“And I’ll be right beside you to eat those mistakes.”
Declan laughed.
I laughed too, but I knew it mattered a great deal, so I pointed my melting ice pop at him and offered some encouragement. “I know you can do this, Dec.”
He bit his bottom lip and nodded.
Declan Maguire had been working on keeping that promise to himself ever since.
I figured all that cooking made Declan feel closer to his mom, who from what Dec told me, was a pretty amazing chef.
At the kitchen table, Dec held the wooden spoon up like a magic wand. “Well, what do you think?”
“It’s delicious.” I wanted to say something more, something to help Declan overcome his sadness, but I couldn’t think of what those words would be.
“Thanks, Scout.” Declan put the cookbook into its plastic cover and slipped it into the drawer near the stove. “Tastes like hers did, I think. It’s hard to remember anymore. I have only a few more recipes to get through and then I’ll have done them all.”
“Wow.” I wanted to give Declan a hug but wasn’t sure if that was the appropriate action, so I sat still and felt some of his sadness wash over me.
He went back to stirring the stew, mesmerized by it, now in a total daze. Suddenly he put the spoon down and checked his hair again in the reflection from the microwave.
Why is he doing that? “Dec?”
“Yeah?”
I decided not to ask him what all his fussing was about. “I could use your help with something.” I bit the skin at the edge of my thumbnail. “It’s kind of important.”
Dec rushed over and sat on the bench next to me. He crossed his legs and put his chin on his hands. “Does this by any chance have to do with your Paris Project?”
Dec always got me. “Of course it does.”
He nodded. “Look here, Scout. Before we go any further, I’m formally registering my protest. I don’t want you to leave Sassafras. This place would stink without you. I mean, it would stink even worse than it already does.”
This made me feel good. I would miss Declan, too, but I tried not to think about it. “Declan, you know you’re coming with me. You’ll go to that fancy cooking school, Le Cordon Bleu. Remember when we talked about that?”
Declan looked down, then back up at me. “You know how expensive that place is, right?”
“Scholarships, Dec. It’s the only way I’m getting to the American School of Paris. Georgia told me there’s even a big scholarship for people who want to study potatoes.”
“Potatoes, huh?” He ran his hand through his hair, then patted it down.
“Of course you’ll go, because we have to go to Paris together. I don’t want to be over there by myself.”
“Sure,” Dec said. “We’ll go together.”
I could tell he was having second thoughts.
“I thought you couldn’t wait to get out of Sassafras either.”
Instead of replying, Dec grabbed his phone, glanced at the time, then looked past me, out the window.
“Waiting for something?” I thought maybe he was expecting his dad or a package to be delivered. Some new kitchen gadget he’d saved up for.
Dec didn’t answer, but his fingers tapped a nervous pattern on the table. “What do you need help with?” he asked. “Test you on French words? Could we maybe do it tomorrow, Scout?”
“Tomorrow?”
“I mean—”
“No. I don’t even need help with that. I’m using the library’s French language CDs for that part of the plan.” Which I had already told him about.
Dec popped up, stirred the stew, checked himself out in the glass of the microwave, then looked out the window again.
What in the hammock is going on? “Could you help me learn to cook a French dish?”
“French dish? Well…” He glanced at his phone again.
I tilted my head. Why isn’t Declan inviting me to stay for dinner? He always asked me to stay for dinner when he cooked a big pot of something. I was pretty sure he could hear my stomach rumbling. “Dec?”
“Yeah?”
“Cooking? French dish? Help?”
“Oh yeah, I can help you with that, Scout.” Declan wiped his palms on his shorts, like Mom did when she was… nervous. “Let’s figure out a time to do that.”
Declan Maguire was trying to get rid of me!
I jumped up. I knew when I wasn’t wanted. But why?
He walked me toward the door and bounced up onto his toes a few times. “We’ll definitely find a day for me to help you with that French dish. Okay?” he said in one breath.
“Okayyy,” I said, not understanding what was happening.
