Miracle Girls: A Novel

by Anne Dayton

  Tyler stands up and laughs. “Ana’s lying. She’s amazing at pool.” Obviously, he hasn’t even been paying attention, which only makes me angrier.

  “It’s your turn, Ana,” Dave says. Keep your pants on, dude.

  “I’m going to go help Riley. You’d understand if you’ve ever seen her play basketball,” Tyler says.

  Riley beams back at me, and they leave. I stand there with my mouth hanging open.

  “Koot-ssh.” Dave’s hand is cupped over his mouth like he’s holding a walkie talkie. “Earth to Ana. Ana, it’s your turn. Do you copy?” He does a surprisingly good walkie-talkie voice.

  I look at Dave, pretending to be ground control. There’s just no comparison. How can I end this game gracefully? Maybe I can pretend my mom’s here?

  “Houston?”

  This guy will not take a hint. Maybe I can casually suggest we go check out the basketball game?

  “You gonna play or not?” Dave asks, dropping the walkie-talkie voice.

  I sigh. This is a lost cause. I’ll have to finish this. After it’s over I can casually stroll outside and see what’s going on. At least I can get to know one of Tyler’s friends. That’s a way to get closer to him, I guess. I force myself to smile.

  I approach the table and proceed to sink another stripe.

  “How’d you learn to play like this?”

  He’s obviously exaggerating to be nice here, but I’ll play along. “My last youth group had a table too. Guess I just spend a lot of time at church.” To get away from my parents. I don’t tell him that the only social activities I’m technically allowed to participate in are school and church. I think if my parents ever actually attended youth group and saw me talking to a guy they might forbid it too, but what they don’t know won’t hurt them.

  It’s my turn again. I lean in and line up my shot and try to act normal. “So what’s up with the tie?”

  He looks down at his pink paisley tie and gives me a huge grin. “Dunno. What’s up with your hair? Or those jeans? Or those shoes?”

  For a moment, I think he might be making fun of me. But then I realize that anyone weird enough to wear a necktie with board shorts isn’t critiquing my fashion choices.

  “I just thought I’d wear a tie every day for a while. Just see what happens.” He lines up his shot.

  “Your parents will let you do that?”

  “Yeah, of course. Why not?” He laughs as he accidentally knocks one of my balls into a pocket. I can’t help but laugh too.

  10

  You never really know a person until you see where they live. That’s a life lesson I learn the moment I enter Zoe’s house. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen. For one thing, it’s got a dome. As in, the building is completely round, and the top is a clear bubble that lets in the light from the sky. When I ask about it, Zoe just shrugs and tells me her parents built it themselves when they first got married. The way she says it, I can tell she means that they literally built it themselves with, like, hammers and stuff, and not what my mom means when she tells people we built our house in Half Moon Bay. Zoe acts like it’s no big deal.

  But it is a very big deal. The house is so light and bright, and well, natural. And the shape is just the beginning. There’s also the fact that inside the dome, the furniture is worn and the shag carpet is way outdated and the whole place smells sweet, and a little spicy somehow, and yet Zoe’s family doesn’t seem at all embarrassed about any of it.

  We’ve been having lunch fairly regularly these days, so when she asked me if I wanted to come over after school, I jumped at the chance. I’ll take any excuse to get away from my mom, who has not stopped asking questions about Zoe since the moment she realized I made a friend. Somehow, I don’t think this is exactly what my mother had in mind for my first new friend, but I don’t care.

  As Zoe shows me more of the house, I start to see the appeal of living in a giant bubble. First of all, the living room is very airy, with rooms opening off it in all directions, and there’s a cool metal spiral staircase to get to the second floor, where Zoe’s room is.

  And there’s the shrine to Nick. Nick is Zoe’s older brother who lives on a ranch in Colorado. He’s tall and has long brown hair, a deep tan, and wears lots of leather. He likes horses and motorcycles, apparently. He has a small scruffy-looking dog and a weathered cabin. And that’s just the first group of photos.

  The most notable feature about Zoe’s house, though, is that there’s stuff everywhere: books piled on every surface, papers shoved into every available corner, and clothes strewn across all the furniture. It’s a mess, but it doesn’t feel overwhelming. It feels lived in.

