Fetching

by Kiera Stewart

  I exhale with a laugh, relieved not to be in trouble.

  “We really should go,” I say.

  “Good thing she didn’t lock the door,” Brynne says.

  “But—I heard her key in the lock.”

  “You did?” She shoots me a look of panic that I’m sure I return.

  “Oh, no way,” she says, and scurries to her feet. She grabs the handle and turns back to me, eyes panicked. “No freakin’ way.”

  I get to my own feet. “What?”

  “We’re locked in!”

  “What?” I ask, even though I heard her perfectly. We are going to be in so much trouble. My voice feels shaky, and I dash toward the door.

  But she grabs me before I can reach it, and a volcano of laughter erupts from her. “I’m kidding,” she says, between gasps.

  I grab the knob and turn. The door opens, so I shut it again quickly. She holds back her laugh with her hand. “The doors don’t lock on the inside. You can always get out. Otherwise, we’d all burn to death if there was a fire.”

  “Oh. Right,” I say.

  “You should have seen your face.” She stops laughing just enough to mimic my expression—a combination of terror and surprise. She looks like a caricature, her pretty face wrestling itself into something so ridiculous. Despite the fact that I’m upset, a laugh leaks out of me like a whine.

  Then the bell rings, which causes us both to scream, which makes it even funnier.

  “We…better…go,” she tries to say through her laugh. We both take deep breaths, then she peeks down the hall in each direction. “Quick!” she yells. We scamper into the hallway and I trip and actually make a noise like splat on the floor, and by now I’m doubled over with laughter and we’re both finding it hard to walk. It takes us extra time to get outside, and when we do, we hear the buses start up. We begin to run—fast—and make it to our bus just before the door shuts for the last time, and she pulls me down to a seat with her and begins her interrogation for gum, like it’s any other day.

  I feel an empty churning inside my stomach. I break out a pack of Goldfish crackers from my backpack and offer a few to Brynne. But it’s something other than hunger, because after downing all but about three of the crackers, the feeling is still there.

  CORNY IS WAITING for me on the porch, her arms crossed over her chest, her lips pressed together in a thin line. She looks nothing like the normally sweet but very odd old lady that I’ve grown to love. Nothing. My already-troubled stomach sinks.

  Even the good-natured Ferrill, who is sitting next to her, seems to be giving me the stink eye. This can’t be good.

  “Where were you this afternoon?” she asks, as I step off the bus. The bus moans its way down the narrow road behind me. Part of me wants to run down the road after it.

  Queso pushes through the screen door. When she sees me, she starts acting like Corny Junior and launches into a yapping session. Her bark is high-pitched and nerve-racking. Finally Corny slaps her hands together and Queso snaps out of it.

  “I was at school,” I say. I look down at my fingers. I’ve been picking at my cuticles so much, they look like a hungry rat had at them.

  “Why weren’t you at that game club? Delilah called from the front office, asked if you’d come home sick or something.” I don’t even bother correcting Delia’s name. Corny’s words come too fast. Thankfully mine do too, although I’m not sure where they come from.

  “I went to the library instead,” I lie.

  I feel her staring at me, so I add, “I had a lot of homework.” I meet her stare, but she doesn’t look satisfied.

  “Is that so?”

  I nod and roll my eyes. “Yes, that’s so.”

  “Funny. ’Cause I called the library.”

  I hear the sound of a record scratch in my head. How could I be so stupid? Why didn’t I think that my grandmother would call the school looking for me, especially if Delia called, worried. For a minute my mouth seems like it’s moving without words, then something seems to take over. “Oh. You must have called the school library.” I shoot her a look that says silly old lady. “I went to the regular library. The public one.”

  Her face goes blank. I start to feel like I’m winning. I walk up the steps to the porch and lean down to scratch Ferrill under the chin. He lets out a big sigh and drops his head to the floor.

  “Well, it’s just down the street from school. I made it back in time for the late bus, didn’t I?” I feel lighter again. This is working. I open the screen door and walk inside, holding it open for Oomlot to follow. Queso runs in front of him and enters first.

