The book about the fruit street house wasn’t long. It was tough though, it took a long time to be finished, like chewing gristle from a steak bone.Its words were confused and foreign, yellow and purple, like a fruity salad. My sister and before have had to read it, it sleeps on a shelf until we stir it. It never changes, never ages while we move on with our lives.

I did not want to spend my hot stewing days on the fruit street house book. Nobody cares. So I sat blistering-inside- and read about the girl with a watery name and her caterpillar life, her gripes and glass decisions. I understood, her anger and fear. Her life made you sad likea dying fish. I understood what they want me to think about the book, but I didn’t feel likeplaying the poetry game, forcing false tears, writing salty words. I did not like the fruit street house book, and it chewed away my hours like a termite to an ancient house.