Ella Unleashed

by Alison Cherry

  “Scientists!” she announces. “This is a very exciting morning. Because this morning, we’re going to start brainstorming about your science fair projects!”

  A bunch of kids roll their eyes or groan—Ethan Fenton actually puts his head down on his desk like a toddler who doesn’t want to eat his carrots—but my heart does a little leap. I love the science fair.

  “I know it’s early,” Ms. McKinnon says over the moans. “The actual fair won’t happen until December. But as seventh graders, you’ll be focusing on the life sciences, and when you’re doing an experiment that involves plants or insects or fish, it can be a while before there are any significant results. So you’re going to have to get the ball rolling now.”

  As Ms. McKinnon talks us through the requirements for our projects, I briefly consider writing up a report on the scientific methods I’m using to find my dad love. But I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t go for it, not to mention the fact that I wouldn’t be able to invite either of my parents to the science fair—it’s already going to be complicated enough designating different hours for Dad and Krishnan to come.

  Ms. McKinnon announces that we have today to think and talk to her about potential projects, and it only takes a few minutes before I have another idea that relates to someone I love: Elvis. For a while now, I’ve been trying to figure out whether his different tail wag patterns correspond to different kinds of happiness, and this is the perfect opportunity to gather some data about what dogs are really telling us. Mom, Krishnan, and I are going to a dog show in Rhode Island next weekend, and I decide I’ll test a bunch of dogs and see if they wag their tails differently when they see their favorite snacks, their owners, or their favorite toys. When Ms. McKinnon comes around to our lab table to check in, she’s excited about my idea. The two of us figure out how to conduct the experiment in the most scientific way possible, and by the time she moves on to Keiko, who wants to investigate whether cats have dominant paws, I’m bursting with ideas.

  When Ms. McKinnon leaves, Miriam beckons us close. “All right,” she says. “Time to figure out where we’re going wrong with your dad’s potential girlfriends.”

  I sigh and push my notebook away. “So the problem with Penny was that I didn’t find out enough about her online. I suggested a meeting way too early, and then when I didn’t like her kids, I had to shut it down, and she thought my dad had bailed on her, which was super unfair.”

  “Those kids were monsters,” says Jordan.

  “But then I overcorrected with Linda and tried to make her tell me too much about herself in e-mails, and it weirded her out. And then it backfired even more when she thought my dad was asking her the same questions all over again. She said some pretty mean stuff to him, but I feel kind of bad for her anyway, you know? Can you imagine if you went on a date and you thought the other person had forgotten who you were?”

  Keiko nods. “Yeah, that’d be super weird.”

  “I can’t figure out what the right amount of messaging is,” I say. “I don’t want to miss an important piece of information and set my dad up with someone terrible. But I also can’t e-mail a woman a million times and then make her forget I did it.”

  “I wish there were a way to erase someone’s memory,” Keiko says.

  “That’d be great. But I’m not Hermione Granger.”

  Miriam chews on the end of her pen, a sure sign that she’s coming up with an idea. Finally she says, “What if you didn’t e-mail the women at all?”

  “Isn’t talking to people online the entire point of online dating?” asks Keiko.

  “That’s the thing, though. What if you could meet someone in real life and scope her out, then introduce her to your dad? Like, say you found someone who’s a waitress. You could go to her restaurant and sit in her section, and then you could ‘get sick’ and ask her to stay with you until your dad picks you up. Then you could introduce them and tell him what a good job she did of taking care of you and see if they hit it off. Or you could find someone who’s a tutor and have her come to your house to help you with math, and then she and your dad could talk.”

  “Excuse you,” I say. “I have a ninety-eight in math.”

  Mir rolls her eyes. “That was just an example. You know what I mean.”

  Her plan is a pretty good one, actually. It’s basically what I tried to do with Dad and Ms. McKinnon, except this time I’d know beyond a doubt that my target was single and looking for a boyfriend. And it would be nicer for the woman, too; she’d actually get to meet my dad before she had to decide if she wanted to go out with him. Sure, this plan would require deviousness, but it also seems way more fair to everyone. And let’s be honest—I spent last night hiding under a table as people played footsie two feet from my face. It can’t possibly get worse than that.

