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Chapter 4
My back screamed as I leaned forward to grab the stupid weed. I’d been at it for hours, the sun beating down on my neck, sweat dripping off the end of my freckled nose. Sunscreen would help my sensitive pale skin only so much. I was surely going to burn, despite the sunscreen I’d liberally applied. I grabbed the tiny weed and carefully pulled, slowly, working it this way and that way to try and get the whole root. As I pulled, I cursed in my head. I hate this. I hate maintaining the garden. I hate weeds. I hate the soil. I hate everything about gardening. Every Saturday I’m outside pulling weeds, transplanting all the potted plants into bigger pots, pruning and trimming and fertilizing, and generally getting too much dirt under my fingernails. And every Saturday, I think about giving it
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