You know what’s worse than being caught by your little brother singing “Beat It” at the top of your lungs while you do a little corn-weeding? Having him follow you down the row singing, “Showin' how funky and strong is your fight. It doesn't matter who's wrong or right,” doing a little dance and stopping only to say, “Come on, Gen, you know you’re feeling it.” All morning long.

Have I mentioned that my dad is really freaked out by bears? Apparently one came into one of the cabins last spring.

My dad and Gavin went back to the house to get water. ARE there really bears out here? My dad said if you’re all by yourself you should sing to keep them away.

I think I might try that singing thing to let them know that I’m here. But the way I sing, a bear might attack me just to make me stop. And the only song I know all the words to is “Beat It.”

Okay, get this: I am standing in the middle of a cornfield. I am holding a hoe. As my mom said when we were setting off to work in the field, we are farmers now.

Here’s the thing: being a farmer is BORING. I am halfway down one row, there are ten rows to go, and it’s already taken TWO HOURS.

Now guess what? None of us could go outside this morning because we forgot to feed the chickens and they were now waiting to attack us every time we took a step out the door. We were prisoners for, like, an hour. Until that girl my age whose parents own the camp came by with some food.

That girl’s name is Nora by the way. She still doesn’t like me. Or anyone. She was really snotty about the fact that we barely had anything to eat and hadn’t figured out how the pump worked.

It’s the middle of the night now. Guess why I can’t sleep? Because I have to share a bed with my little brother. He’s ten! He’s a boy! He steals the covers! How is this even possible? I’m going to die.

This is what it’s like to sleep with Gavin: right now his pillow is soaked in drool. He mouth breathes and I can smell his nasty breath.

Not to mention he tosses around all the time and has pulled the quilt we are sharing onto the floor.

And that the mattress is hard and thin and laid on top of a hammock woven from rope that digs into me at every time I move.

Is this really going to be me for the rest of the summer––someone who pees standing on the outhouse bench, guessing where the hole is?

Oh, my God. Oh, my GOD. I just used the outhouse. For the first time. It was dark. I was feeling around for the seat with my hand and it was slimey! EEEEEEEEWWWWWWWWWWW!!!