  “Do you girls want some cookies?” Mrs. Fairchild calls from the kitchen as we walk down the spiral staircase to the living room again. She bustles around the cramped kitchen with avocado-green appliances. She pulls the lid off a ceramic cookie jar and sniffs inside, then holds the jar out to us.

  “Fresh batch.”

  Zoe shakes her head. “Carob,” she whispers to me, and I nod as if I know what that means.

  “C’mon, Zoe, you used to love these.” Zoe’s mom has long, dark hair, streaked with white, and it’s pulled back into a loose ponytail. And though she is wearing a baggy red sweater rolled up to her elbows, you can tell that she doesn’t have a single pound to spare. Meanwhile Zoe has long, gorgeous red hair and is pretty short and, well, a little plump. I flush when my brain throws out the word “plump.” I don’t care if Zoe’s overweight. I guess I just expected her whole family to have the same build.

  “Well, Ana might want some of my cookies, even if you don’t.” Her mom hands the jar to me and Zoe subtly shakes her head so that only I can see it.

  “Thanks Mrs. Fairchild, but I’m still pretty full from lunch.”

  “Dreamy,” she says.

  “Um . . . yeah. Groovy,” I say, catching on to the house lingo.

  “No, my name is Dreamy. Mrs. Fairchild is Ed’s mom.” She sticks her tongue out and makes a face. I’m thoroughly confused.

  “I’m going to show Ana the pond,” Zoe says abruptly and starts to drag me to the door. I follow her through the living room, padding across the orange shag carpet, toward the sliding glass back door.

  “Okay,” Dreamy calls, fluttering her fingers. Zoe slides the big glass door open and steps outside into the overcast autumn afternoon. I step lightly on the spongy wooden deck, then walk carefully behind her down the stairs to the sloping grassy area that leads to the trees.

  “Sorry about that.” Zoe shakes her head. “My parents always go by their first names. It’s totally ridiculous.”

  “Dreamy. That’s a cool name,” I say, though I’m pretty sure that if my parents had inflicted such a ridiculous name on me I would have changed it the moment I learned to write. “What was wrong with those cookies? I never say no to sweets.”

  Zoe stops dead still. “Trust me, they don’t qualify as ‘sweets.’ If that’s what you want, I’ve got a stash in my room that we’ll hit up later. My parents are total health nuts. Vegans, you know? They don’t eat any animal products whatsoever.”

  “Oh.” A long list of questions runs through my mind: How do you cook without eggs? How is Zoe even still alive without ever eating bacon? Does this mean no pizza too?

  “Those cookies might have looked like chocolate chip, but they were actually carob, which is this horrible, natural substitute for chocolate. Trust me, I spared you.”

  We walk in silence for a moment.

  She stops and turns to me. “I’m not vegan, just so you know. I’m vegetarian. Dreamy calls it my ‘little rebellion.’”

  “So you only eat vegetables?” I shudder at the thought.

  “I just don’t eat meat. But I still eat eggs, milk, cheese—stuff like that.”

  “So you can have pizza?”

  “Meatless pizza anyway. I just do it for the animals, you know? I can’t eat anything that has a really cute face. It grosses me out. That’s how I got landed in
detention that day. I had refused to dissect a frog in Biology. I don’t eat animals, and I don’t hurt animals.”

  “Whoa.” I would never, ever defy a teacher.

  “My parents were all over it, of course. It’s a violation of my rights. I don’t have to dissect. It’s California law. They got it resolved with my Bio teacher.”

  I keep walking behind her in silence, processing this.

  Wait. I’m supposed to have dinner here later. What are they going to feed me? I try to keep from panicking. I guess I can always fill up on Maria’s stash afterward.

  “My parents are totally crazy, you know. But they’re also real pushovers and they’re pretty . . . cool. Sometimes I like to call Dreamy ‘Mom’just to freak her out.” Zoe laughs and leads me across the yard in silence. “There’s the garage,” she finally says, motioning at the small wooden building behind the house, then she points to a hole in the sloped roof. “My dad fell through the ceiling, so we don’t use it anymore.” I feel like I should ask about that statement, but I don’t know what to say, and I am too distracted by the trees to put a coherent thought together anyway.

