by K. A. Holt
Twitch’s dark brown eyes gaze off into space. “Yeah” is all he says. After a minute where we’re all kind of quiet and lost in our own thoughts, he smacks his foot on his skateboard and says, “Well, you lovely young women, have a wonderful day,” and he’s off down the hill, out of sight.
“Oh, Twitch,” Taylor says softly. Then she looks at me, her eyes bright, her mouth doing a frown-smile thing. She looks so much like a grown-up sometimes.
“Come on, let’s take a break.”
“Milk shakes?”
“What else?” Taylor links her arm in mine and we head toward the General Store.
“I am the dragon breathing fire! Beautiful mane, I’m the lion!” I hold my spoon like a microphone and screech into it, eyes screwed shut, feeling the music snake its way into my body, making me move in a way I couldn’t without the beat and the flow and … Man, I love music.
“Settle down, settle down. Your Beyoncé karaoke is going to scare away all my customers.” Mrs. Grant jogs down the stairs and turns off the radio Taylor and I have cranked up loud. She looks at us with this expression of amusement and grouchiness, but also maybe fondness? Maybe?
“You knew that was Beyoncé?”
“Everyone within a twenty-mile radius knows that was Beyoncé, Amelia.”
Taylor licks her spoon and points it at me. “She’s right. Please don’t make the whole town go deaf.”
I roll my eyes, but in a joking way. Nothing like a milk shake and Beyoncé to cheer me up. Except … the ding-ding of the front door echoes through the store and, yep, it’s Mom. Right on time. Ratface runs over to her to say hello. She leans over and pats him on the head, but even his cute lolling tongue can’t stop my good mood from leaking into the air like helium escaping from a balloon.
“Everyone having fun?”
Why do moms have to say such dumb things? I can’t even answer her. For some reason, though, Mrs. Grant and Taylor don’t seem to think it’s ridiculous and they babble on about how we’re fine and how I’m going to be in great shape soon. Mom’s face squinches in that way it does when she’s confused. I do a zip-it motion with my hand, and Taylor’s eyes go wide. Thank goodness for best friend mind-reading abilities.
Mom doesn’t know about the letter.
“And here I thought it was strange that you woke up so early to meet Taylor. Now I find out you woke up early to go running? Who are you?” Mom’s tone is light but those tiger eyes tell me she’s weirded out.
“Just trying to get that mind-body thing going,” Taylor says, her smile so big that it might blind us all. “Did you know that exercise can help depression?”
Mom turns to me and I watch her expression go from weirded out to concerned. “You’re depressed, Amelia?” Oh, good grief.
Taylor mouths “Sorry!” over Mom’s shoulder. Only I can see her, and I try not to glare. This hole is getting deeper and deeper.
“Can we just go?” I pop my earbuds in, letting the music drown everyone out. I see their mouths moving, and I choose not to figure out what they’re saying. I hope “Can we just go?” is not the last phrase I ever say to my mother, but right now, I want out of here and for her to stop talking and just … to find a hot shower. Is there any possibility I’ll be in shape enough to try out for softball in four months? Do I even care?
I wave at Taylor and walk out of the General Store. I climb into Old Betsy, the cracked vinyl seat snagging at my running pants. I feel like everything is snagging at me these days. It’s never enough to tear a hole, only enough to annoy me.
I wonder if Clara ever felt like Mom wouldn’t give her enough space. She did put the thing on the list about being nicer to Mom. I think about how she used to mimic Mom when she was mad, using this ridiculous singsong voice. It always made me laugh, even when steam would shoot from Mom’s ears.
To me, Clara always seemed like she had everything figured out. She knew what she wanted and went for it. But maybe she had doubts, too. Hmm. I pull the now-dry letter from my pocket and read over the list for the thousandth time. Maybe she didn’t always go for it. Maybe Clara was an illusion like the rest of us.
“What do you have there?” Mom asks, her eyes meeting mine in the rearview mirror.
I carefully fold up the letter and shove it under my butt. “Nothing!”
Mom blinks at me and then her eyes are back on the road.
Sigh. Excellent work, there, Amelia. THAT wasn’t suspicious at all.
