by Lehman, Kim
I tilt my head and say, “What’s going on?”
“Exactly.” She nods. “That’s perfect.”
Down the hall, just as Lani predicted, Vanessa turns the corner and makes a beeline in our direction.
There’s trouble in the air. I do not have a warm fuzzy about this.
Halting a foot in front of us, Vanessa crosses her arms over her chest. “As soon as I turned into this hall, I knew you would be here. All I had to do was follow your stench.”
Lani mimics Vanessa’s stance. “Yeah? You like it? It’s Eau de Awesome. Not a brand you’d be very familiar with.”
Vanessa doesn’t blink. “Actually, it’s more of a vile aroma.”
“Oh, well, I can tell you exactly what you’re smelling, then.” Lani raises an eyebrow. “That’s just the foul gas from your ass following you upwind.”
Vanessa’s expression remains firm. “Cut the shit, Lani. You know why I’m here, and you know what I want.”
“A cure for gonorrhea?”
Vanessa looks like she might hit her. “I want my phone. I know you have it.”
“Why would I have your phone?”
“Both of us were just in the library and that is the last place I had it.”
“Oh, you mean in the library ten minutes ago when I was sitting there, studying, minding my own business and you came up and told me you found my biography under the Natural Sciences section, some book on dangerous mammals? Is that when you think I took your phone?”
“Look, I’m sorry if the truth hurts, but it doesn’t change the fact that I know you have my phone. I’m almost positive I left it on the table you were sitting at.”
Lani shakes her head with a tsk. “That seems irresponsible.”
Losing patience with Lani, Vanessa glares at me. “Charlotte? Where is my phone?” she demands.
I look at her, bug-eyed. I have no idea.
“Hey.” Lani doesn’t allow me to answer. “Charlotte doesn’t know where your phone is either. You really shouldn’t accuse people of taking your things if you didn’t see them do it.”
Vanessa looks at me, her eyes probing for a response. “Just because I didn’t see Lani take it doesn’t mean I don’t know that it was her.”
“Hello. I’m still standing right here.” Lani waves her hand.
“Unfortunately,” Vanessa says.
“All right, look.” Lani sighs. “We both know I’m the nicer person here, so I’m going to do you a huge favor.” Smiling, she uncrosses her arms. “I’m going to help you find your phone.”
“Aha! I knew you took it,” Vanessa shouts.
Lani holds up her hands. “Whoa! Did I say I took it?” She looks at me. “Did you hear me say I took it?” I shake my head. Lani continues, turning back to Vanessa. “I think someone is overly emotional and possibly in need of a meal...or two...or three. Malnutrition can make you irritable. I think I have a cookie in my—”
“If you don’t tell me where my phone is in three seconds, I’m going to rip that bag off of your shoulder, dump the contents on the ground, and search for it myself.” There’s an enormous amount of tense restraint in her voice as she speaks.
Lani leans over to me while still keeping her eyes on Vanessa and whispers, “I’m getting a hostile vibe.”
“So?” Vanessa says, waiting.
Lani draws out a long pause, intentionally building the suspense. “It would seem that if I were you, and I thank God I’m not, but if I were and I had to look for it, the first place I would check is the tampon dispenser.” Lani beams.
Vanessa’s eyes widen, her cheeks heat up like burning embers. “The two of you will rot in hell,” she growls.
After Vanessa stomps away, I turn to Lani. “Did you have to do that?” I ask.
“You heard what she said to me, and what about what she did to you on Friday? Crazy-Ness deserved it.”
“Lani,” I say, “I told you this weekend that I will not stoop to her level.”
“She instigated it. I wasn’t even gonna to talk to her, then she came up and when she walked away her phone was sitting right there. It was an opportunity I could not pass up.”
I have to laugh. “If you keep letting her get under your skin and react to her the way you do, she might be right. You may rot in hell.”
“Whatever,” Lani says. “It can’t be any worse than this place.”
