“I’m just here to shower and change. I brought leftovers.”
She kisses my forehead and sets a giant takeout box on the coffee table.
Because Mom’s a caterer, the word leftovers doesn’t mean meatloaf. It means flaky mini pastries dolloped with fig compote, or cucumber rounds topped with spot prawns and mango chutney. It takes me about a millisecond to flip open the box and pop a tart into my mouth. Chocolate ganache. For a minute, it makes the whole world glow. These things could seriously solve world crises. Mom should serve them at national security conferences. She could give them to people on opposite sides of the drone security/privacy issue, and everyone would immediately compromise.
I think I’m audibly groaning.
“They’re good, aren’t they? Linda thought they’d be too rich, but I told her there’s no such thing.” She grins.
Mom and Linda started their company together when I was two, only a year after my dad died. Mom once told me she needed to rebuild her life, and she chose to focus on me and on her cooking. Now she creates the recipes while Linda organizes their events. The two of them are polar opposites, which makes for a lot of bickering. But, as George says, that’s what keeps the company afloat. If Mom ran it alone, it would be all beurre blanc and no bookkeeping.
I move from sweet to savory and choose a chicken satay. Amazing how everything tastes better on a stick.
My phone buzzes.
SAANVI: No word from Ana.
ME: Want to come over? Mom made chocolate ganache tarts.
SAANVI: OMG. COMING OVER IMMEDIATELY.
Mom’s already in the shower, so I yell through the bathroom door.
“Saanvi’s on her way, okay?”
“Of course! Give her some tarts!” she calls back.
“Good idea.”
When I open the door a few minutes later, I find both Saanvi and Holden on the threshold.
“He texted at seriously the exact moment I was leaving,” Saanvi says. “I think he somehow knew about the tarts.”
Holden shrugs. “Your mom’s tarts and I have a psychic connection. We’re like twins separated at birth.”
Mom arrives at the door just in time to hear those words.
“You’re the sweetest,” she says, giving Holden a loud kiss on the cheek.
He actually blushes.
Mom’s wearing a black dress that I bought for the school’s winter dance last year. It looks way better (plus shorter and tighter) on her than it did on me, which is cosmically unfair.
“Sure, you can borrow it,” I say.
“Thanks, sweetheart. I have to hurry to meet Frank. Don’t stay up too late, okay?”
“You neither.”
“No promises.” She winks at us and she’s out the door.
A millisecond later, she’s back. “Forgot my purse!”
She hurries through the kitchen, into her bedroom, and back again. “Can’t find it!”
Saanvi and I scour the area to help.
“What does it look like?” Saanvi asks.
“Little black handbag with a sparkly strap.”
Eventually, I spot it on the kitchen counter, wedged between the wall and a stack of unopened mail.
“You’re an angel,” Mom says. “Got to go!”
And she’s off, for good this time.
“You have the ultra-coolest mom ever,” Saanvi says.
I stare at her.
“What? Everyone loses things sometimes.”
“She loses everything, all the time! You should hear how often she lost me, when I was a kid.”
Saanvi laughs as if I’m joking, throws herself onto the couch, and surveys the leftover treats. She goes straight for the chocolate, as does Holden. I drop to the floor beside them and choose a scallop on a square of puff pastry, tiny curlicues of lemon rind decorating the top.
“There’s the family you get, and the family you choose,” I say.
Saanvi grins. That’s the slogan from a set of dollar-store mugs she bought us for Christmas last year. I still have mine.
I tangle my ankles between those of Holden and Saanvi and sigh happily. My life may not be perfect, but at least I’m not Ana.
* * *
—
On Tuesday morning, I drag myself out of bed and survey the wreckage. Couch cushions lie scattered around the room where they landed during our purse-search. There are chocolate-smeared paper doilies, broken skewers, and used forks spread like tsunami debris across the coffee table.
I groan. I can’t believe I didn’t clean up before I went to sleep. I must have been in some sort of sugar stupor.
Mom has added to the mess by leaving her purse and shoes strewn in the middle of the entranceway. Her dress—my dress!—lies in a rumpled heap in the bathroom.
I’m definitely not leaving the house in this state. But by the time I have the coffee table cleared and Mom’s detritus organized, I’m almost late. Again! I throw on my uniform, stringmy ID around my neck, and grab a granola bar before rushing to the elevator.
“Good morning, Lou!” I call as I collect Holden and scoot past.
“Dangerous world out there,” he says.
We pick up Saanvi and make it to the school gates just in time.
Ana’s climbing the front steps ahead of us. It may be my imagination, but her pink barrette seems a little askew.
“Hi, Ana,” Saanvi calls.
She turns bright red.
“Alizarin crimson,” Holden whispers.
George gave us a collection of fancy color wheels a couple years ago, left over from an exhibit. Holden has always liked the names more than the actual colors.
“I’d call it quinacridone magenta,” I say.
“GUYS, SHUT UP,” Saanvi whisper-hisses.
It doesn’t matter anyway. Ana’s already pushed open the double doors.
