Roll

“I’ll get you a towel,” Sutton says. She eyes me dubiously. “Do you want something of my dad’s to wear?”

  I kind of don’t. Whatever she chooses, it’s bound to be huge on me, and I’ll look ridiculous.

  Still, ridiculous is better than cold and wet.

  Well, maybe.

  “Thanks,” I say aloud.

  “I’ll be right back,” she says, pounding up the stairs. “I hope you like French toast!”

  CHAPTER 11

  THERE’S A MASSIVE amount of French toast in Sutton’s kitchen.

  The plate on the table must be piled at least a foot high with slices of golden-brown bread. Next to the plate sits a bowl of strawberries and another bowl full of homemade whipped cream.

  I’ve never even seen homemade whipped cream before.

  “Wow.”

  “I told you.” Sutton shrugs.

  “But there’s got to be an entire loaf of bread there.”

  “Yep.” Sutton stands on her tiptoes, grabbing plates from the frosted glass cupboard. She hands one to me, then pulls open the silverware drawer. All the knives and forks and spoons are jumbled together in a big heap.

  The rest of the kitchen resembles the hallway; half-emptied boxes sit on the counter, hand towels are draped across chair backs, and the coffeemaker is balanced precariously on top of the bread box.

  “We can eat in my bedroom,” Sutton says quickly, catching my expression. “We’re still getting set up down here. My dad’s the organized one.”

  “How’s he doing?” I ask awkwardly.

  Sutton loads three slices of toast onto her plate. “Good. He’s starting rehab this week.”

  “Oh. Cool.” I take a couple of pieces of bread, piling them high with strawberries and whipped cream.

  “So do you want to watch a movie, or something?” Sutton asks.

  “Sure.” Carefully balancing my plate, I follow Sutton up the stairs. The plain white T-shirt she found for me (straight out of the package, thankfully, with creases and everything) is predictably huge on me. You can’t even see my shorts.

  Have I mentioned that I hate being short?

  I pause awkwardly in the doorway, my plate clutched to my chest.

  I’ve never been in a girl’s room before.

  Or at least, not for years. Not since it counted.

  Sutton’s room is the complete opposite of the chaos downstairs. Her bed is made, the top of her dresser is bare, and the only things on her nightstand are a box of Kleenex and an alarm clock. The walls are a deep, rich color that Mom would probably call “eggplant” and Dad would call “purple.” Framed movie posters hang on three of them, old, black-and-white films I don’t recognize. The fourth wall, behind her bed, is completely covered with a huge photo collage.

  It smells nice.

  Like the bathroom in Dr. Sawyer’s dental office. Which isn’t as weird as it sounds; trust me, it’s a really nice bathroom.

  If Sutton feels at all weird about having a boy in her room, she doesn’t show it. She flops down on the floor and stuffs a huge bite of French toast into her mouth, smearing whipped cream on her chin.

  Stepping inside, I look at the nearest photo. Sutton is posed at the edge of a lake with a man that has to be her father. He looks even younger than her mom. “Your parents are really young,” I say, immediately kicking myself. Is it rude to talk about how old someone’s parents are? Mom would know.

  “Yeah, they got married in college, after Mom got knocked up with me,” Sutton says matter-of-factly. “I was a total surprise baby.”

  I blink. “Oh. I was a surprise baby, too. Only kind of the opposite. My parents are really old. Well, not really old,” I clarify. “Statistically, though, they’re older than the average parents.”

  Sutton wipes whipped cream from her chin with the back of her hand, then licks it. “That’s cool. I bet you get away with a lot of stuff.”

  I’m too embarrassed to admit the only thing I’ve ever “gotten away with” is not reminding Mom the summer she forgot to sign me up for swimming lessons. And in the end that backfired on me; the next summer, I was the only fifth grader in the fourth grade class.

  Which is why I still hold my nose when I jump in a pool.

  Anxious to change the subject, I peer at the rest of the photos. There are a few of Sutton and her parents stuck around the edges, but the actual collage itself is made up of pictures with Sutton and her friends: their arms wrapped around one another as they stick their tongues out at the camera, dancing at a concert together, screaming as they run through a sprinkler. In the center of the collage, a patch of bright green poster board reads, “We’ll Miss You, Sutton!” in sparkly blue letters. Signatures and scribbled notes crowd around the message, taking up every spare inch of space.