In Algebra, after lunch, I take my seat and watch the door for Grayson. Since Friday I’ve made it a habit to check my clothing and face in the mirror of the bathroom to make sure stray food hasn’t randomly attached itself to weird parts of my body. Grayson barely said anything to me yesterday—Monday—just hi. I can’t help but wonder if it has something to do with the embarrassing incident on Friday. Maybe he sees me differently now?
Today when he enters, I tense up as usual.
When he gets to his seat, next to me, he smiles and nods. I smile and nod. A minute goes by, then another minute. The bell rings. Class starts. Throughout class I steal quick glances in his direction. He’s frantically writing problems on a piece of paper. Not once does he look in my direction. When class ends I tense up again, hoping that maybe he’ll walk out of class with me, but he’s out the door before I can even grab my bag. My heart sinks.
Later that night, after dinner, Miles comes over. We’re sitting at the kitchen table, our homework scattered in front of us, untouched since he arrived twenty minutes ago.
“Peanut butter and jelly, or grilled cheese?” I ask him. We’re prepping each other; learning how to make life’s most difficult decisions.
Miles shakes his head. “Those two things aren’t similar. The choices have to be in the same family. You can say peanut butter or jelly, but not peanut butter and jelly or grilled cheese.”
“Both are on bread,” I argue.
He stares at me and shrugs. “Okay. Sound logic.”
“Well?” I smile.
“Grilled cheese,” he says.
“Wise choice,” I tell him.
“I’m glad you approve.”
“Your turn,” I say.
Miles
“Summer or winter?” I ask her.
She doesn’t hesitate. “Fall.”
“That wasn’t an option.”
“It’s called taking creative liberties,” she says.
I chuckle. “You mean you’re cheating?”
“Hi, Miles,” Charlotte’s mom walks into the kitchen followed by Charlotte’s dad.
“Hi, Mrs. Hubbard.”
“Miles, please call me Dee.”
“Okay, Dee.”
She smiles approvingly, then turns to her daughter. “Charlotte, we’re heading over to Paul and Claire’s.”
“Okay,” Charlotte says.
“Don’t go anywhere or let anyone in other than Miles.” She glances at me. “I told your sister the same thing. We’ll be back around eleven.”
Even though they’re strict, I’d give anything to have parents like Charlotte’s—happy, normal, together. Recalling moments of happiness with my parents is difficult. I was too young to remember much, but I do remember the constant arguing, and I remember Dad leaving. That part I remember clearly.
As soon as Charlotte’s parents walk out the door, she hops off the kitchen chair. “The ’rents are gone. I’m turning on the music.”
“We should order pizza too,” I suggest.
She looks at me with a gleam in her eye. “We’re rebels.”
I nod.
“I have a twenty-dollar bill stashed up in my room somewhere,” she adds.
“I have five bucks on me,” I say.
“Perfect. Cheese or Pepperoni?”
“Pepperoni.”
“Done.” She calls for pizza, then walks over to turn on the music. The stereo clicks to life. Katy Perry’s voice bursts from the speakers. Walking over to the fridge, Charlotte grabs a tub of ice cream, a spoon, and two bowls.
“I thought we were having pizza.”
“Ap
petizer sundaes.”
“Ah.” I love her.
In between scoops, she lip syncs into the spoon, then points to me. “Take it away, Miles.”
She catches me off guard. “No. No way. I’m not lip syncing to Katy Perry.”
“But you love Katy Perry.”
“You have me confused with someone else,” I deny.
She tilts her head and purses her lips.
Okay, I may or may not know all the lyrics to “Fireworks.” In my defense, though, Charlotte played the song nonstop when it first came out. It was hard not to keep the words out of my head. Charlotte is still staring at me with the spoon frozen in midscoop.
The chorus starts. With an I’m-gonna-regret-this sigh, I get up out of the chair, walk over, grab the spoon out of Charlotte’s hand, shake my head, and do my best lip-syncing diva impersonation. Charlotte is cracking up. As ridiculous as I’m sure I look, it’s more fun than I thought. Getting into it, I move around the kitchen and pretend to flick long strands of hair around my shoulders. Still laughing, Charlotte grabs another spoon and dances and lip syncs around with me, circling the island in our two-man conga line. When the chorus comes on again, both of us have the same thought and begin belting out the words. The harmony is horrible. We should have stuck to moving our lips, but now that the damage is done, we’re totally owning it, getting louder and louder, laughing harder and harder, each one trying to outsing the other.
