A Little Help From My Friends (Miracle Girls Book 3)

by Anne Dayton

  “Since when?” A puff of cold air blows out of his lips. “You always say he’s an idiot and a jerk. Now you’re friends with this idiotic jerk?” He thrusts his hands into his coat pockets. “I mean, really, Zoe. I’m trying to be patient here, but what am I supposed to think?”

  I stand up too. I have never, ever cheated on Marcus, and for him to suggest . . . well, but that was Dean’s fault. That was before we were friends. He was new in town and confused.

  “You’re supposed to trust me.” I have been good to Marcus. I was the first person to see what an awesome guy he is, back when people thought he was just some band geek. I’ve been loyal to him, even when I had the chance to not be. I would never hurt him. “And give me space when I’m going through . . .” I wave my hand wildly at my house behind me. “Whatever.”

  Marcus glowers at me and takes a few steps back into the shadows. “Space is not what we need.”

  I roll my eyes. Smothering is just in Marcus’s nature.

  “Merry Christmas, Zoe.” He turns his back on me and disappears into the frigid night.

  ***

  At one in the morning, I admit to myself that I can’t sleep and pad downstairs to the living room. The Christmas tree that Dreamy chopped down herself and strung with white lights and red berries looks oddly cheery in the gloomy light.

  I try to read the book about solar power Dreamy got me, but it’s dry and dull. I look for something on TV, but there are infomercials on every station. In desperation I even crack open one of the books Mrs. Dietrich assigned us to read over Christmas break, something called Tess of the d’Urbervilles, but it’s horrible. Finally I cave in and find the little reindeer-paper-wrapped package and pull it from under the couch where I hid it.

  I plop down on my floor, take a deep breath, and open the card.

  Zoe,

  Dreamy helped me with this. Seemed like what you needed the most this year.

  Merry Christmas,

  xoxox

  Marcus

  P.S. I did a whole collection of them, but this is the best one. I’ll give you the rest tomorrow.

  I scratch my nose. Well, that was as clear as mud. I slide my finger under the paper and slip the paper off and find a DVD. That’s odd. Marcus is good with computers and stuff. I wonder if he dubbed an old out-of-print movie for me? That would be kind of sweet, I guess.

  I find the remote, mute the volume, and pop in the disk. I did mention to him that Love Story somehow disappeared from my collection. Light flickers onto the screen. I slide away from the TV and lean my back against the couch.

  The first shot is of a young couple, waving and smiling. My parents, only they’re not my parents, they’re young, and thin, and lovely. Ed leans over a crib and pulls out a roly-poly baby with a head full of red hair.

  I grab my mouth to stop my lip from quivering.

  Dreamy grabs the baby’s hand and makes me wave to the camera. In the video I’mgiggling, laughing, and my parents are cooing over me.

  Dreamy stops to hear something the cameraman says and then laughs. She pulls Ed in, and they kiss for the camera. Then they lean in and kiss both sides of my cheeks.

  After a few more minutes, I shut it off, worried that my sobs will wake Dreamy and Nick. I lie back on the floor and let the shag carpet dig into my back while the tears roll into the hollows of my ears. I can’t believe how much I had and never knew. I wish I could go back to the happier times and really savor them. I didn’t think they would someday come to an end. It seemed like we’d be together forever.

  31

  Ms. Lovchuck seriously loves assemblies. She likes the power trip of standing in front of us with a microphone, telling us what to do. I’m in the special band section near the front, and I usually love attending these things, playing our fight song and helping get the crowd excited, but today I’m kind of distracted. There’s something wrong, and he’s sitting three rows behind me in the trombone section.

  After our horrible Christmas, I went over to Marcus’s house and patched things up as best I could, and I even brought him the game Star Trekopoloy. I think we both recognized it was a lame gift, especially compared to what he did for me, but it seemed to cheer him up a bit, and now we’ve settled back into a sort of uneasy rhythm. There was a moment there when I thought I was going to . . . but then he was so forgiving about the whole present thing, and I was reminded all over again how much I don’t deserve him, how hurt he would be if things ended, how I’ll never find anyone who loves me as much as he does. Still, things have been kind of weird for the past few weeks, so it’s best if I keep my eyes focused on the gym floor and ignore what’s going on behind me in the trombone section, or, worse, across the gym where Dean sits, arms crossed over his chest, watching me. I don’t see Grace. In fact, I haven’t seen her at all lately. Has she been missing school?

