Oh no. They were coming. And there was nothing she could do to stop them.
Tears. Hot, stinging, horriful tears.
She buried her face in the tiny baby clothes and bawled.
Cleo went downstairs when it was time for Fortune. Mom and Dad were talking in the family room. She could hear Josh and Jay playing outside with Barkley. She appeared in the doorway and her parents looked up.
“Everything okay?” Mom’s eyes narrowed in concern.
Cleo didn’t want to talk about her best friend hanging up on her, or any of the feelings that had come along with it. She would call Caylee back later, maybe after Fortune. “Would it be all right if I watched my show?” She wasn’t sure if she was banished from TV, after all the trouble she’d been getting into.
“How about we watch it together?” Dad said.
Cleo broke into a smile. Dad never watched with her. Usually, he wasn’t home, but he also said it was too cheesy for him. Dad clicked the remote and the TV flickered to life. A commercial was on. He muted the sound.
She sat between her parents on the couch. Mom wrapped an arm around her shoulders and kissed her braided head.
“Did you know your dad and I consider ourselves to be two of the richest people on the planet?”
Cleo looked back and forth between them. She shook her head.
“Of course we do! Because we have you. And your brothers.”
Josh and JayJay appeared at the windows, as if they’d heard Mom talking about them. They made goofy expressions, their faces plastered to the glass. Cleo and her parents laughed and made faces back. The boys ran off, chasing Barkley.
“Your birth mom didn’t give you away, Cleo,” Dad said. “She gave you to us.”
“And what a gift.” Mom squeezed Cleo. “What a gift.”
Cleo felt like a gift, all wrapped up in her parents’ arms. And yet the question still tugged at her heart: Why didn’t my mom keep me?
At least her parents had kept her name. That was something else she had from her birth mom. “I told Mr. Boring my birth mom named me Cleopatra, and he said I’ll always be a queen in her eyes.”
“Mr. Boring sounds like a smart man,” Dad said.
“Do you know what ‘Cleopatra’ means?” Cleo asked, thinking about Anusha’s beautiful morning star.
“As a matter of fact, I do,” Dad said. “It means glory of the father.”
Cleo pondered the phrase. Glory. It made her think of those flowers . . . morning glories. She loved those. She wasn’t exactly sure what glory was, but it was definitely something good.
“And what about Lenore?” Her parents had given her that part of her name after Gran Eleanor, who’d been named after a president’s wife.
“Light,” Mom said.
That was nice too. Glory light. She’d keep Edison for now, though.
“She wouldn’t have named me Cleopatra if she thought I wasn’t worth anything.”
Mom’s chin moved back and forth on top of Cleo’s head. “No, she wouldn’t have.”
“Do you think she thinks about me?” Cleo whispered.
“All the time,” Mom said.
“I think about her too. Not all the time. But a lot.”
Her parents were quiet. Was it okay that she had said that?
“Of course you would,” Dad said. “It’s normal to wonder about where we come from.”
“Do you think . . .” Cleo wasn’t sure about this next part. Did she really want to do what she was about to ask?
Fortune’s face appeared. “Dad, the sound!” Dad pointed the remote and Fortune’s theme music bopped into the room.
Clips from past shows zoomed across the screen: Fortune laughing with singer-superstar Magdelena; Fortune putting her arm around an audience member; Fortune hugging a girl in a wheelchair, talking into a microphone, blowing a kiss to the camera. Cleo reached up, grabbed the kiss, and slapped it onto her cheek, like always.
The camera panned the studio audience, then focused on Fortune, who wrapped her arms around herself as if the crowd’s applause were a big hug. She wore a purple blazer speckled with white, as if she’d been dusted with powdered sugar. Her string of giant pearls matched her perfectly straight white teeth. Her shiny black hair was shellacked into place, and as always, she glowed.
“Hello, everyone! Thank you for being here. Thank you for being. I will never forget the day I discovered my purpose — to finance futures and deliver destinies. We all have a reason for being, so find your reason and —” She held out her hands to everyone.
“Live it!” Cleo shouted with the audience. She glanced at Mom and they exchanged big smiles.