  Sutton points toward a corner of the collage. “See that picture, where we’re dancing? We snuck into a show in Foggy Bottom to see this band, Lyceum. It was awesome.” She wrinkles her nose. “Well, until we got kicked out. Mom and Dad were cool about it, though. I think they were jealous they didn’t get to see them.”

  She gestures toward another picture with her fork. “And see that one, the one that’s all blurry? My friend Sarah and I were at the National Portrait Gallery, and we started giving tours to people. Just, like, making stuff up. It was so funny. We ended up having to run away from this security guard. Carl.” Sutton grins at the memory.

  I stare at the photo, slightly fascinated. “Westville doesn’t even have a museum. Unless you count the one in Rochester about the history of Olmsted County. They have a lot of quilts.”

  Sutton pauses with her fork halfway to her mouth. “Yeah. No offense to Olmsted County, but it’s not really the same thing.”

  She has a point. Suddenly, I feel guilty for making such a big deal about moving eight miles away from our old house. Sutton’s friends are eight hours away. Probably more. I’d have to look it up to find the exact distance.

  Either way, it’s a lot farther than the ride to Aiden’s house.

  “Hey,” I hear myself saying aloud. “Do you want to come over for dinner tonight? My dad’s supposed to grill, if it stops raining. He’s kind of terrible at it, but . . .”

  “Really?” Sutton asks eagerly. “I mean . . . Yeah. That sounds good. If your parents don’t mind.”

  “They won’t,” I say confidently. “But, um, just one thing. Do you mind not telling my dad I hung with you yesterday morning? He thinks I was running.”

  “No problem.” Sutton pretends to zip her lips shut and toss the key over her shoulder.

  I smile in relief.

  Sutton stabs another huge bite of French toast. “So are we watching a movie, or what?”

  CHAPTER 12

  IT DOESN’T STOP raining.

  From the living room window, I can see Sutton and her mom pull their sweatshirts over their heads as they make a break toward the house. Mom is waiting in the hall to open the door.

  She’s been waiting there for a while now, actually.

  It’s possible she and Dad were a little too happy when I told them I’d invited our new neighbor over for dinner. I swear, Mom actually squeaked with excitement when I said the word “girl.”

  “Hello!” At least Mom’s voice sounds normal. Well, normal-ish. “You must be Sutton. And Eva, it’s so nice to meet you! I’m Audrey Hall. Come in, come in. It’s raining cats and dogs out there. I should know; I’m a vet.”

  I hover in the living room doorway, wincing as they laugh politely at Mom’s “joke.” Sutton pushes back her hood, her atomic fireball hair catching the overhead light. Mom’s eyes widen slightly, but to her credit, she doesn’t say anything.

  It’s weird how sometimes, out of nowhere, you remember that you kind of love your parents.

  “Ren told us about your husband,” Mom says to Sutton’s mom. “I’m so sorry, what a terrible thing to happen.”

  Sutton’s mom’s smile doesn’t even waver. “Well, things could have been worse,” she says brightly. “A
nd Luke’s a trouper, luckily.”

  “Here,” I say, reaching out for Sutton’s wet hoodie. “Let me take your jacket.” I don’t know where the words come from. They don’t seem like something I’d say in real life. I feel like an actor in a play as I hang the sweatshirt from one of the pegs on the wall.

  “I was telling Lauren, I’ve been meaning to get over and welcome you,” Sutton’s mom says, pushing her wet bangs out of her eyes. “But you know how it is.”

  Dad pops his head out of the kitchen, holding a spatula. “Hello!” he says. “You must be Sutton and Eva. Can we talk you into staying for dinner, Eva?”

  Sutton’s mom smiles apologetically. Despite the rain, her eye makeup looks perfect. She must use the waterproof kind.

  “That’s so nice of you. I can’t tonight, but thank you so much for having Sutton. It’s been hard meeting friends since we moved.”

  “Mom.” Sutton flicks a meaningful gaze in her direction. Eva rolls her eyes, waving her away.

  “Sorry, sorry. I’m being the embarrassing mom, aren’t I?” She reaches out to wrap her arm around Sutton, but Sutton wriggles away. “All right,” Eva says in exasperation. She shares a look with Mom and Dad.