  “I like this,” I say. “This is good. I’ll go through some more profiles tonight.”

  I pull my notebook back toward me and jot down Mir’s dating plan alongside my notes about the science fair, feeling pretty optimistic for the first time all day. Both procedures seem solid, and I’m confident I can pull them off. And if I’m lucky, they’ll both yield plenty of results.

  11

  When I get home from ballet later that afternoon, all I want to do is go online, sort through my dad’s new likes on Head Over Heels, and get started on my brand-new experimental method. But we have plans to go over to Krishnan’s sister’s house for dinner, and I barely have time to take a shower before my stepdad calls me downstairs. We visit Anjali pretty often, but for some reason Krishnan seems extra excited today, and he keeps making that special, weighted kind of eye contact with my mom where it seems like words are flying back and forth between their heads. It always made me feel kind of sick when Mom and Dad did that, since it usually meant they were in the middle of a big fight they didn’t want me to know about. When Mom and Krishnan do it, I never worry, but I’m still pretty curious about what’s happening.

  They do it again one more time when we get in the car, and then Krishnan turns around to look at me, a huge grin plastered across his face. He’s one of those people with such an enormous bright smile that it makes you smile back every time, even if you don’t really feel like it. “I have a surprise for you,” he says to me. “A really good one.”

  “What is it?” I don’t really love surprises—even if I know it’s something good, not having a sense of what’s coming makes me a little nervous.

  “I can’t tell you yet,” he says. “But it’s at Anjali’s, so you’ll know soon. We’ll tell you all together when we get there.”

  The car ride to my aunt’s house is less than ten minutes, but even thirty seconds seems endless when you know there’s something mysterious waiting at the end of it. I sit on the edge of my seat all the way there, then jump out of the car before Krishnan has even finished turning it off and run across the lawn to the bright blue house with the white shutters. When Anjali opens the door, I crash into her and give her a huge hug.

  “Hey, babe,” she says into my hair—Anjali calls everyone babe for some reason. “I made your favorite saag paneer.”

  My stomach rumbles; I’m always especially starving after ballet, and Anjali’s cooking is so good. I can’t get enough of the homemade cheese she puts in the saag.

  “Awesome,” I say. “Krishnan says you guys have a surprise for me?”

  Anjali’s eyes light up. “We certainly do. Come on in, and we’ll tell you all about it.”

  I step inside Anjali’s living room, which is painted a sunny yellow—each room in her house is a different bright shade. A wave of amazing savory smells washes over me, and Anjali’s Welsh springer spaniel, Minerva, bounds out of the kitchen and greets me by planting both front paws on my chest. She’s super well-behaved at shows, but at home she’s basically a giant, hyper ball of love. “Hey, sweet girl,” I croon, and she gives my cheek a tongue bath while I scratch the scruff of her neck. She’s got more white patches on her head than Elvis does, and she’s sl
ightly smaller, but she also seems a bit fatter than she did the last time I saw her. Maybe she’s been getting some extra paneer.

  Krishnan and Mom appear at the door, and I try to be patient while they do their boring grown-up greetings and air-kisses. Just when I think I’m going to explode if someone doesn’t tell me what the surprise is right now, Krishnan says, “So, should we tell Ella the exciting news?”

  “Sure.” Anjali beams at me—her smile is so similar to Krishnan’s—and then she beams at Minerva. “Ella, Minerva’s pregnant, and Elvis is the dad! The puppies are due in three weeks.”

  I smile so hard I feel like my face might split down the middle. “Oh my god oh my god oh my god!” I squeal. “This is amazing! I thought she looked kind of pudgy—sorry, Minerva, no offense. How many puppies are there going to be?”

  “The vet thought she felt five. And when they’re born”—Anjali and Krishnan and my mom share another one of those significant looks, drawing out the suspense—“I’d love to give one of them to you, if you think you might be interested.”