Fortune loved to talk about people’s “reason for being.” At least once every show, it seemed, she’d say something about purpose or passion or destiny. “You know you have a purpose, right?” She looked out at the audience, and everyone shouted, “Yes!”
She said it again into the camera. “You know you have a purpose, right?”
“Yes!” Cleo shouted. Dad’s eyebrows arced in surprise.
To be a high-climbing, heights-defying, limit-pushing entrepreneur. To start businesses. That was her purpose. Maybe one day she’d even do what Fortune had done and build schools in Africa. Not just schools . . . homes. Yes, she would build homes for kids who didn’t have them, because every child needed somewhere to belong.
“When we come back, I’m going to introduce you to one determined young woman who refused to miss her calling. She followed her dream, and thousands, thousands, of children who otherwise would have ended up lost in the system are thriving today because of it . . .”
Her guests that afternoon included a woman who had started a ranch for troubled kids, where they learned how to ride and take care of horses; a singer who had just recorded her first album, thanks to funding from Fortune; and a stay-at-home mom who had invented a line of natural bath-and-beauty products that she had sent to Fortune to try, and that Fortune was now going to carry in all her spas.
Fortune went on and on about how she was using the products herself, especially the bubble baths. “There’s nothing like a good bubble bath when I need to drain away the stress of the day, or I’m searching for a new idea. I get some of my best ideas in the bathtub —”
“Me too!” Cleo said, feeling as if she and Fortune were chatting face-to-face.
“With Marina’s Verbena-Spearmint Bubble Bath, so can you. So stay right where you are — you’re not going to want to miss a second of this show!”
“Hey, babe,” Dad said during the commercial, “you should send Fortune some of your Longevity Lollipops. I thought those were pretty tasty.”
“Um,” Cleo said, “I’m not sure that’s such a good idea.”
“What?” Dad said. “You sent her a letter.”
“You can’t choke on a letter. Those things almost killed me!” She and Dad laughed.
“Hey!” Mom tweaked Cleo’s arm. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to embarrass you by sending your idol a bunch of birdseed on sticks.”
It was a really good show, as usual, even though Dad had to leave halfway through to referee a fight between the boys and stayed outside to play with them. Too quickly, Fortune was interviewing her last guest. Marina, the bubble-bath lady, had just shared about starting up her business and how listening to her customers had been super important in improving her product line.
“What you just said, girl — that’s gold.” Fortune reached out and put her hand on the woman’s arm. “Pure gold!” She turned and looked at the audience. “We have to listen to each other. Listening is the key to doing good business, because unless you’re listening to people, you won’t know what they need, want, or will buy. But it’s also how you make and keep your friends.”
She was looking straight at the camera again. Straight at Cleo. “If I’ve learned anything, it is this: Whatever you do, listen. Listen to your customers and listen to your friends. Your friends
are your most valuable assets, because while businesses come and go, your friends, if you treat them right, will be by your side through all the ups and downs. And believe me, my friends, if you’re in business, there will be ups and downs.”
She held up a sample of Marina’s Bubble Bath Bar, a set of three bottles standing in a silver wire rack you could attach to the wall of your tub or shower. Everyone in the audience was going to get one, compliments of Fortune. People cheered and applauded. She started to say thank-yous to all her guests and to her audience and to everyone watching, her television family, but Cleo was no longer paying attention to the show.
All she could think about was Caylee. Her friend. Fortune had said, “Whatever you do, listen to your friends.” Cleo had been so focused on her businesses and succeeding, she hadn’t been treating Caylee as her most valuable asset. She hadn’t been listening. It was time to do something about that.
Thank you, Fortune!
Cleo called Caylee three times. The first two times, no one answered. The third time Ernie Junior said their mom had taken Caylee to her appointment with the shrink.
“Shrink?” Cleo asked.
“Yeah, you know. Head doctor.”
Cleo was suddenly afraid. Was her best friend dying? “What’s wrong with her head?”
“Nothing’s wrong with her head. She’s seeing a counselor, a therapist. Someone you talk to about your problems?”