  Sutton rolls her eyes at me. She looks just like her mom.

  “I’ll be back at eight, if that’s okay?” Eva looks to Mom for confirmation.

  “Of course. Can we drop her off for you?”

  “I’ll be swinging back from town anyway. But thank you again. Have fun, sweetheart!” With a final smile, Sutton’s mom pulls her sweatshirt back over her head and scurries out to her car.

  “So, Sutton,” Dad asks, leaning against the door frame. He flips the spatula from one hand to another. Casual mode. “How are you liking Westville? Ren said you were from DC? I’m Graham, by the way,” he goes on, not waiting for answers. “And yes, I know what you’re thinking.” He points the spatula in her direction. “It is like the cracker.”

  Sutton gives him a hesitant smile while a small part of me dies from embarrassment.

  “Now, are you going to want a real burger, or should I get one of Audrey’s fake food ones out of the freezer for you?” Dad asks.

  “It’s not fake food, it’s fake meat,” Mom says.

  “A real burger would be great. Thanks.”

  Dad grins. “I like her already,” he stage-whispers, leaning toward Mom. Sutton’s smile widens. I can see her shoulders relaxing.

  “Um, do you want to see my room?” I ask. “Or we could hang out in the living room, too.”

  “I could see your room.” Sutton shrugs. She gives Mom and Dad a little wave. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Dinner’s in ten minutes,” Dad calls up the stairs after us. “I’m making my famous mashed potatoes!”

  “He adds cheese,” I explain, opening the door to my room. “I don’t know why he thinks that makes them famous.”

  As I step inside, my stomach gives a nervous flip. I spent the afternoon cleaning, but there’s always the chance an odor may be lingering and I just can’t smell it.

  I can feel my back stiffening as Sutton looks around my room. Thankfully, I haven’t unpacked too much yet, so there isn’t a lot of embarrassing evidence lying around. In fact, aside from my comic books, the room is pretty much bare. Even my posters are all still rolled up, since I haven’t decided what color to paint the walls yet.

  It feels strange, having someone besides Aiden in my room. Like Sutton is peeking into my diary, or something.

  Not that I have a diary. But you get what I mean.

  “Whoa,” Sutton says, pointing toward the top of my dresser. “What’s that?”

  I follow her finger. “Oh. Um, that’s my handheld VDG. Van de Graaff generator,” I clarify. “It was my entry for the science fair last year.” Aiden and I were supposed to do it together, but he got bored halfway into it. He ended up expanding gummy bears in different liquids instead.

  To the casual observer, it kind of just looks like a piece of PVC pipe with a couple of wires running out of it stuck to a soda can, but it was actually really hard to make. The bottom roller was the trickiest part. I tried Teflon tape and silicon rubber, but it turned out that polyvinyl chloride electrical tape worked the best.

  “What does it do?” Sutton asks, picking it up curiously.

  “It’s a static generator,” I explain. “You generate a negative charge, and you can kind of make things . . . float. You probably don’t want to turn it on,” I warn hastily as Sutton’s finger hesitates above the motor. “If you have your cell phone with you, it might . . . kill it.”

  Sutton quickly sets the VDG down. “Last year my dad and I made a battery out of a potato for my science fair project. Hey, did I tell you about his bone graft? My dad’s? His doctor says he’s the fastest healer he’s ever seen.”

  “That’s awesome,” I say. “So did you use one of those kits? For the potato? Or did you make everything yourself?”

  Sutton shrugs. “Just a kit.” Turning toward my nightstand, she plucks a small, plastic trophy from the box of school stuff sitting on top of it.

  I can feel myself flushing in embarrassment. What was I thinking, leaving that out? She probably thinks I’m some sort of egotistical monster now.

  “That’s nothing,” I say. “Really.”

  I can’t help thinking about the giant cardboard box sitting in the middle of the basement. The one stuffed to the brim with Dad’s trophies. Real ones, made of actual metal. The ones he earned for doing real, actual, trophy-worthy things.

  “First Place, Olmsted County Mathlete Competition,” Sutton reads. “The Mathletes? Is that, like, the school’s Math Club?”

