Thirteen

by Lauren Myracle

  “Hey, Amanda,” I said.

  “Hey, Winnie,” she said.

  It was so weird. I knew this person—I’d shared blood with this person—and yet here she was a stranger in front of me. Not a complete stranger…and yet not a battered stuffed animal, either. Louise was dismissible. Amanda? Never.

  The grown-ups kept talking, and Amanda stepped to the side to disassociate herself from her mother. The tilt of her head prodded me to join her.

  “So,” she said. “Are you and Lars going to, you know, have a good summer?”

  It surprised me that she knew about Lars. Then again, that was silly. I knew stuff about her.

  “Actually,” I said, “he’s going to be in Prague all summer. His dad got a fellowship.”

  Amanda grimaced. “That sucks.”

  “I know.” Lars had told me just last week, and my heart had plummeted. But I’d quickly sensed that I was more bummed about it than he was, so I’d tried to check my emotions. “Wow, Prague, that’s so awesome,” I’d said to him.

  But it did suck. It totally sucked.

  “So will you try to stay together?” Amanda asked.

  “Of course!” I said without thinking. And then doubt crept in. Wouldn’t we? What other option was there? Was Lars thinking there was some other option?

  Amanda must have picked up on my worry, because she said, “Cool. You guys are cute together.”

  “Thanks,” I said. I flashed to the Amanda-in-the-hot-tub story, but couldn’t make it match up with the flesh-and-blood Amanda in front of me. Except kind of I could. I just didn’t want to.

  “Are you…seeing anybody?” I said, feeling immediately idiotic for the way my question came out. What was I, her grandmother?

  Still, maybe the hot tub guy was her boyfriend. Maybe he wasn’t then, but was now, and she’d had a crush on him and that’s why she’d kissed him.

  She shook her head and smiled wryly, like she was a loser. Which she was so not. She had to know that. But sometimes beautiful girls pretended otherwise, which I suppose was better than being snotty.

  “Well…” I said.

  We stood there. The silence stretched out, making my brain feel panicky.

  “Your shoes are gorgeous,” she finally said. “Where’d you get them?”

  “Saks,” I told her, feeling a flush of pleasure. If Louise had complimented my shoes, I wouldn’t have had the same reaction.

  “I love them,” she said.

  Dinah and Cinnamon ran up, giddy and giggling. Each grabbed one of my arms.

  “Winnie, you’ve got to see this,” Cinnamon said.

  “It’s Alex Plotkin,” Dinah said. “He’s stuck in a high chair.”

  “He’s stuck in a…what?”

  “A high chair,” Cinnamon said, yanking me so that I lunged forward.

  I made a stab at resisting, because I felt rude for abandoning Amanda. But there were two of them and one of me—not to mention the promise of Alex in a high chair. I didn’t know the cafeteria even had high chairs. Maybe the cafeteria ladies got them out just for graduation lunches?

  “Um, guess I’ll see you?” I said to Amanda.

  “Bye, Winnie,” she said as if she were amused. As if Dinah and Cinnamon were laughable, as if seventh graders in high chairs had stopped being interesting years ago. It was the only glimpse I’d had, during this particular exchange, of her icky “popular” persona.

  But I glanced over my shoulder as I was being dragged away, and her expression threw me. She didn’t look condescending. She looked sad.

  Lars and I met at the mall a couple of days later. He was flying to Prague the next morning, so this was our good-bye. He took me to California Pizza Kitchen for dinner. Well, actually we met there, since both of us had to be dropped off. Still, it was very date-ish.

  Over Thai chicken pizza, we made small talk. I found myself picking at my food instead of digging in wholeheartedly like my normal piggy self, and I despised myself for it. I am not one of those girls who cares about weight and eats only salad and keeps the conversation focused on the boy and his interests because that’s how to get a man.

  But my stomach was tight, and eating seemed overly messy and complicated. Picking and nibbling proved easier.

  Also—and this was something I didn’t know how to make sense of—it was kind of seeming like maybe we didn’t have so much to talk about, Lars and I. At least, not when we were away from school and our other friends. I despised myself for that, too. For not being better at all this. For not knowing how to just…get over myself.

