“Well,” I start, doing the same thing with my hand. “To be honest, I kind of knew I had it in me. Like some deep hidden skill, waiting to be unearthed, but I wasn’t sure I’d ever have the opportunity to try it out. . . .”
He cracks up, falling back onto his bed.
I sit down and swivel around in the desk chair, and try to think of something to say. Silence still feels a little weird between us. “Do you think schoolwork is getting really hard?” I ask.
He sits back up. “Yes! It is way harder than it was in Atlanta.”
I nod. “Well, at least I’m not the only one who thinks it’s impossible.” I don’t mean to do it, but I catch a glimpse of Ari’s house out of the corner of my eye. I wonder if she knows I’m over here. I wonder if she’ll show up. I wonder if she misses me as much as I miss her.
“Don’t stress too much,” he suggests, sitting on the edge of his bed. “Come in for a hug. It’ll help.”
I stand up, and he does, too. We do that thing where our hands are on each other’s shoulders, and I’m not sure which direction to move my head. But then we’re hugging and he smells like the barbecue-chicken pizza they served for lunch, but it’s not completely grossing me out.
“There,” he says, pulling away. “Feel better?”
I nod, even though I’m not really sure I do.
“What should I do about Ari?” I ask, sitting back down on his desk chair.
He shrugs and sits on his bed. “I don’t know. Also I’m not sure if I should bring this up, but did you hear about her and that girl Sydney getting on TV?”
“What? No! Tell me!”
He throws a Nerf ball against the wall, and it bounces back to him. “Sheesh! Okay! Well, there was some kind of, like, community service day at Ari’s temple, and Sydney’s dad is, like, in charge of the board. Ya know, he’s the CEO or something of, like, a big important company—”
“Who cares about her dad? Just tell me!”
He throws the ball directly at my head this time. “I’m getting there. Whatever, they went to it, and there were news cameras there doing a story on community service events making the world better, or something like that . . . and they interviewed Arianna and Sydney.”
“Oh.” I stare at Jason’s framed diplomas, and avoid eye contact with him. My throat gets tight. Sydney did that event with Ari when it should have been me.
Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry.
“So, Louisiana Purchase?” he asks. “It always cheers me up.”
“Sure.” My voice comes out scratchy.
We study and Jason quizzes me and I only get half the answers right. All I can think about is how Ari did two things on the list without me. Two things at the same time—help humanity and get on TV. Did she even realize it? She must have, knowing Ari. Did she JHH without me twice or only once? Did she do a double JHH with Sydney?
My phone buzzes as we’re working on practice questions; it’s my mom.
“Kaylan, where are you?” she asks.
I look around Jason’s room, wondering what to say, my stomach sinking to my toes. “At a friend’s, studying for the history test.”
I hold the phone away from my head and mouth to Jason, “I’m in trouble; I forgot to leave a note.”
He nods, all understanding.
“Get home now, Kaylan. I’ve told you a million times that I need to know where you are, and you keep violating our rules.”
“Sorry. I’m leaving now.” I hang up.
Jason’s eyebrows curve inward. “We didn’t do the practice test yet.”
“I gotta go,” I say, stuffing my review sheets in my backpack. “My mom’s freaking out.”
“Moms seem to do that. Don’t they?”
“Definitely. I mean, she has reason to freak. But whatever. Okay. See you tomorrow.”
I grab my bag, run down the stairs, and sprint all the way home. I don’t even look toward Ari’s house. I don’t want to see her hanging out with someone else.
I think about that study session the whole way home—how Jason’s confident that he knows stuff, how he was impressed with the stuff I knew, how he took time to explain things to me. He always seems to get what I’m feeling—he even tells me about Ari.
It’s weird that I can’t get Jason out of my head. Maybe because of all the new people I’ve met this year, he’s the only one I want to hang out with.
I take my phone out of my pocket when I’m almost at my house. Ari would get it. Maybe I should just text her, call a truce, and end this battle.
