“A lot of things aren’t right, Ava.” Miss Gwen gives me a small, regretful smile, then glances at her watch. “It’s about time for class. I don’t want you to worry about it, okay? We’ll find a new spot for the theater. It’ll just take time.” She logs off the computer and stands.
“Do you know where?”
She shakes her head. “No. There aren’t too many theater spaces. Maybe we can rent an empty storefront and build one.” Miss Gwen begins walking to the other side of the library, where the classrooms are. “But we’ll have to get a new loan for that, and new permits—lots of things to think about.”
I tell Miss Gwen about the blog post. Our parents have shared it, but nothing much has happened. Only about ten people have signed the petition so far.
“We really appreciate it, Ava.” Miss Gwen pats my arm and looks kind of sad.
Ryan arrives after Miss Gwen turns on the classroom lights. “Hey.” He sets his backpack on a chair and sits down, leaving three spaces between us.
“Hey,” I manage.
“I’m going to run out and flag down everyone,” Miss Gwen says. “Don’t go anywhere.” She leaves.
Ryan and I sit and stare at the white wall. I wonder what he’s thinking about. How much he dislikes me? Flamin’ Hot Cheetos? It could be anything.
Suddenly it strikes me that I’ll never know the answer to what’s going on in Ryan’s head—or anyone’s head. If I did, I would make a bazillion dollars as a mind reader. The realization makes my tense muscles relax.
I actually think of a good question to ask him, something Ryan would know. “Did you have Mr. Sukow for English last year?”
“I did.” He looks sideways at me. “Are you doing the ‘make a boring object interesting’ project?”
“Yeah.” I shake my head. “I am not getting along with my partner. He totally hates me.”
“Well. You know what? Not everyone’s going to like you.” Ryan shrugs. “I mean, when we perform, not everybody laughs at the same thing. It doesn’t mean it’s not funny. Who cares if this person doesn’t like you?”
Ryan must be from Mars. Who doesn’t care about being liked? “It makes it hard to do the assignment.” I tilt my head at him. “Do you like everyone in the group?”
“Sure. But I’m not besties with everyone.” Ryan scratches his head. “Like, Jonathan’s always doing stuff that I think is kind of weird. But that’s my problem. Plus, it’s always stuff I would never think of in a billion years. And that’s pretty cool.” Ryan flashes me a grin. He’s got a dimple, and two light-colored moles on his cheek. I don’t know why I’m noticing that.
It makes me wonder what he notices about me.
It also makes me remember that I’ve got a scabbed-over zit on the side of my nose. Suddenly I’m all self-conscious again. I move away. “Um, well, what if that person is also kind of mean to you?”
“Like a bully?”
I shrug. “Not exactly.”
“He’s probably got something going on,” Ryan says quietly. “Something that’s not good. That’s what happened when my parents were getting a divorce. I wasn’t so nice to others.” He crosses his arms. “Maybe he just needs a friend.”
I wrinkle my nose. It’s hard to be Ty’s friend when I’m always frozen up around him. I sigh out my entire insides, then change the subject. “So what’s your favorite subject?” I remember to ask. Dad would be proud.
“Lunch.” Ryan laughs.
At the end of class, Miss Gwen has us get into our closing circle to say goodbye. “Remember,” she says. “Follow the fun. Always follow the fun.”
“Which is also my life motto,” says Ryan.
I smile. I like that motto a lot. In fact, I’m liking improv a lot. Every time I go, I feel better about it. Like it’s not just a way for me to prove something, but it’s actually fun. Kind of like when Zelia and I played pretend—except now, there’s not just one person leading the whole thing. We’re making stories together.
“I want to say, also, that I’m not sure about the future of the theater, but we will definitely be able to finish our classes.” She gives us a quick smile. “So don’t worry.”
“Too late,” Cecily says.
“However . . .” Miss Gwen’s smile fades. “I don’t know about next semester.”
My heart drops.
“Yeah, the Port of San Diego didn’t even respond to the email I sent last week,” Ryan says.
“Mine either,” Chad says.
“Or mine,” Cecily says.