  “So,” I started, determined to get our date on track. I was not a boring blob. “In Prague, will you learn to speak…” My words tapered off as I realized I didn’t know what language Prague people spoke. Well, not Prague people. Praguians?

  “Czech,” Lars supplied. He took the last slice of pizza. “I don’t know, maybe a little. But we’ll only be there for three months.”

  Three months, right. Only three months.

  “I hope there will be some other American kids there,” he went on. “Or not even American, just kids who speak English. Someone to hang out with.”

  “Maybe you’ll meet some British kids,” I said. “Or Australian! Eh, mate?”

  He grinned. I loosened a little.

  “Australia rocks,” he said. “Did you know they have wombats?”

  “Plus the most poisonous species of jellyfish in the world.” I’d read it in Ty’s National Geographic Kids magazine. “If you get stung by one, you’re dead in forty seconds.”

  Lars ripped off a bite of pizza, shaking his head. “Man. I wish we were going to Australia instead of Prague.”

  “But Prague’ll be fun, too,” I said, sort of hoping he’d disagree.

  He chewed and swallowed. “Yeah, I hear you. Getting to see any part of the world is cool.”

  I sighed. He was right: it would be cool. I was the uncool one, needy and sad.

  He reached over and touched my face. “I wish you were going to be there, though.”

  “Really?” My pulse raced. He touched my face! In the California Pizza Kitchen!

  He grinned and tossed some bills on the table. “Ready to get out of here?”

  I fumbled for my wallet. “Do you want me to…I mean, can I…”

  “Your money’s no good here, babe,” he said.

  “Babe?” I said.

  He laughed. So did I. He stood up, grabbed my hand, and pulled me out of the booth. “Let’s go. Aren’t we supposed to meet your sister soon?”

  But Sandra wasn’t due to pick me up for almost an hour, which I was pretty sure he secretly knew. He led me to the outside parking deck, and he kissed me behind a concrete pillar. And kissed me and kissed me. My back pressed against the cool concrete. His lips were soft. He tasted like Thai peanut sauce.

  In Sandra’s Beemer, I asked her whether Lars and I would make it. I wanted her to reassure me that everything would be the same, only better, when he returned.

  “Winnie, you’re in seventh grade,” Sandra said, as if that was some kind of answer.

  “Not anymore,” I replied.

  She rotated her iPod dial and selected her “Mellow Yellow” playlist. Was this her way of telling me to chill? I wanted to chill. I wasn’t being unchill on purpose. Didn’t she get that?

  “If what you guys have is real, it’ll last,” she told me. “If not, it won’t.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  She shot me a look. “But worrying about it will only make things worse. You can’t be desperate, Winnie.”

  “I know!”

  “I’m just saying.”

  “I know.” My lips felt puffy from kissing. I loved that feeling. I gazed out the open window and wondered if Lars was thinking about me the way I was thinking about him.

  After we got home, I tried to distract myself by watching Hannah Montana with Ty. Ty had a crush on the main girl, who went by the name “Miley” in her normal life, but was secretly a pop star named Hanna
h Montana. “Miley” was a cute name, I thought. So much cuter than “Winifred.” “Winnie” was acceptable…but Winifred?

  If I were a pop star, I could change my name to “Wiley.” Except that was the name of the coyote on Bugs Bunny—so maybe not. Plus, it wasn’t cute. Why was “Miley” cute, but not “Wiley”?

  If I were a pop star, I would never worry about being boring or blobby. If I were a pop star, I wouldn’t worry about Lars coming back to me or not. I’d know he would.

  On the screen, Miley’s annoying brother, Jackson, made his belly button talk, which made Ty laugh. It was Ty’s start-off-real-and-then-turn-fake laugh, which he did when he wanted to keep the hilarity going. I loved that about Ty, that laughing was so fun for him that he made more and more burble out.

  “I want to do that with my belly button,” he said.

  “Okay, you’re allowed,” I said.

  “And I want to learn how to make stink noises with my armpit, like Joseph. Joseph can make really good stink noises.”