We’re only halfway up the stairs when it starts. We hear a symphony of whistles, catcalls, and hollers. A few slow claps. I pick out the voices of Josh, Max, and the other resident hooligans, who sound as if they’re yelling from the stands of a soccer game.
The double doors bang open and Ana appears again, as if she’s been spit out by the building itself. The noise dampens behind her as the doors swing shut.
“Whoa,” Holden manages.
Saanvi and I both rush to provide moral support, but Ana dodges us. Before we can say anything, she scurries down the stairs and toward the street.
“That was intense,” Holden mutters.
“HOLDEN!” Saanvi turns on him.
“What? What did I do?”
“Nothing! That’s the entire point!”
She whips open the doors and disappears inside. I look back and forth between the school and the still sputtering Holden. Then the warning bell rings and I quickly follow her, flashing my ID card at the scanner as I pass through the lobby.
My phone buzzes almost immediately.
GEORGE: Glad you got there safely.
ME: I always get here safely. You don’t need to check on me. :)
GEORGE: It makes me feel better when I get that little “ding” from the school system.
ME: Here I am. Dinging right along.
GEORGE: Have a lovely day, darling.
ME:
I slide into my homeroom desk just as the second bell rings. Saanvi and Holden are still sniping at one another.
“There was nothing we could do,” Holden whispers.
Which is true. If you pick your nose in public, what do you expect?
CHAPTER FOUR
LUNCH SPECIAL
WHEN I CAN’T find Holden or Saanvi at lunch hour, I wander into the cafeteria by myself. I collect a lunch special—a bowl of chili and a cheese bun, today—and then sit at our usual table against the bank of tall, leaded windows. The breeze seems to blow right through t
he glass, but we’re farthest from the lunchroom supervisor and farthest from the stinky compost bins. Usually, we get the table to ourselves.
Not today.
Before I’ve had a single bite, Ana appears. Her eyes are even wider than usual and she’s gripping her lunch tray so tightly that her tiny fingers are white.
At least she came back to school this morning. That was brave.
When she pauses at the end of my table, I reluctantly wave her toward a chair.
“Why are you by yourself?” she asks. “Where are Holden and Saanvi?”
Along with her school uniform, she’s wearing pink-striped knee socks and a pink barrette with a bow on it. She’d look a little odd, even if she didn’t have a copy of The Miracle of Mitosis balanced on the tray beside her chili.
“I heard about the video,” I say.
If Saanvi were here, she’d probably kick me under the table, but I figure I may as well bring things out in the open. Maybe Ana wants to talk about it. Besides, I didn’t tell her I saw the video.
She pauses for a moment, then straightens her shoulders and gives me a slightly-too-bright smile. “Science test tomorrow,” she says. “Do you want to quiz me? Do you have the same test this week? We could quiz each other?”
I don’t have the same test, actually, because I don’t have the same science teacher, but none of this seems to matter. She holds out her notes, shaking them a little when I don’t grab them right away.
I’m saved from quiz practice only by a shadow that falls across our table. I look up to see Max Lin. As usual, he has an old-fashioned camera strung around his neck—the one thing that sets him apart from Josh and the other orangutans. Today, he’s also carrying a plate of cafeteria cheesecake. He’s draped a strip of white paper towel across his other arm.
Max places the cake in front of me with a flourish, as if he’s Pierre at La Patisserie. He’s obviously lost. Or he’s lost his mind. Where are his sweaty, obnoxious friends? They always seem to travel in a pack.
“What’s up, Max?”
“Happy Tuesday,” he says.
Great. My friends leave me alone for one lunch hour, and I find myself in an asylum.
Max leans close to my ear. “Listen, I’m sorry, okay?”
Before I can ask what that’s supposed to mean, he walks away.
I’m still staring after him when Holden and Saanvi set their trays on the table and sit down.
“Oh, good,” Ana says. “Do you guys have the science test tomorrow? We were going to do an impromptu study session?”
“What’s with the cake?” Holden asks.
“Was that Max?” Saanvi asks at the same time.
“He said it’s because he’s sorry,” I tell her, shrugging.
Ignoring Ana’s attempts to pass them flashcards (seriously, flashcards), they both dig their forks into the dessert.
“It could be poisoned,” I warn.
“Do you think he likes you?” Saanvi asks.
“That’s crazy.”
“He probably lost a bet,” Holden says.
Saanvi tosses a crust of her bun at him, but misses. Then I have to duck as someone from the next table looks around, wondering why it’s raining cheese buns. When I poke my head up again, Holden’s holding out a forkful of cake.
I have no idea how lunch hour got so surreal, but the cake is surprisingly good.
It’s mostly gone when Ana brandishes her flashcards again.
“Bathroom break,” Holden announces, leaving us.
“Poor guy,” Ana says.
“What? Why?” Saanvi asks.
“He’s so shy. The minute anyone suggests an activity, he leaves.”
Saanvi snorts.
“He’s not shy. He hates joining things,” I explain.
Ana’s eyes go even wider than usual. “But why?”
“Overscheduled childhood,” I say.