Then Declan opened the door so I could leave. That was when I saw why he was rushing me out. My brain couldn’t process what it was seeing. The wires in it short-circuited. This couldn’t be happening twice in one day.
“Um…,” Declan said from beside me.
I croaked out one battered syllable: “Dec?”
In front of us stood Todd Baker, eyes wide, his mouth rounded into a tight circle. “Oh…”
I pushed past the boy who made me think of the single worst day of my life and stormed away from Declan’s trailer, breathing hard through my nostrils. There were not enough slow breaths in the world to make me feel better right now.
I hurried around the horseshoe-shaped driveway toward home but knew I couldn’t go there. Not yet. So I stomped right out of the trailer park and angry-walked along the side of the road, overgrown with grass and weeds, all the way to town.
Why?
Why would Declan Maguire, my very best friend, invite that traitor over to his home?
Why?
Why?
Why?
Not Listening!
THE NEXT DAY AT SCHOOL, Declan approached me at my locker before classes started.
“Scout?”
Usually, hearing him call me that sent a fizzy feeling from my head down to my toes, but today it flowed through my body like molten lava. I whirled around. “Don’t call me that!”
Kids turned to look at us. I didn’t care. Declan Maguire was a traitor!
He opened his mouth but then closed it again. His teeth were kind of yellow.
“And don’t talk to me!” I slammed my locker door to emphasize my words, but one of my books was sticking out, so the door bounced open, and Declan laughed a little.
I looked right in his face. “It’s so not funny, Declan.” But I wasn’t talking about the locker door, and I might have spit in his face a little.
He stepped back and wiped off his cheek. “Scout, let me explain. Please.”
Declan’s voice broke on that last word. He sounded like he might cry, but I didn’t care.
“No!”
I managed to close my locker and stormed off to class, where I had to sit next to Jenna Finch, who was still wearing her flamingo flip-flops, even though the bruise on her foot was almost totally cleared up. I guessed rich people didn’t have to follow the same rules about proper footwear as everyone else at school. I looked down at the holes in my sneakers and got twelve kinds of angry. But I knew I wasn’t mad at my falling-apart sneakers or the injustice of Jenna wearing those flamingo flip-flops.
Since Dad went to jail, it felt like every single thing had gone wrong. Not that everything was perfect before that, but it was pretty good most of the time. And now this… this! Declan Maguire inviting the son of the man who put my dad in jail to his home. This was the lowest. The absolute worst. What kind of friend did that?
No kind of friend at all.
Walking around the crowded halls of school, I felt so alone, and I realized exactly why: I had no friends.
Broken
IT WAS HARD TO AVOID Declan during school days, but when I saw him in the halls, I did an about-face, even if it took me out of my way and made me late for class. It was more than two weeks since I’d seen Todd come to Declan’s house. Since then, I’d spied Declan talking to Todd
near his locker more than once. They’d stand close; Declan looked so happy, which made me even angrier. Out of all the people at Sassafras Middle School, Todd Baker had to be the person to make Declan smile?
It was easier to avoid Declan at home. I kept a wide radius around his house where I wouldn’t allow myself to walk—alone or with the dogs. It was easier… and it was harder. The truth was, I missed Declan. I already had to survive without my dad. And Jenna. Mom and Georgia seemed to be working all the time. Not spending time with Declan felt like too much.
Declan should’ve said sorry. Maybe that was what he was going to say at my locker when I wouldn’t let him talk. Maybe I should have let him say something. Maybe…
I sat at our kitchen table and nibbled on a blueberry Pop-Tart, remembering how I’d tried to give Jenna Finch a smooshed Pop-Tart to say sorry. That seemed like a long time ago. I hadn’t done a single thing on my Paris Project list since then, not even practiced French words from the library CD, which I kept renewing and ultimately ignoring. I’d been too upset to focus, but that was exactly why I had to get it together and move forward on my goals—to create my happily ever after. The least I could do was fill out the application for the American School of Paris, like Georgia was doing for the University of Vermont.
