I, Steven Morgan Carter, being able to read and write, would like to give my stuff away if I die.I'm interested.
After what happened earlier, I had to be sure the right things would be done. Just in case.(Snort! Your laundry? She'll be so pleased.)
My little brother, Justin, can have any of my toys he wants. Mom can have my clothes, school pictures, and story notebook.
Dad can have my dictionaries. Andy, my best friend and the only one who understands Doorstep, can have him. And the red wagon we pull him around in. Pieter can have his checkerboard back, even though he’s been dead for five hundred years. I’ll tell you how to find him in a minute.I'm intrigued. (Congratulations.)
Everything started this morning. We finished eating breakfast, and Dad did the usual kitchen scrub-down. Mom helped Justin with a school project. He had to decorate a potato in autumn colors. It sounds stupid, but Mom goes all out for school stuff. I wanted to go to Andy’s house, so I had to get busy finishing my own work. First thing I did was take off my socks. The only good thing about doing homework is I get to have my feet licked. It’s ticklish and slobbery, and I can sit at my desk for hours.Well, I'm turning the page. I would have liked to have a better sense of why he thinks he's going to die by now, but this seems accessibly written and humorous. I just hope he doesn't go on and on in a journal. Writers seem especially prone to that trope (why do you suppose?), and it's quicksand for a lot of stories. Most kids do not spend a lot of time writing.
“Here you go, Doorstep.” I put another dog biscuit between my toes and read Miss Donnelly’s assignment. ‘Write an essay telling what you admire about yourself. Remember to give three good examples.’ Most of her other assignments are pretty dumb, so I’ve been getting bad grades. But this one looked easy. I ripped a blank page out of my notebook and began writing.