  Joseph. Wasn’t he the kid Mom and Mrs. Taylor had been talking about during our graduation luncheon? Something bad, something that broke Mom’s heart. I’d meant to ask her about it, but had forgotten.

  “Don’t you, Winnie?”

  “Huh?”

  “Wish you could make stink noises.”

  I did, actually. There were several things like that I wished I could do: raise one eyebrow; pop my elbow out like Cinnamon, who was double-jointed; make my scalp wiggle; whistle through two fingers. I wouldn’t mind being able to do a split, either. A split would be impressive, even if I was never a cheerleader.

  What could I do in terms of weird body stuff? I could curl my tongue (easy), and I could bend each of my fingers from the top knuckle without letting the middle knuckle move. I taught myself that one with lots of practice, mainly during fifth grade social studies. With all ten fingers bent like that, I’d hold my hands out like claws and make zombie sounds, letting my face muscles go slack. Amanda used to giggle and shriek as I lurched toward her.

  I could also sit in the lotus position with each foot on top of the opposite thigh. That one, like the tongue-curling, was easy for me.

  “Can you do this?” I asked Ty, leaning back against the sofa and pretzeling my legs into lotus position without even using my hands. Talk about impressive.

  Ty was intrigued. He tried, but his legs went into normal criss-cross-applesauce mode.

  “Nope,” I said. I unfurled my legs and stood up. “Keep working. You’ll get it.”

  “Will you give me a dollar if I do?”

  “No. Will you give me a dollar since I already can?”

  “I’ll give you a dollar if you give me a dollar.”

  “Sure, Ty, whatever.”

  I went and found Mom in the kitchen. She was making cookies, and the smell of vanilla was heavenly. Such a funny thing, vanilla: it smelled fabulous, but tasted good only once it was mixed up with other things like sugar and eggs and all that. Same with coffee, except its mixer-uppers were sugar and milk.

  “Hey. Mom. What’s up with that kid Joseph, from Ty’s class?” I asked.

  “Oh,” Mom said. Her eyes softened around the edges. “Well, Joseph’s got leukemia. His parents just recently found out.”

  Leukemia? There was a girl who went to camp with me last year who’d had leukemia. Her name was Jessica. But by the time I knew her, she was fine.

  “That’s so sad,” I said. “But kids get better from leukemia, right?”

  “Usually,” she said. “There’s a lot that can be done, like chemo, which Joseph’s going to start this summer.”

  Chemo for a six-year-old. Wow. “Will he lose his hair?”

  She nodded. “Yeah, poor kid.”

  Her expression was sad, and I knew that in addition to feeling worried for Joseph, she was thinking about Ty. I was, too. I was thinking how awful it would be if Ty had a scary disease. If he had to go through chemo and lose all his hair before probably—but not definitely—being healed.

  And here I was feeling sorry for myself because my boyfriend was traveling the world.

  I was a turd.

  “But he’ll be okay,” I insisted. “Joseph will be okay.”

  Mom used her wrist to push back her hair. She left a streak of flour across her forehead. “Sweetie, there just aren’t any guarantees. But I sure hope so.”

  Morning came, and I awoke with the knowledge that Lars and his parents were traveling to the airport at that very moment to catch their early international flight. At ten o’clock, I thought, Well, Lars is on the plane now. He’d fly to Paris, which took nine hours, and then he’d catch a connecting flight to Prague. The Atlanta-to-Paris leg involved flying over the ocean. Please don’t let the plane crash, I prayed.

  I tried to be a better person and not be needy and pathetic. I tried to remember that my boy troubles (which weren’t even troubles so much as a minor three-month-long inconvenience) weren’t the most important thing in the world.

  It kind of worked. I made plans to go to the pool with Cinnamon later in the week. Dinah called and reminded me that at least my boyfriend wasn’t a vampire, which was indeed something to be thankful for.

  As I lay in bed that night, I thought about Lars, far off in the universe and doing who-knew-what. Was he in Prague yet? Was he eating? Unpacking? Sleeping? I realized I didn’t even know what the time difference was between us.