I shoved a big piece of Pop-Tart into my mouth, even though I wasn’t really hungry. I wasn’t really anything.
At school Jenna was back to wearing regular shoes and walking like nothing had ever happened to her pinkie toe. She still didn’t talk to me, though. Except the one time I was standing behind her in the lunch line because Georgia had given me an extra dollar to buy an ice cream at school. Jenna whirled around and yelled, “Don’t stand so close to me. You’ll probably step on my bad toe or something.” I moved back, practically bumping into the person behind me, even though I’d never step on Jenna’s bad toe. I’d wanted her to talk to me again, but not like that.
Even though I spent a dollar on an ice cream, once I got back to my lonely table, I couldn’t make myself eat it and ended up throwing it in the garbage. I spent the rest of lunch in a bathroom stall, crying my eyeballs out. Très chic!
When the school day ended, after walking Scarlett Bananas, Miss Genevieve was the only one who had time for me, but he mostly slept and seemed interested in me only when I had a treat for him or jangled his leash for a walk.
I wished Dad were around to play Monopoly or to go swimming at the community pool or even to tell one of his bad jokes that used to make me groan in agony. He told so many jokes, but for some reason I could remember only his silly pencil joke. “Knock, knock.” I poked Miss Genevieve with my toe, but he didn’t stir. “Who’s there?” I asked my sleeping dog. “Broken pencil,” I said to myself. “Broken pencil who?” I asked no one. Miss Genevieve made a snuffling sound in his sleep. “Never mind. There’s no point.” And the crowd went wild. Just kidding. There was no crowd. Just me and Miss Genevieve, who had slept through the pointless joke.
Everything felt pointless.
I thought about how many bad Dad jokes I’d missed since he went to jail almost three months ago and how many I would miss until he came home. Dad wasn’t the only one being punished. Our whole family was too. I hadn’t done anything wrong. This wasn’t fair. Ce n’était pas juste.
I wished I were able to go over to Declan’s house. I could always talk to him about what was going on with my dad, and he would always share his feelings with me about his mom. That was the kind of friendship we had. Used to have.
If I were at Declan’s right now instead of sitting here staring at my sleeping dog, he and I would probably be watching an old Julia Child cooking video and imitating her jovial high-pitched voice. “Don’t forget to dress your turkey!” Or maybe he’d be at the stove, preparing some delicious meal for us to eat, a special dish from his mom’s cookbook. My stomach rumbled at the thought, so I pressed a fist into it to quiet it. No use thinking about Declan’s cooking now. I’d never taste a delicious morsel he made again.
I went into my room and lay on the bed, staring at all the tiny holes in the ceiling tiles. I would’ve counted them but knew that would depress me even more.
It would even be okay if Declan and I were doing homework together, with our books and papers spread out over his kitchen table and limeade spritzers nearby. The only thing I had to drink now was water. And not even the fizzy kind.
I grabbed my French dictionary from the little table beside my bed and threw it at the wall across the room.
Miss Genevieve lumbered in and let out a startled bark.
“Sorry, Miss Genevieve.”
I dragged myself off my bed and picked up the two halves of the book. It had split right down the middle of the spine.
My French dictionary was ruined! I’d have to find duct tape to fix it, but I didn’t have the energy.
I lay back in bed, squeezing my pillow to my chest.
How could Declan and I not be friends anymore? How had this happened? I’d thought we’d be friends forever.
Maybe, like the French dictionary, I could fix this. Give Declan a chance to make it up to me.
That was what a good friend would do. Maybe this friendship with Todd was just a temporary thing, a class assignment or lab-partner homework; maybe I’d overreacted and now things could go back to the way they had been.
I closed my eyes.
Yes. I’d definitely give Dec a chance to make it up to me.
Tomorrow.
Stay
IT TOOK ME NEARLY THREE weeks to gain the courage to go to Declan’s. Three weeks of excuses. Three weeks of wasted time. Three weeks of cowardice. It was already October. How could I be afraid to go to my best friend’s home?