  So much joy fills me up so quickly that I can’t even speak right away—it feels like there are eight hundred helium balloons pressing on the inside of my chest. Then my words wriggle their way loose, and they come tumbling out all at once, tripping and falling and landing on top of one another. “Oh my god, yes, I am so, so interested! Thank you! Thank you so much. I’ve never had a puppy of my own before, or any dog of my own at all, actually, but I’ve been watching what Krishnan does with Elvis really closely, and I’ve been practicing super hard with him myself, and I know I could be such a good owner! And if you guys will help me, I think I could totally train a puppy to be a show dog! This is going to be the best ever.” I try to hug Krishnan and Anjali and Mom all at once, and Minerva starts leaping around us and barking with excitement, and everyone stumbles off-balance and laughs, and it’s pretty much the best moment of my entire life.

  “We know you’re going to be a great owner,” Krishnan says. “You’re the most responsible kid I’ve ever met. This puppy is going to be so safe and happy in your capable hands.”

  “Thank you,” I say, and I bury my face in his chest and breathe in his mint-and-detergent smell. I can’t believe there was ever a time when I worried about my mom marrying him.

  “Can we do a Harry Potter theme for the names?” I ask. “Their names should have something to do with Minerva’s name if we want them to be good show dogs, right? And I know Minerva’s a Greek goddess, but it’s also Professor McGonagall’s first name, so maybe—”

  Anjali laughs. “Let’s see what they look like when they’re born, okay? There’s plenty of time to think of names. Are you hungry? Dinner’s ready.”

  “Definitely,” I say. “I have to do something for one second, and then I’ll be right there.”

  “Okay,” Anjali says, and she and Mom and Krishnan head down the hall to the kitchen.

  I grab Minerva’s collar to keep her there with me, and when I’m sure the adults are gone, I crouch down and press my face against her belly. She shifts around and sniffs my head for a minute, but then she calms down and lets me do it.

  “Hi, puppy,” I whisper. “I’m your future owner, Ella, and we’re going to be best friends and go on all kinds of adventures together, and it’s going to be amazing. I already know you’re the cutest dog in the world, and I can’t wait to meet you.” I feel kind of ridiculous, but Mom said she used to talk to me before I was born so I’d know her voice when I came out, so I don’t see why the same thing wouldn’t work with a puppy. Visions of doing dog shows with her dance through my head; if she gets used to my voice now, we’re already going to have crazy dog-owner mind-meld by the time she’s born. I’m going to know what every single tail wag means. I’m going to love this puppy so, so much, and she’s going to love me back unconditionally and  be a champion, and it’s hard to imagine anything better than that.

  Dinner is ridiculously delicious, and I stuff myself full of saag paneer and naan and pakoras until I feel like I’m about to explode. Then Anjali brings out a stack of board games, and we settle on Pictionary, Mom and Krishnan versus Anjali and me. My aunt and I are both perfectly decent at drawing, but we don’t stand a chance against my mom and stepdad. Maybe it’s because I was thinking about mind-melds earlier, but I start to notice what amazing mind-meld the two of them have—they’re almost always able to guess what the other one’s drawing when it still looks like a blob to me. There’s one turn where Mom draws a circle—a plain circle—and Krishnan correctly guesses “avocado.” And it’s not only in the game, either. They’re constantly refilling each other’s drinks before the other one asks or passing the right thing when all the other one says is “Honey, can I have the—.” I know it’s cliché to say that a couple is so close that they finish each other’s sentences, but Mom and Krishnan literally do it all the time. I try to remember if Mom ever did that with Dad, but all I come up with is a memory of her snapping, “I can’t read your mind, David!” when he was annoyed with her for not doing something.

  The mind-meld is special, and it can’t happen with just anyone. But Mom found it with Krishnan, and I sometimes have it with my best friends, and I’m definitely going to have it with my new puppy. Everyone deserves to know how that feels, and I’m more determined now than ever to find it for my dad. There has to be someone out there who’s broadcasting the right wavelengths that’ll make his antennas tingle.

