranger? Then you could spend all your time sitting up in a tree.”
    I made a face. “Why don’t you forget the flute and become a comedian, Mandeep?”
    Joanne wouldn’t drop it. “You like art. You like paintings. Who’s that artist you really get off on? You know, that weird one that had rodents for pets. She was a member of the Group of Seven?”
    I was forced to roll my eyes. “Emily Carr. She was not a member of the Group of Seven. And she wasn’t weird. You should be so weird that you can paint like that.”
    â€œCome on, Pam. Don’t get so hostile. We’re only trying to help.”
    And I guess they were. But there’s this thing I can’t tell them because they would never understand. A year and a half ago, I was, like, this little girl, still growing up. That ended, like, boom.