  Corny starts inside too, not ready to drop it. “I never gave you permission to leave school grounds,” she says, practically through her teeth.

  “I know, and I’m sorry.” I stick my bottom lip out for effect. “I just didn’t figure anyone would really miss me—”

  “Why didn’t you tell your friends? Your best friend?”

  “Well, I mean, we just—I just needed my space.” A little part of me wonders why I didn’t start with this. This is something Corny would probably understand. And it’s pretty true—well, almost. But it’s too late to undo all the other lies.

  “Well, you’re grounded,” she says. “You won’t be going to that girl’s sleepover.” She’s talking about Erin Monroe’s party, which is at the end of next week.

  I suck in a breath. I feel slapped. My chest gets tight and the back of my eyes start to ache. “What about the dance?”

  She looks at me and softens just a little. “I said the sleepover, didn’t I?” I am slightly relieved. But only slightly. “Now,” she continues, “call Delilah right away. Just let her know you’re safe.”

  Talking to The Great Betrayer is the last thing I want to do. I start to argue, but Corny cuts me off and says, “I told her you’d call.” So I know now I have to.

  “It’s me.”

  “Hey! What happened? Why didn’t you come to the club?” Delia sounds genuinely happy to hear from me.

  I say nothing. It’s one of those moments where’s there too many words to say, and any one of those words might mess up the nicely packed vacuum-sealed Space Bags in my brain.

  “Olivia? Hey, are you mad at me or something?”

  I take a breath and blurt out, “You told Brynne about my mom, didn’t you?” It barely sounds like a question, and I barely want to know the answer. There’s one little shred of hope that this is just a lie that Brynne made up, or maybe some stupid misunderstanding—the kind that happens in sitcoms on TV. “In fact, you told all our friends, didn’t you?”

  “Olivia, our friends know you don’t live with your mom—that’s not a secret.”

  “But the fact that she went crazy and just took off is!”

  “Olivia, all I did is stop rumors! And it’s not like I broadcast it to the whole school, Liv. I just told our friends. They were hearing all sorts of weird things. People were saying that you were a juvenile delinquent and you were arrested in a Greyhound station! Some people were trying to say you were taken from your mom because she kept you locked in a room!”

  “So then once you told them—once you all became experts about my life—you decided you’d get on speakerphone and tell Brynne all my business!”

  Now she’s saying nothing. Not a good sign.

  “I can’t believe this,” I say. “All of my friends—you, Mandy, Phoebe, even Joey—have been hiding the truth from me for how long? Like, more than a month! What did you have, a secret pact not to tell me what was going on?”

  “I’m really sorry! I thought it would help. It was right after the ketchup thing and I was just trying to get Brynne to lay off! Remember? I was trying to help you and I didn’t want to do it alone, that’s all.”

  “Trying to help me?” I yell, and let out a low, sarcastic laugh. “How?”

  “I was kind of hoping she could relate. Remember, I used to be friends with her. I know how craz—I mean, unstable—her mom is. I thought if she knew what y
ou were going through, she’d be decent enough to stop torturing you and the rest of us. But obviously, she’s not!”

  “So you wanted her to feel sorry for me? Of all people, Delia, I thought I could trust you! You know who’s stupid? Me! ”

  “Olivia,” she pleads. “Honestly? You’re not being fair.”

  I start to hang up, then yank the phone back to my ear. “And you know what? You’re right about something. Brynne can relate.”

  And then I slam down the old phone, thankful for the satisfying clang that rings out for mercy when I do. And a second later, when it rings, I pick the phone right back up and get to make that clang again.

  And then I call Brynne.

  I tell her about how Delia nearly caused my grandmother to have a heart attack. I tell her about how I called Delia—I even make my voice all high-pitched and nasally when I imitate Delia asking me if I’m mad at her, and Brynne laughs like I knew she would, and says, “Oh. Em. Gee.”

  And then I tell her I’m grounded this weekend, and that I can’t go to Erin’s party next weekend.

  And she says something that changes everything. She says, “Well, then, I won’t go either.”