  “Ignore that,” I say, grabbing the trophy. “The name’s supposed to be a joke. Like an athlete? Only with math?”

  Sutton snorts.

  I shove the trophy back in the box. “I know. It’s a pretty terrible joke.”

  “No, it’s funny. Math is cool. Like astronomy? When you think about it, it’s all just math.”

  Math is cool? I give Sutton a dubious look. Still, it doesn’t seem like she’s making fun of me.

  “Whoa.” Sutton’s eyes widen as she catches sight of my bookshelf.

  Well, bookshelves.

  “Are those all comics?” she asks. Forgetting the trophies, she wades deeper into my room. Crouching down, she reads off some of the titles. “Captain Atom, The Flash, Fighting American, Nature Boy . . . I haven’t even heard of half of these.” She pulls a comic off the lower shelf. “Bananaman?”

  “Uh, yeah.” She’s holding up one of the earlier issues, back when it was still printed in Nutty.

  Sutton is flipping through the pages. “‘The ancient art of Gub Fu’? ‘Atomic water pistol’?” she asks. “This looks great. Can I borrow it?”

  “Um . . .” Normally, I don’t like to lend my comics out to people unless I know I can trust them, like Aiden. On the other hand, no one but Aiden has ever asked. “Yeah. I mean, as long as you’re, you know . . . careful . . .” I make a weird little flourish with my hands. “Be my guest.”

  Great. I’m the teapot from Beauty and the Beast.

  Not that I would ever admit to having seen Beauty and the Beast.

  “Awesome. I’ll take good care of it,” Sutton promises. She carefully sets the Bananaman down on top of the nearest box. “So how come you haven’t unpacked yet?”

  It’s a good question.

  There’s probably a psychological reason. Like, if I unpack my boxes, I’ll have to admit the move is permanent.

  Or maybe I’m just lazy.

  “I’m still deciding what color I want to paint,” I tell Sutton.

  She surveys the walls. They’re a weird sort of peach color, leftover from when my room used to be Aunt Lucy’s. “It does kind of look like Barbie threw up in here.”

  “Stomach Flu Barbie,” I joke in my best television presenter voice. “Now accessorized with her very own bucket.”

  She laughs. “So what color are you
going for?”

  “I don’t know. I want red, but my mom says the room is too small. She thinks it would be like living in a tomato.” I’m not about to tell her the reason I want the color red is because of the Justice League’s Red Room, a secret, underground research facility that holds some of the most dangerous technology in the world.

  As Mom would say, not everyone needs to know everything I’m thinking all the time.

  Sutton flops down on my bed.

  There is a girl on my bed.

  I make a mental note to tell Aiden later.

  “You should definitely paint it red. That would look awesome.”

  “Yeah. Maybe.” I mean, it’s my room, isn’t it? I’m the one who has to live in it. What if I want to live in a tomato?

  “I could help you, if you want,” Sutton offers. “I painted my room myself when we moved. I’m pretty good at it.”

  “Yeah, maybe,” I repeat. “Thanks.”

  “Kids?” Dad calls up the stairs. “Dinner’s ready. Come and get it before Audrey eats it all!”

  Sutton pushes herself off the bed.

  My bed.

  “I like your parents,” she says. “Your dad’s funny. He seems cool.” It takes me a minute to realize Sutton isn’t joking. “Hey, can I use your bathroom before we eat?” she asks.

  “Um, sure. It’s right across the hall.”

  As Sutton disappears through the doorway, I can’t help staring after her. First math is cool, and then my dad?

  Maybe “cool” means something else in DC.

  CHAPTER 13

  THE NEXT MORNING, I wake up meaning business.

  Ever since I met Sutton, I’ve been slacking. I still feel guilty about the whole “drawing a straight line on my chart when I didn’t actually deserve to” thing from a couple of days ago, and with the rain yesterday ruining my run, I need to get back on schedule.

  Plus, I can’t stop thinking about that box of trophies in the basement.

  Dad’s trophies.

  The real ones.

  I’m so fast opening the door that Dad is still mid-knock. Only (his) quick reflexes keep me from taking a meathook to the face. When I head downstairs, I tear open the strawberry-flavored “energy gel” they threw in for free when I bought my new running shoes. To my surprise, I even manage to keep some of it down.