“Dude, where's your head?” Van smacks the side of my helmet with his stick as he skates past me. “Right here,” I grumble. But it’s not. My head is nowhere near the Summit. It’s caught up in a worry vortex, cycloning around my uncertain future. For days now, I’ve been trying to think of some kind of plan. Some way to skirt around immigration laws. To make it so I don’t have to leave these idiots and rip my mom away from the life she’s built here. Any alternative to moving back to Canada. Some kind of plan B or C or D or XYZ. I am also pretending my half-hearted proposal attempt to Bailey, a
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