“What else can we do? We set up the petition with Nana Linda.” Cecily shakes her head.
I think about Becca’s mom. My palms sweat. It’s been four days and I still haven’t emailed her.
My heart thumps. I clear my throat, getting ready to speak up. The rest of them go quiet and turn and look at me. It’s like they’re getting used to me—getting used to letting me have the space I need to say something. “Hey. Um. I think there’s probably more stuff we can do.” I start sweating. “My dad knows this lady.” I tell them about Mrs. Ladigan.
“Yes!” Cecily says. “You email her and we’ll meet—how about Wednesday after school? It’s a short day.”
“We can meet at the library this time,” Ryan says.
“As for me, I’m currently doing as much as I want to,” Jonathan says. He gives us a nod. “But let me know if you want more letters.” He leaves without waiting for another word from anyone.
“Does he not like us?” I ask Cecily in a low voice.
“He’s just really introverted. He told me once that improv was all the social time he could handle. That’s cool.” Cecily shrugs. “Everyone’s different.”
I’m introverted, too, but also have social anxiety, which I suppose means I’m shy. I wish I weren’t shy, that I could spend more time with people. Jonathan’s happy alone. That’s different than how I feel.
Babel shakes her head. “This is going to be all I can do, too. But you guys should meet if you want.”
I nod. I’m going to email Mrs. Ladigan if it’s the last thing I do. “I’m in.”
Chapter 23
That evening, Zelia FaceTimes me to tell me about her giving Willy Wonka a bath. It’s a funny story, but my mind’s on improv and Navegando Point. “He fell all the way in! He was so mad at me.” Zelia giggles.
“Poor Willy Wonka.”
“I know.” She strokes his fur. “I injured his pride.”
“So.” I kind of cough up this word, working up to telling Zelia. Because last time she was sort of weird about me talking about improv and I want to make sure she doesn’t get that way again. “The improv kids and I are trying to save Navegando Point. Because cupcakes.”
“Huh,” she says.
I tell her what we’ve done so far, and what we might do. “And who knows? Nana Linda just might chain herself to a building. You know how she is.” I chuckle.
She wrinkles her nose. “Oh my gosh, Ava. Do you have any idea how much you talk about improv?”
I shake my head. “Not that much.” Because she won’t let me.
“I never talked about it that much with you,” she says sharply. “’Cause it’s not that interesting. And neither is Navegando Point. It’s all broke-down like a bunch of shacks anyway.”
“I talk about it because they’re my friends.” A little shiver comes over me when I say this. “And Navegando Point isn’t a bunch of shacks. It’s charming.” That’s what my parents call it.
She rolls her eyes. “It’s falling apart.”
“Zelia!” Zelia’s mom comes in, looking a little annoyed. “Why aren’t you asleep? Lights-out time!” She peers at the phone. “Oh, hi, sweet Ava. I guess you can stay up ten more minutes,” she says to Zelia.
Her mom walking in makes the tension between us zap away, mostly. Maybe that’s Zelia’s problem—she’s tired. Now my heart melts a tiny bit. I haven’t seen Zelia’s mom since they moved. She looks exactly like an older version of her daughter. A sort of st
retched-taller Zelia. “Hi, Gaby.”
“I miss you.” She waves at me.
“I miss you, too. Do you like your new job?”
“I love it!” Gaby puts her arm around Zelia. “It’s an adjustment, but we’re getting there, right, Zelia?”
“Right.” Zelia moves away from her.
Her mom blows a kiss at me, and I pretend to catch it. “See you later, love,” she says. “Work hard. Do your best.” That’s Zelia’s mom’s motto.
“I will,” I say. She leaves the room and I wait for Zelia to tell me what’s really going on, why she rolled her eyes. But she doesn’t say anything for a minute, just braids the hair by her face in that nervous way she has when she’s thinking about something. I remember Ryan saying that sometimes when people act out, there’s something else going on. “Is everything okay?” I ask finally.
“Yeah.”
“You like it there, don’t you?” I squint at her.
“It’s fine.”
