“Are you going down to the ocean?”
I glanced up as I ate my breakfast of semi-burnt toast with marmalade, a glass of milk, and a bowl of runny oatmeal. My mom stared at me, waiting for an answer.
“Ruby, Are… you… go… ing… down… -“
“Knock it off Mom!” My red hair swiftly whipped around as I said that. “I’m going okay? Don’t treat me like a little kid.” I puffed my cheeks until they were bright red, a chipmunk holding nuts in her mouth. Honestly, Mom worried too much.
“Okay! Sheesh! You don’t have to yell Ms. Grouchypuss,” she exclaimed. “I was just wondering if you need me to tag along.” When she called me “Grouchypuss”, it struck a nerve. I wasn’t in kindergarten and I was going to start middle school soon.
I half - heartedly gulped down the bowl of oatmeal (which had gone cold and felt like pig slop), drained my glass of milk, and stuffed the rest of the toast in my mouth.
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