"Whitney, can you come down?"

My mother calls me for the second time from downstairs. Unfortunately, since we're the only ones in this house, and she can yell louder than a foghorn, my plan to keep ignoring her is useless.

"I will soon!" I call back from my room.

I hear her loud footsteps at the bottom of the stairs interspersed by a groan. "If you're on your phone or watching TV, you better bring your ass down here right now."

I look around me and see the flashing screen of my Mac and the open app on my phone, cheeks turning red. She knows me far too well.

"My ass will make an appearance!"

I clamber out of my room into the hallway and head down the stairs. I find her in the kitchen, zeroing in on the cacophony of clashing pots and pans echoing into the living room. "I'm here, Mom."

She looks up at me, the same green eyes I have meeting mine. "I need your help. This kitchen is a mess, and to be honest, the only person I trust to organize it with me is you."

Or it could be the fact that Dad, Poppy, and Levi are all out golfing, and I'm the only person here, but sure.

"Sure, where would you like me to start?"

I walk inside and start recycling the stack of advertisement newspapers into the trash. My dad collects them for no reason, since I've never seen him pick one of them up and actually look at the deals on boxed pasta and toilet paper.

"Get started on the pantry," she says. She yanks out a large colander from the cabinet and sets it on the counter, mumbling, "Why is this even here?"

I open the pantry and scan shelves and shelves of different food groups. The room isn't entirely disorganized, but some cans and boxes would better belong in other areas, and some simply need throwing out. I pick up a box of cereal and read the expiration date.

"Mom, this expired last Thanksgiving," I say, chucking it into the trash. "Why is it here?"

"Oh, you know how your father is, 'expiration dates are only relative,'" she says, mimicking him in a deep baritone.

The prospect of cleaning this kitchen doesn't seem too bad when I realize it gives me the perfect opportunity to talk to her. My senior year was so hectic that our relationship was often reduced to formalities, and I desperately miss her advice, even though I don't take it half the time.

"Mom, I want to ask you something, and I need you to be honest," I say and put down the box of Honey Bunches of Oats in my hand. "Do you think I'm fat?"

She spins around, her eyebrows knitted together in confusion. "Where on earth would you get that idea?"

"People," I say vaguely. She narrows her eyes for more clarification. "People, places, school. People from places such as school."

A person from school named Willow, I don't add.

"Oh, Whitney." She presses her fingers to her forehead, but her eyes widen slightly, as if a thought just occurred to her. "Does this have anything to do with that Willow girl?"

"No." The lie slips out of my mouth before I can stop it. "Well, I mean, I guess, but she's not the only reason I think that way."

"If you want my real, unfiltered opinion, no, I don't think you're fat," she says and stands up, looking me dead in the eyes. "Lazy, undoubtedly, but I'd love you the same at any weight, Whit."

"Why is that such a mom-ish answer, though?"

"Are you asking for a smack?"

"No, ma'am." I remember my manners and get back to where I left off with this pantry.

An hour passes by, and I'm only on the third shelf. I slide down to the floor and tug at the collar of my T-shirt, overheating in the thick cotton. My mom is just as over organizing kitchen supplies, as she's taken to shuffling through our stack of mail and magazines.

"Whitney, come here," she says. I drag myself across the hardwood and take the pamphlet from her hand. "This came in the mail last week as some sort of an athletic promotion. The back has a list of fitness camps you could look into."

I grip my chest in mock offense. "I thought you said I wasn't fat?"

"Lazy, Whitney, lazy," she clarifies, tapping the paper with a manicured nail. "Not like you really have anything better to do the summer before college, anyway."

"That I won't argue with," I mumble, realizing this might be the solution to my plan-less summer.

My eyes land on the second to last camp name: Bob Campbell's Intense Boot Camp.

This five-week program will leave you not only stronger and fitter but challenged to your utmost capacity. Whether you want to shape up or try something new physically, this camp is the right choice for you. Our summer session will run from June 22nd to July 27th, but spots are limited, so visit our website to learn more about us and get your application in by June 8th!

Well, that gives me a good four days to think about it.

"Looks like you found something," my mom says from next to me.

"But what if I'm too weak for this kind of stuff?"

She drops her hands to my shoulders and stares into my soul. "Confidence, Whitney. It goes a long way."

Confidence? Does that even exist anymore?

"Fine, I'll consider it."

"Good," she says and then whacks my shoulder, "now get back to that pantry."

