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I’m part of my school’s writing club, which is fantastic, since what I want to be most is a writer. My mother says that girls don’t grow up to be writers, they can only be nurses or teachers. But it’s the 1960s, not the 50s or 40s, and I think she may be wrong. Mrs. Gowdy, who is my writing teacher, says that I have a gift. I’m going to use it to tell you the story of my summer.

It was a summer that was both wonderful and terribly sad. The sad part is still painful for me to write about, but I will because that’s what writers do. My summer began with the most exciting thing that ever happened on our street. A real-life orphan, by the name of Cassandra Jovanovich, moved in right across from my house. All the best stories are about orphans, and because of Cassandra, this story is no exception. Because of her, I got to write a play, and she starred in it. Because of her, I now know that being an orphan is not exciting, in fact it is the opposite.

But you’ll have to read my story to find out why.