“So, you know how I was late picking you up yesterday?” Mom navigates around the fountain, and I imagine what it must have looked like full of water sparkling from the sun. I bet it was loud, too, with all the rushing water. It must have been nice to sit on the edge and feel little splashes in the hot sun.
“Amelia?”
I snap back to attention. “Uh. Right. Yes. You were late yesterday.”
“I was late because I finally had that meeting with Mr. Robertson. Remember the one I set up last year when school was almost out for the summer?”
My brain tendrils reach back into the recesses of my mind. I can feel the memory surfacing. Then it crashes through my body with an electric jolt. “Yes! About my possibly testing out of eighth-grade science and taking physics this year?” I had forgotten all about that! My body zings at the thought of escaping earth science and getting my hands dirty in the high-school physics lab.
“Well,” Mom says as if she’s a magician about to reveal a cornucopia of delights inside a previously empty box, “Mr. Robertson said you can come by the high school and take a physics benchmark test. You’ll also have to take the eighth-grade earth science final exam to prove you know the material and will be fine skipping the class. Pass both of those and you’re in.”
I let her words fly around in my head as we drive by the lake. I listen to the monster under the water growl low and mean. Clara never got the chance to take earth science or physics. Well. I’ll ace them both for her.
“Can I take both tests? Tomorrow?” I ask.
“Both? Tomorrow?” Mom’s golden eyes dart back up to the rearview mirror. She catches my gaze and sees I’m serious. “That’s not a lot of time to study,” she says, but her voice fades halfway through her statement and she smiles. She knows I can do it. I’m not worried at all about taking two tests in one afternoon. I’m also not worried about having barely any time to study for either one. I’m only worried about Mr. Robertson, because I am about to come in and OWN that physics class.
I feel something weird happening to my face.
My cheeks are warming.
My lips stretch out a little bit.
Am I actually smiling? When was the last time that happened?
I put both tests facedown on Mr. Robertson’s desk.
“Done already?”
“Done already.” I can feel another smile threatening.
“Well, okay, then.” He stands up behind his desk and offers his hand for me to shake. It feels silly shaking it, because I’ve known Mr. Robertson since I was a baby. I’ve jumped in piles of leaves in his backyard. I’ve babysat his dog while he was on vacation. My parents bought our house from his mother before I was even born. It’s a very small town. “I’ll grade these and get back to you.”
“How long do you think it will take?” I ask, eyeing the tests, and then his face. I like that he has these black freckles that mix in with his dark skin. I also like how his mustache sometimes hides his expression. I’m always trying to figure out his mood. He’s good at being calm and collected, but more often than not, there’s a little spark in his eye like a faraway star shining through a dark nebula.
“I think it will take me however long it takes me,” he says, and I groan. That makes him laugh. “It won’t be weeks, Amelia. I won’t keep you in suspense any longer than I have to.”
“Thanks, Mr. Robertson,” I say. “I can’t wait to start class.”
“So bold,” he says. “So confident.” He winks and laughs. I can’t help but smile as I walk out of the clas
sroom—and directly into a person walking by.
Oof. The kid’s books go everywhere. It’s like a ream of paper exploded as we both go sprawling. I’m on the floor, dazed, when I hear a familiar laugh.
“You sure go out of your way to say hello, don’t you?”
It’s Twitch.
“Oh my gosh, Twitch, I’m so sorry!” I quickly stand up and start gathering papers and handing them to him in big unorganized clumps. “What is all of this?” I’m not sure I’ve seen so much paper in my life. For a second I think I see Clara’s name, but then it’s lost in the pile.
“Just a project I’m working on,” he says as he gathers up papers, too.
We pile all the pages together and he asks, “So what are you doing here, anyway? Not a lot of eighth-grade classes at the high school.”
“Oh, I was just visiting Mr. Robertson,” I say. I’m not sure why I don’t want to tell him about the physics test. Maybe I don’t want to jinx it. “He’s my neighbor, you know? I, uh, watch his dog sometimes? So, I was …” I trail off on purpose, hoping Twitch will interrupt. He doesn’t, so we both just stand there feeling weird. Or at least I feel weird enough for the both of us.