  When we get home, I have one extra spoonful of the leftover food Anjali wrapped up for me—okay, maybe four—and then I bring my laptop into bed and cannonball into my dad’s Head Over Heels inbox. There are seventy-four women to sort through, which would normally seem overwhelming, but tonight I’m so optimistic that it barely feels like work.

  It’s much easier to narrow down the women this time, since I need someone with a career that’ll allow me easy access to her. I’m immediately able to eliminate an anesthesiologist, an engineer, a wedding planner, three computer programmers, and an architect, even though a couple of them look pretty good. There’s a photographer who seems promising—I could pretend I want to have my portrait taken as a gift for my dad’s birthday—but then I discover she’s a Yankees fan. There aren’t any tutors or waitresses, like Miriam suggested.

  But just when I’m starting to get frustrated, I find Sirsasana77. She’s a yoga teacher who lives in the next town over and is taking night classes to get her massage therapy license. She loves to cook, she’s obsessed with the same TV shows as my dad, and her profile says she definitely wants kids. There’s even a photo of her with a dog. I don’t believe in fate, but I can’t help it—there’s a part of me that feels like this is meant to be.

  Best of all, I recognize the studio, Lotus Yoga, that appears in the background of one of her photos—I’m pretty sure it’s in the same strip mall as my mom’s favorite Thai restaurant. I find the About Us page on Lotus’s website, and bingo, there’s the woman’s picture in the list of teachers next to the name Beth Jackson.

  I click on the studio’s class schedule for the coming week, and I start plotting.

  12

  I put my plan into action on Wednesday after school. As soon as the bell rings, I text Dad to tell him I’m going for a bike ride and will be home by dinner, and then I pedal down the bike path to Beth’s yoga studio. I pull over a few doors down, lean against the wall between a hair salon and the Thai restaurant, and run through the procedure in my head step-by-step until I feel calm. I smear on a dab of lucky watermelon lip gloss, and then I’m ready.

  A few minutes later the door of the studio opens and a bunch of Spandex-wrapped people come out carrying mats. I study each face, but none of them is Beth. One by one they get into their cars and pull out of the parking lot, and then nothing happens for what seems like a really long time. I start to worry that I got the schedule wrong, or that Beth is out sick today, or that she doesn’t even work here anymore.

  But then the studio door opens again, an
d there she is.

  She’s wearing a white hoodie and shiny leggings patterned with green fish scales; I would totally wear those to ballet class if Ms. Caroline didn’t insist on a strict dress code. The yoga mat sticking out of her bag is my favorite shade of purple, and she’s smiling as she walks, even though she’s by herself. In her profile picture, she had tiny microbraids—Jordan got those once, and she told me she had to spend the entire day at the salon. But Beth’s wearing her hair natural now, and her short, tight curls catch the late afternoon sunlight and glow.

  I test to make sure my helmet is secure, and then I push off and ride toward her.

  Beth’s car is at the opposite end of the lot, right next to a little island of grass and fallen leaves. As she unlocks her door, I ride behind her, then turn abruptly so that my front wheel smacks into the curb. The bike lurches sideways, and I topple over onto the grass like I planned, absorbing most of the impact with my right hip and shoulder. Cold, muddy water instantly soaks through my jeans and sweatshirt, and the bike falls on top of me, pedals still spinning. It’s not exactly comfortable, but sometimes you have to make sacrifices for love.

  “Owwww,” I groan.

  Beth is beside me in an instant, extracting the bike from my tangled limbs. “Oh my god, what happened?” she asks. She has a pretty voice, low and musical—I can totally see how it would be soothing in a yoga class. “Are you okay?”

  Am I okay? I roll over and take stock. I’m definitely going to have bruises on my hip and shoulder, but that’s nothing I can’t handle. Nothing feels twisted or broken, so I should be able to go to dance class tomorrow with no problem. My ankle stings where the curb scraped it, and when I look down, I see that it’s bleeding exactly the right amount to look pathetic. I couldn’t have fallen better if I’d tried.

  “I think so,” I say. “My ankle’s a little scraped up, but otherwise—”