A Girl Like You by vinnie Kinsella (good books to read for 12 year olds .TXT) 📕

For Dummies, which I was studying to understand the monstrously daunting spreadsheets I faced every day at the office.

“I’m going off Tinder and Facebook. I haven’t met anyone since the catfish, and I’m sick of Facebook.”

“Yeah, Facebook sucks,” I agreed, closing the manual, which hadn’t taught me shit about Excel.

“It’s all about how great people’s lives are, how many beautiful people they have around them, how many promotions they’ve gotten. I am so sick of the photos of cute babies and dogs.”

“We have a cute dog,” I said, smiling at Penny as she wagged her tail at me.

“Yeah, but do you post pictures of her?”

“I did when she wore that snowman sweater for Christmas,” I admitted, stroking her little rump with my toe.

“Don’t even get me started on the selfies.”

“You know it’s all fake—right, Ian?”

“Yeah, Mom, but that doesn’t make it any less aggravating.”

I followed Ian, and Penny trotted after me to the living room, where he flopped on the couch.

“Truth is, I’m not going to meet women at school, because my classes are just guys.” Penny jumped up onto the ottoman, then settled down next to Ian.

“Not a lot of women studying STEM? That’s a shame.” I shook my head. “There should be more women in math and science.”

“Can we please stay focused here?” Ian said.

“What about the library?”

Ian rolled over and started scratching Penny on the head. “They’re all with friends, and it’s just stalkerish to keep staring.”

“What about the gym?”

“They all wear headphones,” Ian said. “What am I supposed to do, gesture for them to take them off?”

I’d run out of cheerful, motherly suggestions.

“How’s the Excel going?” Ian said, changing the subject.

“Not good.”

“Get the book out; I’ll help you.”

“You’re the best, Ian.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he said, sitting up and putting Penny down on the carpet. “No offense, but I wish someone else would think that.”

47

Every few years, the town had a “household debris” clean-up day, which meant people could drag items out of their basements, garages, sheds, and God knows where else and leave them at the curb for the Department of Public Works guys to haul away.

The phones at work went crazy the week before clean-up day. I must have said a hundred times the town wouldn’t take away major appliances like washers and dryers, computers, or large-screen TVs. Scarily, everything else was fair game.

A few days ahead of the pick-up, people started making piles at their curbs with paving bricks, mattresses, doors taken off their hinges, rolled-up carpets, artificial Christmas trees, and curtain rods. There were scuffed suitcases, broken umbrellas, rusty bikes, bent basketball hoops, and scratched-up cat towers.

But some of the curbside items were hidden treasures: wall clocks shaped like anchors, sets of dishes, coffee tables just waiting for a shabby-chic makeover, wicker chairs, pool toys, gardening tools, desk fans. Meredia became one big garage sale without any price stickers.

As good-quality items began to appear at curbs, a strange phenomenon began: people started shopping through their neighbors’ piles and carting things away in their back seats or trunks. Most of the shopping happened at night when people could skulk away unseen. Some called it “junk-picking,” others called it recycling.

There was an element of sneakiness to it, going stealthily into the night, and I didn’t want to miss any of the fun.

Step one: put out my own toss-out pile. I still had Ian’s baby clothes in storage bins in the basement. It was way beyond time to part with them; that third child had never come along. Friday after work, the night before clean-up day, I first dragged our old kitchen table, still smeared with red crayon, to the curb. Then I brought out two table lamps, an old orange vase, a set of coffee mugs I’d bought on Amazon and never used, a pair of skis Madd had used twice, and a bunch of hardcover books with dog-eared pages.

“Got anything good?” Lily rode up the sidewalk on her scooter to watch.

“I may find some doll clothes, if you’re interested.”

“Cool.”

“You guys put anything out at the curb?” I asked.

I lined the lamps up on the coffee table and propped up the hard covers with a set of elephant bookends I’d dug out.

“My mom put out three octopus pillows, but someone already took them.”

“You mean pillows for an octopus to use?”

“No, silly. Pillows shaped like an octopus,” Lily said, furrowing her eyebrows.

“Thanks for the clarification. I would have nabbed them myself if I’d gotten there first,” I laughed.

“Grandpa walked me around to look at stuff, but he said I could only get two things, and they had to be washable.”

“Your grandpa’s a smart guy.”

“You said that already,” she reminded me.

Lily helped me arrange some fabric daisies in the orange vase. We set out some old beaded necklaces and a few tarnished silver bracelets. By the time we were finished, it looked like a small curbside boutique.

“Yours is one of the best junk piles out there,” Lily said admiringly.

After she scootered away, I texted Eddie to meet me at 9:00 that night, and to wear dark clothes. We were going junk-picking.

Eddie’s CRV was black, so he drove. I fortified us with bags of cheddar popcorn and Gatorade so we could make a night of it. We went immediately to the neighborhood with the biggest houses, the ones that gave the kids full-sized candy bars on Halloween. Eddie drove slowly so I could look out the window.

“Remind me again why we’re sneaking around at night to do this?” Eddie said.

“Because it’s a little embarrassing to pick through people’s throw-aways in broad daylight,” I said, craning my neck to peer into the dark and kicking myself for not bringing a flashlight. “Anyway, all the good stuff will be gone by morning.”

The first house had a heaped pile of clothes and a washing machine. I sighed heavily. Hadn’t the flyer explicitly stated no large household appliances? Did people not know how to read?

At the next house, several well-organized bins were set out, just ripe for the picking. I got