Suddenly the music stops.
“Oh my God,” says a voice from behind.
Charlotte and I spin around. Alexa and Lance Donovan are standing in the entrance to the kitchen, staring at us, gaping. Alexa appears humiliated; Lance, amused. “Hey, dude.” Lance nods his head at me with a smirk.
“Hey,” I say, clearing my throat, before slowly laying the spoon on the counter.
“Lance, this is my sister Charlotte,” Alexa says dryly. “And this is her girlfriend, Miles.” Lance laughs.
“We were just doing our homework,” Charlotte says, as if trying to defend herself.
“So I see.” Alexa scrunches her face.
“Sorry. I didn’t hear anyone come in,” Charlotte says, glancing shyly at Lance.
“It’s cool. Good show.” Lances lip curls up.
Charlotte’s face blazes.
“We’re going out for a while,” Alexa says. “I’ll be back before Mom and Dad get in.”
Charlotte seems concerned by this. “But Mom and Dad said—”
“Oh my God. Seriously?” Alexa raises her eyebrows. “Are you going to say something to them or something?”
“No, I was just—”
“Good.” Alexa rolls her eyes in Charlotte’s direction and then grabs Lances arm. “Let’s get of here. My ears are gonna fall off if we stay any longer.”
“Later,” Lance says with a nod.
When they’re gone Charlotte’s smile goes too. “She hates me,” she says, staring in the direction they walked out. “She literally treats me like nothing.”
“Why do you let her?” I ask.
“What am I supposed to do?” Charlotte sighs.
“Say something.”
“Like what?”
“Stop.”
“I’m the younger sister.”
“What does that mean?”
“No matter what I do, she’s going to see my as annoying. That’s the way it goes.”
“Says who?”
“Birth-order experts,” Charlotte says matter-of-factly. “I’m the one who gets away with everything and she resents me for it.”
“But you never do anything wrong.”
“Good point. She probably hates me for that too.”
“You should stick up for yourself.”
“That would not go over well.”
“You can’t say that unless you try.”
“It’s useless,” Charlotte says shaking her head. “I’m not going to change anything. Seriously it’s not even worth talking about anymore.” I can see Charlotte is getting flustered. Talking about the way her sister treats her really bothers her.
I decide to change the subject. “Before we do anything else, I have a very serious question for you.”
She waits, her eyebrows tilt down. “Okay?” she says with hesitation.
I stare at her another few seconds, mostly because I just like looking at her and then I say, “Whipped cream or hot fudge?”
The edges of her lips curl slightly. She turns her head to check on our slowly melting ice cream on the counter, pondering the question for half a second. “Both,” she says, definitely.
“Wise choice,” I say.
She smiles. “I’m glad you approve.”
Soon after I get home from Charlotte’s house, there’s a knock on my bedroom door.
“Yeah?” I call out.
The hinges, original to the house back when it was built forty years ago, creak open. “Hi,” Mom greets me with a tired smile as she usually does when she gets home from working a long day at the hospital. As a maternity ward nurse, she’s on her feet all day.
“Hey,” I say.
She hovers in the doorway for a while, which is odd, because she doesn’t usually do that if she wants to talk. Most of the time she’ll come right in and sit down on my bed. “So,” she starts carefully, “I spoke to your father today.”
Those words are never the start of a good conversation. Instantly I think she’s going to tell me he decided he’s not coming.
“He said he’s coming to visit.”
My shoulders relax.
“And he said he had a talk with you about trying out for basketball? I didn’t think you were trying out again after last year,” she says, tilting her head, a sympathetic look in her eyes.
My insides clench. All I can respond with is, “I changed my mind.”
“Okay.”