“Okay, well, I need to get going,” I say.
Twitch smiles. “Nice running into you.”
“Hey,” I say over my shoulder. “I hardly recognized you without your helmet.”
He smiles and tries to wave, even though he has about eleven million loose papers in his arms.
I wave and then run out of the building, making sure I don’t mow down anyone else. Once outside, I look at my phone. Mom has a city council meeting tonight, and Dad is probably at the barbecue trailer getting ready for the dinner rush. I could either hang out here and wait for Mom to eventually pick me up, or walk over to Grant’s General Store and call her from there. It’s not that long of a walk. And I am still trying to get in shape for softball tryouts … I hike my backpack over my shoulder and set off.
Walking through town is kind of like walking through a good friend. That sounds weird and possibly gross or ghosty, but I don’t mean it like that. I just mean no one is a stranger. Every storefront is familiar. People wave and yell hello from across the street. It’s weird to me how I can know pretty much everyone in this place and yet still feel alone most of the time. With Clara I never felt alone. I felt irritated or annoyed. I felt like I couldn’t breathe without being compared to her in some way, but when I compare that to how I feel now, I’d take it any day.
When I walk through the door at Grant’s, the special is the We’re Gouda Together grilled cheese. (Gouda and mild cheddar with a smidge of mustard.) Yum.
“How’d it go?” Taylor is behind the counter refilling ketchup bottles. Her apron looks like she’s just murdered someone.
“Messy much?” I ask, and she looks down.
“Don’t worry,” she says, and laughs. “He didn’t put up much of a fight.”
“I think it went great,” I say. “Knock on wood.” We both rap our knuckles on the counter, even though it’s Formica. “Mr. Robertson has to grade both the tests, and then he’ll let me know. He promised not to torture me for too long.”
“Ooh! Speaking of torture … I think we should add another half mile to our run tomorrow morning. What do you say?”
“I say, I’m going to put up more of a fight than the guy you killed earlier.”
“Oh, come on,” she says. “A half mile is nothing. You need to build your stamina. Maybe I’ll let you speedwalk part of the way.”
I look at her with some skepticism.
“I will!” She laughs.
Mrs. Grant walks behind the counter and says hello. I say hello back while I ponder this new half mile.
“Maybe,” I say.
“Maybe counts as yes!” Taylor yells over her shoulder as she brings all the ketchup bottles to the storage closet.
“Can I get you a special, Amelia?” Mrs. Grant asks. She’s already buttering the griddle, because she knows I could never say no to a We’re Gouda Together.
“Yes, please,” I say. And in a flash, I’m eating a hot, gooey grilled cheese like it might be my last meal. I think about last meals almost as much as I think of last words. I don’t care if cheese replaces all vegetables in my life, I’m never eating anything that isn’t worthy of a last meal, ever again.
“Have you figured out your prank yet?” Mrs. Grant asks, elbows on the counter, chin in her hands.
“I have not,” I answer with my mouth full. “I want it to be something good, and I can’t think of anything good.”
“You will,” she says with a smile. “I have no doubt.”
“What about me?” Taylor asks, emerging from the storage closet. “Do you have your doubts about me?”
“Only when it comes to successfully filling ketchup bottles, my dear,” Mrs. Grant says. She makes a “gimme” motion with her hand and Taylor strips off her apron. Mrs. Grant throws it in a basket of other dirty aprons and motions for Taylor to go sit beside me. She does, and I begrudgingly give her a bite of my sandwich.
“You know,” Taylor says, swiping cheese off her chin, “we could do the best prank together. Come up with something doubly great, but only have to do half the work.” She waggles her eyebrows. It’s definitely a tempting solution. Plus, it would be fun to work on the prank with her. I don’t even know why it’s such a big deal. You’d think a town wouldn’t want to encourage a bunch of eighth graders to run amok with practical jokes, but maybe by encouraging us to do them all at once, it kind of contains the trouble? Who knows. All I do know is that we have months to plan something before we blow everyone’s socks off. That’s plenty of time.