“It’s kind of like a hunger strike, except he refuses activities instead of food,” Saanvi adds.
Ana looks completely confused, but the bell rings before she can ask more questions. And apparently she doesn’t spend too long worrying about the issue. Halfway to homeroom, Saanvi shows me a PixSnappy post on her phone.
Holden, Saanvi, and I have a study block together after lunch. We should probably work on our math while our genius friend Saanvi is available to help. But Holden’s glued to his phone.
“Are you still checking the forums?” The forums are part of the school website, open to students only. It’s where we post group assignments or ask each other homework questions.
“There’s a whole string of embarrassing videos on here. Ana isn’t the only one.”
“Really?” Saanvi says.
We lean over so we can see his screen.
“Ack. Poor Marcus,” I say. In the video, a flap of his shirt is sticking out of his wide-open fly.
“Why doesn’t he get this taken down?” Holden asks.
“Maybe he doesn’t realize,” I say.
Saanvi wrinkles her nose. “A few extra people laughing at Marcus wouldn’t be a ginormous change.”
Which is sadly true. Marcus Arnit is greeted with chants of “Armpit! Armpit! Armpit!” on a regular basis. It’s not likely his social life could get worse.
“And who’s going to tell Ms. Crofton she shouldn’t sit like that?” Saanvi adds.
I lean over again to see a photo of our art teacher perched atop her desk with her legs crossed. Ms. Crofton has an entire collection of ethically produced bamboo dresses. They’re fairly clingy, and this one obviously slid up when she sat on her desk. There’s a substantial amount of thigh showing.
“Can you log out?” I beg Holden. “Looking at this makes me feel gross.”
“True,” Saanvi says. “Plus…we have super-fun algebra to do!” She grins at us, semi-evilly and semi-hopefully.
“There’s something weird here,” Holden says, ignoring her. “Marcus’s video is taken from a strange angle. And Ana’s not in the middle of the shot, either. Who do you think took these?”
I reach over. “Let me look.”
“Or, we could leave Ana alone and think about order of operations,” Saanvi says.
When I hold up a finger to pause her, she groans.
I stare at Holden’s phone. And maybe it’s because of Ms. Sutton looking at the camera in our ethics class, or maybe it’s because I was staring at that photo of Banksy’s words written directly beneath the security cameras, but I suddenly know exactly where these shots came from.
“Hey, guys? No one took these videos. Someone stole them,” I say.
“What?”
They give me matching confused looks.
“These are from the school security system. Look at Marcus’s. It’s taken from the corner of the humanities room.”
I’m not a math guru like Saanvi, or a child star like Holden, but I’m good at turning puzzle pieces in my mind and seeing which way they click together. My brain is always drawing maps and measuring angles, whether or not I want it to.
There’s only one way these video angles make sense.
“You’re right,” Holden mutters, taking his phone back.
“How did someone get into the security system?” Saanvi asks. “It should be encrypted.”
“Good question.”
“You’re the computer genius.” Holden raises his eyebrows at Saanvi. It’s clearly a challenge, and she never turns down a challenge.
Order of operations is forgotten. She tugs her laptop from her bag. For the rest of our study period, she sits hunched over the screen, muttering to herself. Holden and I are left to do our math homework on our own. As it turns out, I’m much better at order of operations than he is. Math isn’t my favorite subject, but it is about puzzles, in a different form.
Saanvi barely says a word for the rest of the day. I text her after dinner,
to see if she’s made progress.
ME: Any luck?
SAANVI: Still trying.
ME: How can you see who’s accessed the system, anyway?
SAANVI: Complicated. Show you tmrw.
ME: Nvm. That’s your department.
I stay up too late watching TV, then working for a while on my Banksy project, then drawing possible portraits of what Banksy might look like. Finally, I flop into bed and tell myself to sleep.
Mom’s still not home.
When I click the Find Friends app on my phone, I can see her tiny picture, hovering over a house ten minutes away. She’s catering a private dinner party tonight. I watch for a few minutes to see if she’ll start moving toward me. But no.
I’m used to her being out. It’s not like I can’t stay on my own. But some nights, our apartment seems too quiet.
I used to have nightmares when I was little, after a boy from our neighborhood was kidnapped. (Really. I still have a poster around here somewhere. Missing: Daniel Donavan. It turned out his dad took him, and it was some sort of custody dispute, but still. Scary.)
Tonight, Mom appears to have been kidnapped by work. Again. Her little picture continues to hover, ten minutes away.
My phone buzzes, making me jump.
HOLDEN: What if you had brain-freeze, a foot cramp, and hit your funny bone all at the same time?
ME: And stubbed your toe?
HOLDEN: Whoa.
ME: You might spontaneously combust.
HOLDEN: Can you try? I’ll get it on video. I’ll be rich.
ME: You’re already rich.
HOLDEN: But think of the fame. The glory. The PixSnappy followers.
ME: Go to sleep.
HOLDEN: Your mom home tonight?
ME: Not yet. Soon.
HOLDEN: Well, pretend Saanvi and I are there for one of our epic food fests.
Me and Banksy Page 3