  What I’m realizing is Zoe lives in the woods. Half Moon Bay is pressed right up against the ocean on one side, which is why it’s foggy so much of the time, but it’s also surrounded by cypress and redwood groves on the other side. Just a few minutes away from the modern downtown, you can be in the middle of an old-growth redwood forest where the trees have been alive since before Jesus was born. The natural beauty is part of what sold Mom on this town, even though I’ve never once seen her near a tree.

  Zoe takes me down a dirt path that leads out of her backyard, through the forest. She practically skips as she tells me about her brother, Nick, and how she went to visit him in Colorado this past summer. It’s kind of cool how close her family is.

  “He lives on this ranch up in the mountains,” she says, gesturing to show me the size of the mountains. “And he has this little cabin, and I got to stay in one of those beds that folds up into the wall when you’re not using it, and . . .”

  “Zoe!” I suck in my breath. She freezes and stops mid-sentence.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Is that a horse?” Even as I say it, I know it’s a stupid question, because, well, obviously it’s a horse. There, right before me, standing in front of a wooden building with a pitched roof, is the most gorgeous horse I’ve ever seen. It’s brown with white spots. Okay, it’s not like I’ve seen a lot of horses in real life, but still.

  “Oh.” Zoe kicks at the ground. “Yeah, the stable is over there.” She nods toward the building. “But the pond is farther on, and there are these cool flowers that grow there that I want to show you.”

  I look from the horse to Zoe, then back to the horse, hesitating. I know I should keep walking with her, but I’ve never seen a real horse up close.

  “Hey there!” A deep voice, cheerful as all get-out, interrupts my deliberation. A slim man, clad in head-to-toe denim, waves at us from the stable. “Who’s your friend, Zoe?” His bright red hair blows a little in the breeze, and I realize this must be her dad. At least he has Zoe’s hair, but he’s very skinny and very tall too, which throws me a bit.

  She shakes her head and takes a long breath. “We’re not going to escape without saying hi. Come on.” I follow her down the rocky path to the stable, glad for any excuse to get near the gorgeous horse.

  “Ed, this is Ana,” Zoe says, gesturing to me. “Ana, my dad, Ed.”

  “Well hello,” Mr. Fairchild—Ed—says, sticking out his hand. I shake it nervously, but his handshake is firm. “You like horses?” He raises his eyebrows hopefully.

  I look from him to Zoe, unsure how to respond. Do I like horses? Zoe shrugs.

  “Yes,” I say uncertainly. He smiles at me, and I notice his denim jacket has running stallions embroidered on the left lapel.

  “Wanna go for a ride?” He smoothes his hair down. “I can get Alfalfa here saddled up in no time, and—”

  “No thanks,” Zoe says quickly. “I was showing her the pond.”

  I don’t want to be rude here, but if I had to pick between riding this horse and looking at flowers, it wouldn’t exactly be a tough choice. But how do I say that nicely?

  “Oh come on,” Ed winks at me. One of his front teeth is a little crooked. “Zoe never wants to ride any more.”

  “Um . . .” I’m not sure how to answer that. I mean, Zoe is standing right here.

  “Ever since—” His brow creases.

  “Ed,” Zoe whines. Her cheeks turn a little pink, and she bites her lower lip.

  “Butter Bean, you just need to get back on the horse, as they say.” He chuckles a little.

  “I just want to show Ana the pond, okay?” She turns to go, but I stand still, unsure what to do.

  “You’re never going to stop being afraid,” Ed says, lowering his chin to look his daughter in the eye, “if you don’t give it another try.”

  Zoe just shakes her head. “Come on, Ana,” she mumbles as she begins to walk away, and, because I don’t know what else to do, I follow her.

  11

  “It could have been much worse,” Zoe says as she settles into the beanbag chair on her bedroom floor. The chair, like most things in Zoe’s oddly shaped bedroom, is lavender, and there’s a musical theme going on. There are musical notes on everything—the bedspread, the framed posters, the mirror. I sit down on the edge of the bed, which is covered by a light purple spread. “She wanted to make seitan, but I made her promise not to serve anything too weird.” She pulls a package of Sour Patch Kids out of a drawer on her nightstand and pours a few into her hand. I notice what looks like a Bible peeking out of the drawer before Zoe shuts it again.