Ari, I miss you. We need to talk.
I stare at the text, but I don’t hit send.
TWENTY-SEVEN
ON SATURDAY, I’M SITTING AT the kitchen table eating a bowl of Cheerios with cut-up banana when my mom hands me the phone.
“Who is it?” I mouth.
“A man named Barry Wallach, from Channel Eight.”
“What?” I mouth again. My mom doesn’t understand the mute button.
“He wants to talk to you.”
A little more information would be helpful, but okay. I’ll deal with it.
“Hello,” I say.
“Hi, Kaylan?” he asks, tentative. “My name is Barry. I’m a producer at Channel 8.”
The way he says it, it sounds like he expects me to know who he is, so I respond with an excited “Oh, hi!” It seems like the least I can do. People on TV always want everyone to know who they are, I think.
“We heard what you did.”
“Um?”
“You helped get Mrs. Etisof back into her house by climbing through her window.” He says it all dramatic, like he’s the voiceover on some kind of intense documentary. He laughs and I do, too, because this whole thing is just so silly and bizarre. “And we’d love to offer you and a guest tickets to our nightly talk show. We always have fun guests and giveaways!”
“Um. What?” I didn’t even think Mrs. Etisof watched TV at all . . . but my mom watches that show every night!
“Mrs. Etisof’s nephew is a producer here.” He pauses. “She wanted to do something nice to thank you for that heroic effort.”
“For real?” I ask, and then try to rephrase my words to sound more professional. “Yes, um, I’d love to.”
He goes over all the logistics—what to wear, what time to be there, what door to go in, where our seats will be.
I hang up the phone and tell my mom the whole story.
“Wow. That’s so exciting!” She yells way too loud for this early in the morning and then pulls me into a hug.
“Um, Mom.” I gently squiggle away from her. “Do you want to be my guest?” I figure it’s the least I can do since she’s been through so much. And I mean, the only other person I could ask to go with me would be Jason. And I’m just not sure we’re at that level of friendship yet.
Ryan comes pounding down the stairs and into the kitchen. “What’s happening? I heard Mom scream.”
So my mom tells him the whole story as he’s grabbing all the cereal boxes out of the pantry and then mixing them all together in the giant bowl usually used for serving salad at a dinner party.
“That’s really bizarre, but cool, I guess,” he says after a bite of cereal. “Hope you don’t do anything embarrassing on TV.”
“I’m not actually going to be on TV, dimwit.” I leave the kitchen and run upstairs. Actually, it would be great if I was going to be on TV. I’d be able to check that off the list. And prove to Ari and Sydney that I can get on TV, too. In an even cooler way!
I already helped humanity by helping Mrs. Etisof. And if you help one person, you help the world. At least, I think so.
I’ve been trying to do the JHH by myself. But I just can’t.
It’s kind of impossible to hug yourself and high-five yourself. And it also feels like the most pathetic thing in the world.
I can’t take this situation with Ari anymore. I need to call her. This is a super-exciting thing. Ari’s dad loves this show; he says it’s the best wa
y to calm down after a stressful day. And they do pan the audience, so maybe I will get on TV. . . .
I stare at my phone for about three minutes before I decide to call. It rings. And rings. And rings.
And then voicemail.
So I don’t know what to do. Should I hang up and Ari will see a missed call? Should I leave a message?
“Um, hey, Ari.” The words come out of my mouth after the beep. “Just wanted to, um, give you some kinda exciting news. So, yeah. Call me back if you can. Okay. Bye.”
I hang up and exhale and my heart pounds even harder than it was pounding before I made the call.
I sit and wait for a few minutes to see if Ari will call back. I sign in online and see if she’s there. I check her Instagram and see if there are any new posts.
Nothing. She’s probably out with Marie or Sydney or one of those girls. They’re probably on their way to the movies, and they’re going to share popcorn and Goobers and get giant sodas and have the best day ever.