The lightbulb went on. “Ohhhh . . .” She felt another stab of guilt. Her friend had needed to talk, and she hadn’t been there to listen. Caylee had been so in need, they’d hired a professional listener. “Well, will you ask her to call me? As soon as she can?”
“Got it.” Ernie Junior hung up.
Cleo waited for Caylee to call. Her family ate dinner. Caylee didn’t call. Cleo put her Fortune poster back on the wall and worked on her Passion Project presentation. Caylee didn’t call. She got ready for bed, and still Caylee didn’t call. By nine thirty-eight, Cleo knew. Caylee wasn’t going to call.
She tore a piece of paper from her memo pad, scribbled a note, and stuffed it into Barkley’s Carrier Capsule. She poked her head into the hall. Mom and Dad’s door was closed. The coast was clear. “Shh,” she said to Barkley with her finger to her lips. She held him by his collar and tiptoed downstairs to the back door. She slipped on her flip-flops and led him outside. “Go straight there,” she whispered. “No sniffing trash cans or chasing cats. No getting in trouble, like me.”
Barkley’s eyebrows twitched and his tongue hung out one side of his mouth. She could tell they had an understanding. He sped through the back gate and around the corner, headed for Caylee’s house.
As soon as he was gone, Cleo started getting nervous. Caylee just had to get the message. Cleo would stand outside and wait for Barkley’s return — hopefully with an “apology accepted” note from Caylee.
A moment later, the silent night air erupted with squawks and yelps. Oh no. It was coming from Miss Jean’s. She ran back inside, grabbed her coat off its peg, and sprinted. She rounded the corner of their fence, expecting to see a fluffy ball of white feathers dangling from Barkley’s mouth. Instead, she saw a gang of chickens attacking her dog!
Cleo ran up, flailing her arms. “Shoo! Shoo! Bad chickens!” Wings battered her shins as she tried to pull her dog from the center of the feathered fracas.
The porch light snapped on. Miss Jean shot out the front door in her bathrobe. She swooped in and grabbed up Big Betty, the largest one. Gloria, Alice, and Susan B quietly gathered around Miss Jean’s feet, pecking at bits of gravel on her driveway.
“How did you get out, you naughty girls?” Miss Jean asked. Big Betty flapped and fluttered in her arms.
Cleo noticed the metal gate across the driveway was partway open. “Miss Jean.” She pointed.
“Oh! I must not have latched it securely when I came in tonight. I’m sorry they were attacking your poor dog. You okay, Barkley?”
By the looks of him, he was fine, although he’d probably never want to have anything to do with chickens ever again. “Yeah. He’ll be fine. Thanks.” Cleo helped Miss Jean return the chickens to the other side of the fence. They shut the gate tight.
“What are you doing outside at this hour?” Miss Jean asked when the job was done. “Do your parents know you’re out here?” She looked at Cleo suspiciously.
“I only came out because I heard Barkley. So” — she crossed her fingers behind her back — “I’ll get home now. Good night!” Cleo waved and smiled as she led Barkley by his collar toward her house, but as soon as Miss Jean was gone she turned and headed toward Caylee’s. “Come on, Barkley. We’ve got a message to deliver.”
They ran down the sidewalk to the big pink house. Cleo turned at the drive that led into the back. She stopped at the base of the balcony and looked up to see if a light was on in Caylee’s bedroom. The curtains were dark. She looked around, trying to figure out the best way to get her friend’s attention.
Barkley made a low grumble like he was getting ready to bark, but she clamped his mouth shut. “Not now, Barkley. I have another idea.”
The balcony. All she had to do was climb onto the balcony and she’d be right beside Caylee’s window.
A wooden thing made out of thin boards that crossed each other in a bunch of Xs went all the way up to the balcony. A lattice, she thought she’d heard Mrs. Ortega call it. Roses grew on it, but only as high as her waist. Lattice . . . ladder . . . they sounded kind of the same. And she was an expert ladder climber. Part mountain goat, even. As long as the wood was strong enough to hold her, she could make it to the top. No problem.
She grabbed on, found a spot for her foot, and pulled herself up. The wood felt kind of creaky, but nothing broke, so she kept going. Hand over hand. Higher, higher. Barkley yapped. She turned and shushed him and he sat, seeming to understand now was not the time.