  All night, I think about the Fall Ball. I think I should probably give Max his answer soon. I’m thinking maybe it should be a yes. Maybe I was wrong about Caleb after all. I mean, he’s got a bunch of prettier, more naturally likable girls helping him out on his campaign—and maybe they all feel the way I do around him. You know, special.

  And—news flash!—prayers aren’t always answered. You think I’d know that by now.

  On Tuesday, Brynne and I sit alone at our own lunch table, and I make myself look like I’m having a grand old time. Even if Peyton Randall is sitting in my old seat next to Delia. And even if Joey is acting like Gallant, instead of Goofus, from Highlights magazine, and is doing polite little Gallant things like eating chicken salad! With his lips closed! And even if Erin Monroe is laughing about something Joey said, and Phoebe is joining in like she’s been doing this laughing thing her entire life! And even if CALEB AUSTIN is stopping at the table and saying something to Mandy, who nods and smiles like she’s some regular, ordinary person who always does things like smiling and nodding and not just being the HUBERT C. FROST MIDDLE SCHOOL SHARPIE QUEEN!!!

  I take a deep breath. That’s all right. It doesn’t matter. I just picture myself washing my hair, and when that doesn’t work, I move on to flossing. When that doesn’t work, I give up. Alpha dogs don’t floss anyway.

  WE HAVE A sub in English on Wednesday, so it’s basically every man for himself. The sub has turned on his iPod and tuned the class—and its spirited desk-hopping contest—out. But Max is unusually quiet.

  I tap him on the shoulder. “Max?”

  He turns his head around slowly.

  “Hi,” I say.

  “Hi?”

  “How you doing?” I ask, buying time. I still feel nervous about saying yes. Caleb will just miss out. Like I’ve said before, stupid Caleb.

  Max ignores the question and turns his head away from me.

  “Um, hey,” I say. “About the dance—”

  “Oh. It’s okay,” he says.

  Huh?

  “It’s okay. Don’t worry about it. You don’t have to go with me.” He seems a little annoyed.

  “But—I—”

  “I’m not stupid, you know,” he says. “If someone doesn’t say yes, then I can figure out it’s a no.”

  “But that’s not what—”

  “I’m going with Izzy Van Norton,” he says—meaning the half-pretzel girl—and turns around, leaving me feeling completely like a lost puppy.

  It’s Friday, and I’ve successfully avoided Delia, Mandy, Phoebe, and Joey all week. I am getting my backpack out of my locker when something hits the back of my head. People around me giggle, and I turn and see Peyton Randall walking away. “Delia wanted me to give you this,” she says, in a disgusted voice. There’s a small triangle-shaped note on the floor. One kid accidentally steps on it, oblivious. I reel it in with my foot before it gets crushed again.

  My name, which Delia wrote in a triangular pattern to match the shape of the note, now bears a gray sneaker mark. I dust it off and hear, “What’s that?”

  It’s Brynne. She’s got her backpack over her shoulder and a slight sneer on her face, like she’s hungry for something to make fun of. I’m glad it’s not me, and I stuff the note into my pocket and say, “Just trash.”

  On the bus, after Brynne gets off at her stop, I read the note.

  Dear Olivia:

  Will you please CALL ME? I’m sorry!

  Delia

  Then I crumple it up noisily in case anyone’s watching. When I’m sure no one is, I stuff it into the side pocket of my backpack. I feel only slightly bad about the fact that I’m not going to call Delia—not just now. She needs to learn a little lesson about betrayal.

  Later that night, my dad calls. It’s obvious Corny called him earlier, and I can just imagine how that went.

  Corny: She’s acting so weird! I think it’s happening! She’s starting to crack!

  Dad: But it’s so early. She’s barely through puberty!

  Corny: I know, it’s a shame. A darn shame.

  My dad asks if everything is okay, but in that careful way—with tight words that sound like they could easily fall to the ground and shatter.

  I try to act casual. “Everything’s fine, Dad.” But I just prove that it’s possible to talk out of tune, which sounds the opposite of casual.

  “Are you sure? I can come up for a quick visit if you need me.”

  I make myself breathe. “I’m really busy with school and stuff.”

  “Oh.”