  I also thought about Joseph. I could place him in my mind now: a skinny little guy who always wore cordoroys. Brown hair. Sweet smile. Ty had gone to his birthday party two months ago, and I’d accompanied Mom when she dropped him off. Joseph had come barreling out the front door wearing a gold eye patch, with a black patch for Ty in his hand. It was a pirate party. Later, Ty had come home with gold-coin treasure.

  I wished I could make Joseph’s leukemia go away. Same for anyone else who had cancer or a brain tumor or that crazy disease where you can’t go out in the sunlight. I wished I could make all the pain and sadness in the whole world go away. But I couldn’t.

  Something came into my head that I could do, though. Locks of Love. Sandra had a friend who’d done that. She’d grown her hair super long and then clipped it off for Locks of Love, so it could be made into a wig for a kid with cancer.

  I imagined going to school with suddenly short hair and all the attention I’d get. I knew that wasn’t the point…. though if people did ask why I’d done it, I didn’t think it would be overly braggy to explain. I’d be modest about it, of course. But more importantly, I’d be helping someone in need.

  I thought about all that for a long time. It was a satisfying place for my mind to hang out, nice and hopeful and warm with potential. And then I had the one-step-further thought that I could truly do it. Not just think about it, but do it. Chop off that hair—whomp!

  Aye-yai-yai. Would I look good with short hair? Would I be able to survive without the option of a ponytail? Would I still be pretty?

  Still…how cool it would be to be someone who wasn’t afraid of such things. Who saw the need for something and did it, just like that.

  I slid out of bed and padded to my computer, which Mom and Dad had gotten me when my homework assignments started getting harder and I was required to do more Internet research. They set up all sorts of parental controls, and they made me promise not to have “inappropriate e-mail or IM conversations.” Yeah, yeah, yeah.

  I hit the space bar to wake up the screen, clicked on Firefox, and typed in “Locks of Love.” I learned that the wigs were actually called “hair prosthetics,” which would have made me giggle, if not for the pictures on the site. I had hair, unlike the kids in the photo gallery who were stark, raving, no-doubt-about-it bald. Grinning, for the most part, but bald. Next to each bald picture was an “after” picture of the same kid wearing a hair prosthetic. Humans did look better with hair. I wouldn’t argue with anyone on that one.

  I scrolled further through the site and learned that in order to
donate your hair, the cut-off part had to be ten inches long from tip to tip. I dug a ruler out of my desk, tilted my head sideways, and measured from my part to the ends. Fifteen inches! I could donate tomorrow!

  Except, wait. If I cut ten inches off, that would leave me with only five inches. I felt selfish for caring with those bald kids smiling out at me, but five inches wasn’t a lot of hair.

  I used the ruler again to see what my hair measured from my part to my chin. Eight inches. So if I wanted to be left with chin-length hair, I’d need to grow my hair out to a total length of eighteen inches. Eighteen minus fifteen meant I had three inches left to go. In hair time, that equaled approximately half a year.

  Well.

  I put the ruler back.

  It was disappointing not to get to do something right this very second to make the world a better place (and me a better Winnie). And unlike the graduation-day mothers with their cries of “Oh me, oh my, time goes by so fast,” I knew that time was far more likely to creep along like a very sluggish snail, especially if you were waiting for something particular to happen.

  But that was okay. I could handle it. Someone with leukemia might not have all the time in the world, but, as far as I knew, I did.

  July

  AH, SUMMER. Even without Lars, I couldn’t help but love the hot, lazy, glorious days. Sleep in, eat a little brekkie (my fun new way of saying “breakfast”), watch a rerun of Dawson’s Creek on the Lifetime channel, or sometimes an episode of Flight 29 Down with Ty. Flight 29 Down was about a group of kids who survived a plane crash, but were now stuck alone on an island, trying to survive. It was dorky, with lots of life lessons about teamwork! And cooperation! And never giving up despite the odds! Even so, I found myself getting sucked in.

  Plus, ever since accepting Cinnamon’s invitation to go on a weekend camping trip (just me, ’cause Dinah was off to her grandparents), I’d been boning up on my outdoor wilderness skills. Which weren’t many. But I figured watching the Flight 29 kids had to count for something.