I wonder if I should text June or Cami. I have their numbers, but we’re not really at the texting level yet. I don’t know exactly what we are. Just lunch-table friends, I guess.
It’s weird, though, because Jason and I were texting friends pretty much right away. But he won’t get it. He hasn’t lived here long enough to get the excitement of the Channel 8 nightly talk show.
I continue searching through my closet for an outfit in case I get on camera. Before I realize how much time has passed, my mom yells up the stairs that it’s time to go.
I settle on a jean skirt with gray tights and a dark purple button-down sweater. It looks cute but also sensible and mature.
My mom decides to dress up for the occasion—but not in an over-the-top, cheesy way. She’s wearing a flare-y black dress, patent leather platforms. And the perfect shade of red lipstick.
On the drive over to the station, my mom is mostly quiet. I can tell she’s thinking about saying something but isn’t sure she should say it. She’ll look at me, and then back at the road, and then open her mouth, and then look back at me again. But no words seem to come out.
It’s making me nervous.
Finally she mumbles out a “Listen, Kaylan,” and I know nothing good is going to come after that.
“Yeah?”
“I’m so glad you invited me to come tonight. I’ve been feeling so out of touch with your life,” she says, and I force myself not to grumble. Didn’t we just talk about this? Maybe my mom just can’t stand the silence.
“Mom. You’re not. Nothing is going on. I mean, nothing except that we’re going to this amazing show tonight, and I climbed through a window.” I laugh. “That’s pretty much it.”
“I know—but you and Ari? Still nothing?”
I shake my head side to side.
“Have you tried calling?”
I shift in my seat and roll down the window. I don’t want to admit that I have. That I pray every night for her to be my friend again. It feels so pathetic. So desperate. “Please, let’s stop talking about this,” I say.
“Okay,” she says, resigned.
Finally, we get to the station, and my mom parks the car and we walk in together.
I tell the receptionist my name and she replies, “Oh, so you’re Kaylan! And this is your guest?”
“My mom.” I nod and smile.
More and more people start to arrive, and then a young guy with a headset and an iPad comes out. “Are you all ready for the show?” he yells to the crowd. “Come on back!”
We follow him down a long hallway and then into a room with rows and rows of seats and a stage with two armchairs and a mini table between them. The lighting is super-bright and it feels like it’s two degrees in here.
But none of that bothers me because we’re going to see a live show!
Another lady meets us at the door and shows us to our seats. “Front row,” she whispers to my mom and me. She curves her fingers to pull me in closer. “There’s something under your seat. We only tell certain people about it.”
My mom and I make eyes at each other. What could it be? Did we just win a car or something? A vacation home in the South of France? My mind swirls with the possibilities.
We finally make it to our seats, and I glance around to make sure no one is looking. I feel like this is a secret I need to keep, at least for now. Everyone’s busy settling themselves, so I sit down and look underneath my chair.
A piece of paper.
I flip it over and read:
You have been selected to participate in the show! Come up with answers to the next three questions, and be prepared to share them with Petey G. Please give your sheet to one of the pages once you’ve signed the release. Have fun with it!
1. What’s on your mind right now?
2. Invent your own ice cream flavor (we have connections to Ben & Jerry’s).
3. What’s the craziest thing you’ve ever done?
I turn to my mom. “I can’t do this. Let’s get out of here.” I wanted to be on TV but not by myself and not in this awkward way meant for adults.
“Kaylan,” she says softly. “This is so much fun! What’s wrong?”
I show her the sheet. “You do it. You’ll be better.”
She shakes her head. “She picked you. I think they like to have different ages.” She smiles. “You’ll be great.”
I slump back in my seat and hesitate before I sign the release form. My mom needs to sign it, too, since I’m a minor. I regret agreeing to this. I regret everything. If Mrs. Etisof hadn’t gotten locked out, I wouldn’t have had to crawl through her window, and she wouldn’t have given me these tickets as a token of appreciation.