  He sounds a little hurt, so I add, “It’s just been stressful with the campaign.”

  “No, I understand,” he tells me. “I’d vote for Mandy if I could.”

  “Oh, great. Thanks,” I say. It makes me sad to hear him say it, especially because I’m not so sure I would say the same.

  “CAN I ASK you a question?” I bring myself to say to Brynne. It’s Monday, after school, and we are at my house, sitting at the kitchen table, being stalked by Oomlot and Queso since we are making peanut butter and sugar sandwiches. I’m only slightly ashamed that I don’t have real Nutter Butters to offer.

  “You just did,” she says. But then she flashes a smile. “What’s your question?”

  I hesitate. I almost don’t want to go down this route with the M-word. I think about chickening out and asking her about her shampoo or her favorite character on Full House, now that she’s seen a marathon with me over the past weekend and seemed to really like it.

  “Um, Ryan Stoles,” she says.

  “Huh?”

  “My secret crush.” She laughs. “Isn’t that what you were going to ask?”

  I laugh. “Well, no, but really?” I think about Ryan, Caleb’s co–campaign manager. He’s sort of wiry and boyish. If you put a thick pair of glasses of him he would be a Classic Geek. But then I think about Danny and I realize Brynne has a definite type.

  “A little, I guess,” she says. “Your turn. Let me guess. Caleb Austin.”

  An electric bolt of panic shoots through me. I stammer, “I don’t…I mean…he’s…I mean—”

  She laughs loudly. “It’s okay, Olivia. Seriously. He’s a flirt. Everyone kind of likes him.”

  I smile with embarrassment.

  “Anyway, sorry.” She laughs. “What did you really want to ask me?”

  Even though it’s a lot more fun to talk about Caleb, I take a breath and ask the question that’s been on my mind a lot lately. “When you found out about—about, you know, my mom”—I swallow—“did you tell anyone?”

  Her smile fades. “Sometimes I wanted to. But, no.”

  “Thank you,” I finally breathe.

  “I mean, I wouldn’t want anyone knowing too much about my mom. Plus,” she says, “what could I say about your mom that people couldn’t say
about mine?”

  “Yours doesn’t sound too bad, though. At least she still—” I start. I can’t believe I’m having this discussion with anyone, let alone Brynne. Moncherie would be so jealous. “She still lives with you.”

  She laughs. “Oh, lucky, lucky me. She totally babies my brother and treats me like a felon.”

  “Is it really that bad?” I ask, beginning to feel a little sorry for her.

  “When she takes her medicine, no. I mean, it’s not horrible. But then after she takes it for a while, she starts feeling normal, so she goes off the pills and then everything sucks all over again.” Her eyes soften. “So, is your mom like, in like—sorry, I don’t know what to call them—one of those loony bin places?”

  “Yeah,” I admit.

  “Oh. That’s got to be weird. But now do you believe me that my mom is crazy?” She starts to smile.

  “Okay, I do.”

  I wonder how she feels about carrying around her own little personal crazy gene. If she worries about it rising up and taking over too—if it’s not starting to already. I imagine us old and graying together, in some white-walled institution somewhere, weaving brightly colored pot holders even though neither one of us is allowed near kitchen knives or a hot stove.

  “You know what?” she says. “You’re a way better BFF than Carolyn ever was.”

  BFF. The letters swell in my head, both thrilling me and making me want to run at the same time. All I can choke out is, “Really?”

  “Yeah. I can’t really talk to her about this stuff. You know, the deepest conversation I ever had with her was about hair products.” Then she stops abruptly. I notice she is staring at my hair. “I mean, sure, sometimes there’s a need to talk about hair products—” She sees me watching her, gives me an apologetic smile, and continues. “But not like every single second, you know what I mean?”

  “Yeah,” I say, embarrassed. Ugh. My hair. I can change my posture, my walk, my clothes, even intensify the color of my eyes, but I seem to be stuck with this clownlike hair. I could use all the Georgie Girl in the world, and still. I decide to change the subject. I look over at her flattened PB&S sandwich. “Sorry I don’t have anything better to eat. Unless you like lentils.”