Suddenly I’m very tired. Like I want to go to sleep just so I don’t have to talk to her anymore. “Zelia . . .” I begin, not sure what I’m going to say.
“Hey. I’ve got to go to bed,” Zelia says. I can tell she’s still annoyed with me.
“Okay.” I think it would hurt less if she slapped me across my face.
“Okay.”
We stare at each other for a second. It wasn’t just the Jelly Bellies. As I’ve been realizing over the last couple months, I’ve always been Zelia’s follower. If there are two ways that something could be done, we usually did it Zelia’s way. For example, when we were drawing a graphic novel this last summer, I wanted to use a Sailor Moon style, like anime, and she wanted to do it in a more realistic style. Guess which way we did it? If there are two cookies left and one’s chocolate chocolate chip, which we both love, and one’s oatmeal raisin, which we both are meh about, I let her have the chocolate chocolate chip. But if I somehow got that one, I’d break it in half and let her choose which piece she wanted.
She should think more about me first. Or at least equally.
I take a breath and feel my heart hammering in my chest. I swallow. “Good night.”
“Good night,” she says.
After we hang up, I stare at the ceiling for a while. How can two people be talking about the same thing but seem to be talking about two entirely different things?
I might as well do something productive. Slowly, I type out an email to Mrs. Ladigan. Thank you for your very generous offer of assistance. We could use all the suggestions we can get. I list what we’ve done. For a second, I want to delete it. What if she thinks we’re stupid?
No, Ava. Just do it.
This time it’s not Zelia’s voice in my head. Just mine.
A little roar erupts out. I’m going to own being a superhero. “Yes!” I fist-bump the air. “Ava Andrews, Activist, at your service.” Then I hit send. Who cares that I close my eyes when I do it? Nobody can see but me.
Chapter 24
On Wednesday after school, I shoot out of class and head over to the library to meet the others. Chad and Cecily are already there. We planned to go use the conference room inside.
She waves. “Hey! Bad news. The library’s closed after school.”
“What do you mean, closed?” Ryan tries the lock as if his touch can open it, as if he’s Arthur pulling the magic sword out of the stone. Of course nothing happens.
“I guess I’ve never tried coming on a Wednesday.” I’m the library helper. Why don’t I know all the hours? I look away from my friends. “I’m sorry. I should have checked.” Now we don’t have a place to practice, and it’s all because of me.
“Don’t be sorry,” Cecily says. “It’s not your fault. Any of us could have looked at the hours.”
I swallow and meet her eyes, green behind her glasses. She doesn’t look mad at all. She’s moved on.
Good idea. “Well, we could see if Mr. Sukow will let us use his classroom.”
Then Chad brightens. “I know what we can do. Go to Fosters Freeze!”
Cecily bumps me with her arm. “How about you? You up for the Freeze?”
My heart seems to skip. This is my chance! “Sure.” Now that I’ve spent time with Cecily, I’m confident that she really does want to hang out with me.
Chad points his index finger at the rest of us. “You guys in?” He puts his backpack on. “My stomach’s eating itself.”
“I don’t have any money,” Cecily says.
“I’ll give you some,” Ryan and I say at the same time.
“Heck, if you two are giving out money, I could use an extra shake.” Chad starts running. “Let’s go already.”
We follow him down the sidewalk. And so, before I know quite what’s happening, I’m fulfilling my and Zelia’s old dream. Even though I hear her voice in my head telling me it’s gross, it’s not. I like it even if she doesn’t.
That might be like the most disloyal thought I’ve ever had about Zelia.
Fosters Freeze has two parts. There’s a restaurant dining area, and a walk-up outdoor counter. It looks like it was built in the 1950s and it probably was. They sell hamburgers and fries but also lots of soft-serve ice-cream things—shakes and cones—and the regular ice cream.
Ryan walks up to the counter. Saunters is more like it. A teenage girl probably about sixteen is working, wearing a paper hat and a white uniform. “Ready to order?” she says to him.
“I reckon so.” Ryan’s got a Texas accent for some reason. “Yep, yep, yep.”