Sitting beside Miss Genevieve on the floor, I whispered, “It’s hard not having any friends.”
Miss Genevieve let out a soft snore.
“I know. The longer I stay away, the harder it will be to go over there.”
And Sunday seemed as good a day as any to do it. “Right, Miss Genevieve?”
He opened one sleepy eyelid, then closed it again.
I was annoying him.
Georgia had taken the day off from Weezie’s to go to the video visitation center with Mom.
“We’ll miss you, Cleve,” Mom said when I told her that I felt like staying home.
This made me feel good. “I have to walk the dogs, too.”
“Yes, you do.”
I’d gotten three new customers for my dog-walking business, and two of them wanted me to walk their pooches on weekends, too; I was earning ninety dollars per week now. And I’d already saved $160 from walking Scarlett Bananas before the new customers called me. Cha-ching! Not everyone judged me because of Dad being in jail. My Paris Project fund was finally growing. I didn’t have nearly as much as when Dad took everything, but it was slowly building back up. I’d have enough to get a passport and maybe pay the application fee. Plus, I loved spending time with all my dog customers. It felt so good when they’d get all waggy and excited as soon as I walked in the door. Dogs made everything better.
I finished with my four-legged customers pretty early and then prepped myself for the walk to Declan’s. I knew I had to do it today or I might find excuses for the rest of my life.
Miss Genevieve made a snorfling noise and put his chin on my feet.
“That’s what I’m talking about, Miss Genevieve.”
He closed his eyes and let out a big breath.
“I should go over to Declan’s now,” I told Miss Genevieve. “There’s no reason to put it off anymore.”
He didn’t answer.
I gently pulled my feet from under Miss Genevieve’s chin and let him settle onto the floor. Then I made my bed. The bed looked good, but the rest of our room was messy, so I tidied everything up. Georgia would be pleased when she got home. After that, I cleaned the kitchen and made some Jell-O, in case Mom and Georgia wanted a snack when they came back from visiting Dad.
I couldn’t th
ink of anything else to do, because there was no way I was cleaning the bathroom, even if it would have allowed me to avoid facing Declan a little longer. I had my limits.
I pulled my shoulders back, grabbed my key, and walked all the way around the horseshoe driveway to the Maguire trailer. It was a familiar path, but it felt different today. It had been exactly thirty-five days since I’d walked it—way too long. I’d missed the entire month of September. I’d never gone that long without going to Declan’s house.
You can do this, Cleveland Rosebud Potts. But I wondered if I might be lying to myself. Maybe I absolutely could not do it, like I couldn’t survive one lousy day of ballet school. Perhaps there were some things I wasn’t good at, things I was downright rotten at. Overcoming this giant hurdle in my friendship with Declan could be one of those things. What if I couldn’t fix it? That thought made me sad.
I heard Dad’s voice in my head: Doing the right thing sometimes means doing the hard thing.
This was the right thing. And it was definitely hard.
The lawn chairs weren’t out front. Both the regular one and the sagging one were gone. For one terrible moment, I thought maybe the Maguires were gone too. It made me want to run up to the door, fling it open, and beg Declan to forgive me, even though I didn’t know what I’d done wrong, other than stand by my dad, who maybe didn’t exactly deserve to be stood by. I was still trying to figure out all my feelings, which was precisely why it would have been nice to have a true friend to help me do that. Thinking about this made me angry. Why didn’t Declan stick by me? He knew how much I needed a friend. He knew hanging out with Todd Baker was probably the worst thing he could have done to me.
While I stood outside, biting my lower lip and imagining all kinds of scenarios, I realized something. There had been plenty of opportunities for Declan to come to our trailer and apologize to me, to let me know he was sorry for hurting me. But he never did. Maybe Declan was scared I’d slam the door in his face. Or maybe… maybe… Declan didn’t want to be my friend anymore.
The Paris Project Page 8