“Welcome to the showwwwwww,” a tall, skinny guy says, jumping up and down with a microphone. He moves his hands, guiding us all to get out of our seats. “Put your hands together for Petey G!”
Petey G runs out doing some kind of aerobic dance move where he raises his knees in the air like he’s training for a race or something. He puts his hands to his heart, like he’s so grateful for all of our applause, and waits for us to stop clapping.
“Thank you. Thank you. Take your seats,” he instructs. “No, please, really, take your seats. You’re making me nervous.”
Everyone laughs.
“So, we have a crazy show for you all tonight. A man who can stand on his head and drink a milkshake at the same time, a woman who can take apart a phone and put it back together right in front of your very eyes, and the mother whose video of her six-month-old baby dancing went viral . . . but.” He pauses. “Before all of that. We must start with . . .” He holds his arms out and everyone shouts, “Audience participation!”
“Oh no. Mom. Come on! Run!” I try to stand up, but my mom taps my knee and gets me to sit back down. “Mom! This is too much.”
Petey G launches into a discussion about audience participation and how it was always his favorite thing as a kid—and that’s when it hits me.
I have a really good chance of actually getting on TV. I’ve been so nervous this whole time that I didn’t realize I was so close to accomplishing something on the list.
Loyal to the list! Loyal to the list! I repeat over and over in my head to calm myself down.
I must face my fears of potential complete humiliation for saying the dumbest things in the world on live TV, if only for the list’s sake.
Petey G comes out into the audience to talk to a guy named Curt who’s not very funny at all. It’s like he didn’t even try not to be bland and boring, like he wasn’t impressed with being on the show. His made-up ice cream flavor was hummus. I mean, come on. Ew.
“Okay, well, Curt—thanks for playing!” Petey G walks back up onto the stage and says, “Our next guest is . . . Kaylan Terrel! All of eleven years old.”
I’m frozen in my seat, waiting for Petey G to come over to me.
“We’re gonna have her come on to the stage, folks: her answers were just that unique.” Petey G laughs. “Eleven years o
ld, folks. Come on up, Kaylan!”
My mom gently pushes me to stand up, and my heart is pounding so loud I’m sure the whole audience can hear it. I walk slowly down my row and up the few steps to the stage.
“In all fairness, I’m almost twelve,” I say into Petey G’s microphone, and everyone laughs. It feels like a veil of confidence just appears over me. Like I’m wearing a costume, and no one sees the real me right now. I don’t even see the real me.
“Okay, Almost-Twelve Kaylan.” He points to the other armchair. “Take a seat.”
I sit down and he says, “So, have you ever been on TV before?”
I shake my head. “Not that I know of.” I look out into the audience. “Mom, have I?”
Laughter again! Uproarious laughter, not just giggles! My mom shakes her head; she’s cracking up, too.
“Good to know.” He smiles. “What’s on your mind right now?”
I want to say something funny but all I can think of is the Ari stuff, and the Jason stuff, and the Tyler stuff, and the list. I can’t say any of that on live TV! “Well, to be honest, I’m gonna be in a school talent show soon. And I don’t know what to do for my act,” I say. “So . . . any ideas?”
The audience completely cracks up then, and I wasn’t even trying to be funny.
“Email me,” I say. “Or meet me after the show! I’ll be by the side door.”
Petey G is fully laughing now, shaking his head. “Well, you’ve come to the right place,” he says. “Ice cream flavor?”
“That’s easy.” I sit on the edge of my chair. I’m freezing and sweating at the same time; it feels like my body can’t decide which direction to freak out. “Strawberry ice cream, marshmallow, and crushed-up pink Starbursts.”
“Did you know about these questions in advance?” he asks. “That’s a very specific flavor.”
“I didn’t. But dream ice cream flavor is something I’ve been pondering for years.” I look out into the audience. “So Ben and Jerry, if you’re listening—you can have my idea, free of charge. Ready for the name?”
The audience nods.
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