I’m not sure if her “okay” means, “Okay, I’m happy for you,” or, “Okay, it’s your funeral.”
I can’t help but wonder if she is going to try and talk me out of it too.
“We talked about his thoughts on you participating in something else.” She pauses. “What did you think about that?”
I turn it back on to her. “What did you think about it? Do you feel the same way Dad does?”
She waits a moment before responding. “He worries,” she finally says, avoiding the question. “We both do.”
I guess I have my answer.
“You know,” she continues, “whether you play a sport or join some other kind of team, both are great ways to meet people and get involved.” I feel like I’m listening to a public-service announcement. “At the end of the day, you just have to feel like you’ve done what’s right for you. Even though he doesn’t always say it the same way, I think your dad believes that too.”
Mom defends my dad more than she should. She does it for me. She doesn’t want to see me hurt. She doesn’t realize that I’m numb to his pain and I know where his priorities lie. As a basketball player, he was an all-star; as a business man, he works as hard as he can; but as a father he sets the bar low, so low that when he does come through, it’s like experiencing a home run.
“Hold on,” Mom says, disappearing from view for a moment. When she returns to the doorway, her hands are holding a package. “Here.” She walks over and sets it beside me on the bed. “I ran a couple errands today and saw this after talking to your dad. He told me you were thinking about joining the math team.”
He was thinking about me joining the math team, I want to correct her, but I don’t.
She smiles. “I thought this might help.”
An inaudible thank you trails out of my mouth. I can’t look at her. I feel sick and upset and defeated. She knows I love basketball, but she’s taking his side.
When she walks away, I stare at the large box. I can guess what’s inside: college-prep math materials, advanced workbooks, flashcards. I’m sure she even bought me a set of old DVD videos from past Mathlete competitions just to make
sure I’m overprepared.
With a sigh I pull the box toward me and lift the lid. Staring down, I feel my mouth go lax. My brow furrows. Reaching in, I grab the contents and lift, letting the box fall to my feet and setting the gift—a pair of basketball shoes: brand-new, navy in color with white detail and a bright-green heel—onto my lap. Tucked into the laces is a folded piece of yellow paper.
Tugging it free, I unfold the edges carefully and read the large bold letters covering the page: GO FOR IT! Love, Mom.
6
Charlotte
Thursday afternoon I trudge off the school bus and up the walkway to my house. When I’m on the front porch, I change my mind, turn around, and head straight for Uncle Paul and Aunt Claire’s. Uncle Paul and Aunt Claire live around the corner in a brick, two-story colonial-style home. It looks a lot like ours only our house is covered in gray vinyl siding.
Two minutes later, I’m at their doorstep. The front door is wide open. “Aunt Claire?” I shout through the screen. Nobody answers. I let myself in. “Hello?” I call out again. The living room and dining room are quiet. No signs of Aunt Claire anywhere. The kitchen is the same. I climb the stairs. “Hello?”
“Hello?” She finally responds from behind the closed door of one of the guest bedrooms. The door flies open and she appears. “Charlotte! Hi!”
Amazing, I think, staring at her. She’s wearing a headscarf, a sweaty T-shirt, and raggedy shorts, and she still looks like a million bucks.
“Come in. I’m just doing a little organizing.” She backs up to let me into the room. Scattered inside are storage boxes—at least six—on the floor and the bed filled with pictures and frames and albums. One of the pictures that’s on top of a box on the floor catches my eye. Bending down, I pick up an old photo of me, Uncle Paul, and Alexa.
Aunt Claire glances over my shoulder and laughs. “Remember that? The two of you were always jumping on his back, trying to wrestle him.” It’s true. Alexa and I were constantly trying to beat Uncle Paul up. He loved it, though. “What about this one?” Aunt Claire picks up another photo that was underneath it. “You, me, and Alexa baking cookies after school.” She sighs. “I miss the days when you girls came over here after you got off the bus. I know you weren’t my daughters, but I liked the idea of being an honorary mom.” For a moment, she gets quiet and her eyes turn down. “It was nice.” Shaking the sadness off, she turns to rummage through more boxes.