  “Satan?” I’ve never heard of this food of the devil.

  “It’s this vegetable protein thing.” She bites the head off a red kid. “Veggie burgers are the most normal thing she makes.”

  “They were good,” I lie. She hands me the package of candy, and I pop a few pieces in my mouth. I chew for a minute. “Your parents are really cool.” This part, luckily, is true. They asked me about a dozen times tonight if I had enough to eat, wanted to know everything about my family, and even seemed genuinely interested in hearing what I thought of Half Moon Bay’s recycling policies. They talked to me like an adult. “I really liked when they did that harmony of ‘Bridge over Troubled Water.’”

  Zoe shakes her head and lifts up the edge of the bedspread, then reaches under the bed and pulls out a package of Oreos. “They don’t always sing at the table,” she says, cringing. I laugh, remembering how her dad broke into song when Zoe asked for the salt, and how her mom joined in with the harmony as if singing like this were the most normal thing in the world. “They’re on a big Simon & Garfunkel kick recently.”

  “I like that song.” I take a cookie from the package she holds out to me.

  “They’re so weird.” She takes a bite of an Oreo and sighs. They are weird, but in a good way, like Chunky Monkey. Bananas and chocolate sure don’t sound like they’d make good ice cream, but you’d be surprised.

  “I’d be okay with weird.” I unscrew the top of my cookie carefully. “At least they’re not tying to take over your life and ruin your birthday.” Zoe looks at me like I’m crazy.

  “When’s your birthday?”

  “Not till June.” I shake my head. “But they’re already planning it now.” Zoe looks confused. “It’s my fifteenth birthday, so Mom wants to throw a quinceañera. That’s this big party they have in Mexico when you officially become a woman or something. It’s a huge deal. Only, hello, we’re not in Mexico. And do I look like the kind of person who wants a huge birthday party? All those people staring at me . . . I’d rather die. They just want to show off to their friends. It’ll be mortifying, you know?”

  Zoe watches me for a second. “Yeah,” she says quietly. “The worst.”

  Fine. I guess it doesn’t sound so terrible, having a huge party throw
n in your honor. “Trust me. It’s going to be bad. I’ve already begged them to just let me have a small, normal birthday party, but my mom is pitching a fit.”

  Zoe doesn’t say anything. I decide to change the subject.

  “Do you play an instrument?”

  Zoe nods. “The piccolo. I’m in the marching band.” I don’t really know what the piccolo is, but it sounds impressive, so I smile.

  “Who’s that?” I point to a photo of her and another girl on her dresser, in a handmade plastic frame painted with swirls and flowers. Zoe reaches up and grabs the photo, then tosses it to me. I see now that the two girls are on a beach, arms around each other, their long towels draped loosely over their shoulders, blowing in the breeze. They’re laughing and leaning toward one another comfortably.

  “My best friend, Monica,” she says, taking another Oreo from the package. “She moved to Michigan this summer.” She takes a bite. “We’ve known each other since we were born.”

  I squint at the picture and notice that Monica is thin and has short dark hair and glasses. Zoe’s cheeks in the picture are a little thinner than they are now, and her hair is a bit lighter, but something else is different.

  “We need to get Christine,” she says suddenly.

  “What?” I look up and see more clearly that the Zoe in front of me isn’t the Zoe in the photo. I run my eyes over the picture, trying to figure out what it is. Did she grow her hair out?

  “She’s one of us. We need her.” She takes another bite. “And she needs us.”

  “I don’t know. She seems kind of . . .” What? Uninterested? Self-sufficient? Weird? “Happy to be by herself.”

  Zoe nods. “But she’s not alone.” She licks crumbs off her thumb. “She needs to know that.” Zoe watches me, her gaze even and steady.

  “I tried to invite her to lunch one day.” Zoe perks up at the news, but I shake my head. “She wasn’t interested.”