The bell on the door dings, and without even turning around, I know it’s Mom.
“So?”
Yep. Mom. I turn and feel immediately annoyed at the cheerful inflection of her question. Why so annoyed so fast? How does that happen? What is the science behind this?
I feel myself go stone-faced. “It was fine,” I say.
“That’s it? Fine?” Mom is standing behind me now. She puts her hands on my shoulders. I shrug them off.
“Fine,” I say, and I can hear an edge creeping into my voice. “Regular. Normal. Nothing spectacular.” I can see her in the mirror behind the bar. She takes a step back from me and exchanges a look with Mrs. Grant. Mom’s face seems to say, “Ouch, give me a break.” Mrs. Grant’s face seems to say, “Uncool, Amelia,” and “I’m sorry, Jen,” all at the same time. Now I feel like a jerk.
I turn to face Mom. “I just mean … it went fine. I think I did well. It wasn’t hard, and Mr. Robertson was nice.”
Mom licks her lips and says, “Great.” Her voice is flat, the spark gone from her eyes. “Finish up so we can get home.” She fishes around in her purse for some money to pay for my sandwich, but Mrs. Grant waves her off. The air in the store is suddenly thick with awkwardness. My fault.
I hop off the stool, wave bye to Taylor and Mrs. Grant, and walk out of the store.
“Come on,” Taylor shouts, jogging backward. She’s up at the top of the hill, and I’m at the bottom. I look up at her and imagine all the things I’d rather be doing right now. Going to the dentist, breaking my leg in a freak getting-out-of-bed accident, standing on a planet while its star goes supernova …
“AMELIA! Don’t stop! What are you doing? Come on! Come on! I believe in you!” She’s clapping now, creating a beat for me to run to. Ugh. I hate this so much. Halfway up the hill, I can’t run anymore, so I listen to my screaming legs instead of my screaming Taylor, and I walk. When I get to the top, Taylor looks at me as if I’ve turned into a pile of dog poo. “I cannot believe you just did what I saw you do.”
“What? Make it up Deadman’s Hill without becoming a dead man myself? That seems impressive to me. I mean, if I were to ask myself—and I did ask myself—‘What would Beyoncé do, if she were about to die on a hill?’ my answer, and her answer, would be: Do not die on this hill. So, taking THAT i
nto account, I think I did a great job.”
Taylor just stares at me.
Her face is getting pinker by the minute and I can tell she’s building up a head of steam. Now might be the time to run.
“You know I’m doing this to help you, right? You know I’m setting goals for you so that you can actually achieve something on Clara’s list, right?” She crosses her arms over her chest. I look down at my sneakers. “Sometimes you are your own worst enemy, Amelia, I swear!”
I let her words sink in for a minute, even though I don’t like them. Am I my own worst enemy? I don’t know. I mean, I’m only doing the things on Clara’s letter because Taylor seems so sure it will be good for me. I’m only doing this stupid running because Taylor thinks it will help me get on the softball team. Am I my own worst enemy? Or is SHE my enemy? Trying to make me do things that she knows I’ll fail? But … that doesn’t make any sense. She’s my best friend. She obviously doesn’t want me to fail.
“Hello. Earth to space cadet.” Taylor knocks on my forehead like it’s a front door. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”
“You didn’t tell me the extra half mile was going to be up Deadman’s Hill.” I can’t help but sound sullen. I feel sullen.
Taylor throws her arms in the air. “I’m trying to push you, Amelia. I’m trying to get you out of your comfort zone. I’m trying to help you. Can’t you see that?”
“I can. I do. I just … why can’t we go for ice cream and talk about our feelings instead?” I offer a silly smile, but Taylor is having none of it.
“We can’t talk about our feelings, Amelia, because YOU WON’T TALK ABOUT YOUR FEELINGS.” She storms off.
“Taylor!” I shout after her. “Taylor, wait!” But she doesn’t wait. She runs off, and I know there’s no way I can catch up to her. Sigh.
I plod along the side of the street, trying to catch my breath, and not even close to catching my racing mind, when I hear the familiar gravel-scattering sound of skateboard wheels behind me. I turn.