That summer, they had pretended the balcony was the deck of a fancy cruise ship, and they were on it with their boyfriends. Cleo didn’t have time for real boys, but she was fine with imaginary ones. She and Caylee had hugged themselves, closed their eyes, and made kissing sounds. They laughed until they were rolling around on the deck, holding their stomachs.
The memory almost made her laugh out loud again, but she controlled herself. She threw her leg over the railing and jumped down onto solid ground. She looked out in triumph. Cleopatra Edison Oliver had done it again!
Barkley leaped up on the roses, then yelped and jumped back down. He must have snagged a thorn. “Stay there!” she whispered to her dog. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.” Hopefully, through the back door, she thought. Going down didn’t sound as fun as going up had.
The balcony door whooshed open. Cleo spun around.
“Cleo!” Caylee stood there in her nightgown, breathing hard. “I heard you land and looked out my window. I thought someone was trying to break in!” She rushed onto the balcony and looked over the edge. “How did you get up here?”
Cleo smiled big. “Climbed, of course.” Would her best friend smile back?
Caylee stared at her like she had no idea what to say.
The quiet between them made Cleo as nervous and knotted-up as standing on the end of the high dive, looking down at the super-blue water. The only way out, if you didn’t want to get laughed at, was to jump. “I’m sorry,” she said, making the leap. “I know I’ve been so focused on my businesses and Cleopatra Enterprises, and I haven’t been a very good listener even though you’re going through a really hard time with your dad and everything — and I’ve been a terrible — no, horriful — best friend.” Her hands flew all over the place, which happened when she was talking fast. “A good business partner, maybe, but not a very good friend. And I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry.” One of her hands came to rest on Caylee’s arm. She felt a pinch in her chest. “Really.”
Caylee’s mouth opened a little and then closed. She peered over the railing again. �
�Hi, Barkley.” It was hard to see his black fur in the dark, but they could hear him panting, and the moon cast enough light to see his body waggling like crazy. He barked.
Caylee looked at her. She smiled. Finally. Just a little. But she smiled.
Just as quickly, her smile disappeared. “My dad is getting married — to that girlfriend I told you about. Charlene.” She said the name as if she were talking about pickled asparagus.
The news hit Cleo like a dodgeball to the chest. Mr. Ortega may not have been one hundred percent reliable, but she knew Caylee still loved him a whole bunch and was really hoping he would come back, in spite of everything. She had even lit a candle at her Catholic church for him. “But . . . he hasn’t been gone that long.”
Caylee bit on her bottom lip. “I know.”
Cleo leaned against the railing, her arms crossed. Why were adults always going and messing things up — and letting kids get hurt in the process? This wasn’t just a bad decision, like taking a sharp knife outside or bringing a Nerf gun to school. This was tearing up a family. And families were meant to be forever. Weren’t they?
“That’s not even the worst of it.” Caylee scowled. “His fiancée wants me to be a junior bridesmaid. That’s why they took me shopping. To buy me a dress. I don’t even want to go to the wedding! She’s, like, half his age. It’s so embarrassing. Mom is really mad.” She leaned against the railing and gazed in the direction of the street lamp. “Things haven’t been very fun around here the past couple months.”
Cleo couldn’t think of anything to say. What Caylee was going through was awful. Terribly, horribly, gigantically awful. A tear popped up in the corner of Cleo’s eye. She almost pushed it back down, but maybe crying because of someone else’s hurt would be okay. The tear spilled over and she didn’t try to hide it.
She reached out and grabbed Caylee’s hand, and they stood there, saying nothing. Just feeling the cool breeze, and smelling the sweet night-blooming jasmine, and hearing Barkley sniffing around in the yard. Cleo squeezed Caylee’s hand, and Caylee squeezed hers back.
“I’m sorry I hung up on you,” Caylee said. “It’s just, my dad seems to think money can make all this better. Like buying me a fancy camera and an iPod Touch will make me less mad.”
Cleo Edison Oliver, Playground Millionaire Page 10