I guess Ryan thought this would entertain the girl, but her nose wrinkles and she kind of sighs. “So are you going to tell me what you want or not?”
Ryan wilts, all his normal energy draining out of him. “A small dipped vanilla cone, please.”
I feel bad for him. “I reckon I’d like the same,” I say in my own Texas accent.
“Make that three, pardner,” Cecily adds.
“Four, y’all. Yee-haw,” Chad says.
This makes all four of us giggle. We slide our money onto the counter at the same time.
“Weirdos.” She sighs, turns away, and starts piling the cake cones with soft serve, then dipping them into a vat of chocolate sauce. When she lifts out the cones, the chocolate hardens instantly. She hands them to us one after another.
I wonder how Zelia would feel if she could see me. If she were here, would she really refuse to come? I kind of doubt it.
A thought hits me with a sharp tang, like a bite of lemon. Maybe Zelia only liked me when I didn’t have anything of my own going on. When I sat around waiting for her to help me and she could be my boss.
Could that be true? If Zelia were here, she would definitely take the lead and I’d be as quiet as ever, wishing I could speak up.
Or would we both be happy, sitting here with everyone?
We move over to the concrete table on the little patio. I take a bite of chocolate-covered ice cream. The soft serve’s already leaking through, and I’m going to have to eat fast before it drips down my arm. My phone pings. It’s Mrs. Ladigan. “Guys, she responded!” I say.
Ryan bites into his cone, leaving a creamy goatee-shaped stain under his mouth. “Well, tell us what she said already.”
I read Mrs. Ladigan’s message. “She says we should go talk to the public and get some grassroots support. In person. Like hand out flyers at Navegando Point, or go knock on doors.” My stomach jumps. Talk to strangers? No thanks. I read the rest aloud. “You have eleven thousand people who theoretically care. But the way to really get them to care is by putting a face to the problem.”
“Well.” Cecily wipes her mouth. “We are super-cute kids.” She flutters her eyelashes.
“I vote for trying flyers first.” Somehow Ryan’s already halfway done with his cone.
I nod, trying to eat mine before it totally melts. That sounds better than knocking on doors. I just have to hand them flyers. I can do that.
“Settled!” Chad is actually finished
eating. He wipes his hands with a napkin, runs out of napkin, and uses his shorts to get the rest of the soft serve off. “Anyone want to do some improv?”
Ryan gets up. “Sure. Might as well, since we’re together.”
My face goes hot. Again. “Here? We can’t do improv here.”
“You can do improv anywhere.” Ryan gestures at me to stand.
So I do. My knees are shaking a little bit. What if people stare? “Zap.” I point at Cecily. I forget that we’re in public, though, because I’m half-focused on not letting my cone drip and half-focused on the game.
That’s how we end up doing Zip-Zap-Zop outside Fosters Freeze. People stop and watch. A man smoking a cigarette in the parking lot seems especially concerned. “What is that?” he says in a loud voice to the man next to him. “Some kind of cult?”
“Probably. There’s a church in that storefront over there.” The other man blows smoke into the air. I cough as it drifts over.
I guess maybe we do look like some kind of cult or something, chanting like we are. Still, it’s funny that people think we’re a religion. “Those men think we’re a cult,” I inform my teammates. “The Fosters Freeze Cult.”
Ryan hoots.
“That has got to be our improv team name!” Cecily says. “If Babel and Jonathan agree.”
“Woot!” Chad says.
I smile, concentrating on my friends and my friends alone. Pretty soon I forget anyone else is around. Nobody’s really paying attention to us anyway.
“What do you want to do?” Cecily asks.
“How about One Word?” I say. That’s where you tell a story going around in a circle, and each person says just a single word or punctuation mark. It’s easy but also difficult because you start getting an idea of how you want the story to go but you have to listen to what the other people say.
And that means you have to change your expectations. Go with what you’re actually hearing instead of what you expect.
That’s really, really hard for me. I think I’m getting better, though, and the stories we make up are terrible and silly. By the time we finish that game, our cones are gone.
Five Things About Ava Andrews Page 13