***

"I just don't know, Mina," I say through a sip of cold strawberry-banana smoothie. "What if they kick me out for being so bad?"

"Whitney," she begins, lifting her oversized Prada sunglasses, "the point of the camp is to cater to less athletic people. They won't expel you for being unfit, which I don't think you are, anyway."

"I guess," I mumble back, looking up at the sky through brown-tinted aviators.

One of the perks of having a best friend even wealthier than you are is the house. This seven-thousand-square-foot monstrosity, owned by the dream-team plastic surgeon and appellate lawyer couple, comes with a beautiful round pool, hot tub, and a tennis court, and that's just the outside. Last summer I spent nearly a month just tanning on a chaise lounge of hers, enjoying those ten-dollar organic smoothies from her mother's refrigerator stockpile.

"I have an idea," Mina says, sitting up and taking off her floppy sunhat. She hops off the chair, walks over to a small compartment next to the patio, and pulls out two tennis rackets.

Oh God.

Mina has been playing tennis since probably before she could talk. Now about seventeen years later, she'll be joining a college team in the fall as one of the highest ranked tennis recruits in the country—which means I already stand no chance.

"There is no way I'm playing." I stand my ground, crossing my tanned arms over my chest. I didn't plan for tennis to be the cause of my death—not that I'm planning the cause of my death in the first place.

"We're not playing; we're training," she says, as if rephrasing the prospect makes it any more appealing. She pulls a sundress over her black and gold swimsuit while slipping into a pair of shoes. "Think of it as preparation for that hell camp."

I cover my face with my hands as she holds out a racket. "But you're so much better than I am."

"Stop being so dramatic." She huffs and tries to pull me off the chair. I grunt and oblige by putting on my coverup and following her to the blue tennis court. "I'm going to cover the basics right now: serving and hitting."

She shows me how to hold the racket correctly, rattling off something about continental and eastern grips, but the sporty terms all go over my head. I pick up my racket and try to follow her instructions, but it slips out of my hand like Jell-O. I take it in my right hand again and fumble around for a bit, until I finally get the hang of it.

She moves on to the actual hitting part. The ball sails across the court, bouncing right beside me. I jump to the side, as if the yellow sphere is made of fire.

"You expect me to do that?" I ask, picking up the ball. I toss it up and down for a bit and even bounce it on the ground. It does look pretty harmless.

"Eventually," she calls out and jogs to my side of the court. "But first let me break this down for you."

A long-winded tutorial of serving and hitting follows, complete with one too many demonstrations for my dwindling attention span. I find some entertainment as she begins yelling and clapping fervently like one of her many neurotic coaches over the years.

My insecurities somewhat alleviated after her tutorials, I pick up the ball and try once more. The ball hits the net again, but on the fourth try, it sails to Mina's side of the court. She dashes in its direction and sends the ball flying back to me again.

I try to connect the ball with my racket but find myself sprinting to the wrong side of the court. The ball sails into the thick bushes, never to be seen again. I don't feel too bad, since Mina has a lifetime supply of them. But maybe a Wilson sponsorship should be in the works if these fledgling matches start becoming a regular thing.

"Whitney, the key is to keep your eyes on the ball. This way you'll know exactly where to hit it."

I nod, repeating her words in my head as she serves again. My lack of athleticism has me huffing and puffing after only twenty minutes of playing, making the prospect of attending that camp slightly more attractive.

"You okay over there?" she yells.

I cough into the crack of my elbow and then put on my game face, which more or less makes me look like I'm constipated. "Serve it again!"

My request seems to unnerve her, but she still hits the ball sharply across the net. The trees spin before me as I strain to keep track of the yellow sphere soaring into the air. I lift my racket, but gravity is one step ahead of me. I yell out in pain and fall back onto my butt, experiencing a kind of pain I've never felt before: a tennis ball to the eye.

"Oh my gosh, Whitney, are you okay?"

Mina rushes over to me and slaps her hands over her mouth. She crouches down by my side and tries to take a peek at my eye. I swat her away with my left hand and keep my right hand pressed over my tender face, groaning in pain.

"I'm so sorry, Whit, genuinely. Come on, let's get you some ice. I'll help you inside."

She continues rambling in a panic as she takes my arm and helps me to my feet. As I stagger my way to the inside of her house, I accept my first defeat of the summer, before the camp has even started.

Tennis: 15.

Whitney: Love.