  As soon as the cheerleaders finish their final cheer and Ms. Lovchuck dismisses us, I stuff my piccolo case into my bag and start down the stairs without even looking back. If I hurry, I can get out of this gym without any awkward conversation or questions.

  The wooden bleachers shake as hundreds of students rush for the doors, and the smooth, glossy floor of the gym feels blessedly stable under my feet. I catch a glimpse of Ana from across the floor, and she waves, but then is swept up in a group headed toward the doors on the other side of the gym.

  “There you are.” I feel a hand on my shoulder and whip around to see Dean grinning at me. “I went to El Bueno Burrito Saturday, but you weren’t there.” He steps into a small space beside me.

  “Yeah, someone called in sick on Wednesday.” I bite my lip. He came to the store, and I wasn’t there. “So I had to switch days.” We’re pressed forward in the crowd, and he leans in to me. “Sorry.” I don’t know why I’m apologizing to him, but it makes me feel better to say it.

  “I’m sorry too.” He reaches into his back pocket. The closer we get to the doors, the more the crowd presses in on us. “I came to talk to you about next Saturday night.” Dean flips his wallet open and pulls out two small pieces of paper. I squint but can’t read the tiny writing.

  “Next Saturday?” I blink as we step out into the cool February sunshine.

  “Yeah. You’re coming with me, right?” Out of the corner of my eye, I see that he’s grinning at me. “It’s in the city, but I figured we could drive up and get dinner—”

  “What are you talking—”

  “Zoe!” I know it’s Marcus before I turn around. Shoot. He must have booked it across the gym floor. “There you are.” I force a smile onto my face as he slips his hand into mine. He stares straight at me, and somehow squishes his way in between us. “I wanted to talk to you. Do you still need a ride home after school, because I have to go to—”

  “Hey, Marcus.” Dean nods at Marcus and gives him an easy smile. Marcus looks at me for a split second before returning a pinched smile.

  “Hey.” Marcus turns back to me. “So I’m supposed to ask you whether you need a ride.” His palm is sweaty, and I have the strongest urge to pull my hand away, but I don’t, because of Dean, or because of Marcus, or something. “Home.”

  “Um.” I wince as Marcus presses my hand to the left, trying to steer me away from Dean, and I let him because I don’t know what else to do. “Sure. Or I could see if I could get a ride from Christine.”

  “I can give you a ride,” Dean says smoothly. The muscles in Marcus’s arm tense.

  “No, that’s okay,” Marcus says. The crowd is thinning now as students stream away from the gym in different directions, so there’s no need for Marcus to be pressed so tightly against me, but he holds on. “We already planned it this way. I only wanted to be sure we were still . . . on the same page.”

  “Either way. So, Zoe, next Saturday . . .” Dean takes a step closer to me. He holds up the tickets, and I shoot him a panicked look. I can see in his eyes that he knows exactly what he’s doing. “I’ll pick you up at seven.” Dean smiles at me from ear to ear.
>
  Marcus clears his throat.

  “I don’t even know what you’re talking about,” I say quickly. Marcus lets a breath out through his nose. “I never said I would go.”

  “Why aren’t you taking your girlfriend?” Marcus asks, his voice higher than normal.

  Grace. My stomach falls. Why isn’t he taking Grace?

  “I want Zoe to come with me,” Dean says to Marcus, shrugging. “It’s my dad’s new band’s first real show, and I know how much Zoe likes music, so I thought she’d enjoy it. ”

  It doesn’t even bug me that they’re talking about me in the third person, as if I weren’t here, because my mind is swirling. There’s no good reason for him not to bring Grace, unless . . .

  “I only got two tickets, but I could see if there’s any more. . . .” Dean lets his voice trail off, and an uncomfortable silence hangs in the air. That would be so awkward, and we all know it, and that’s exactly why he offered it. It was safe. Marcus would never take him up on it.

  He hasn’t mentioned Grace in a while, and I haven’t seen her around. He mentioned something about things being weird with her the other night when we were walking home. Truthfully, I’ve never really thought they had that much in common.

  “I didn’t say I would go,” I say, with more volume than necessary. I glare at Dean. “I never said anything about coming along.” Marcus’s arm relaxes a bit.

  The courtyard is almost empty now, except for a few students rushing toward the J-wing with big cardboard boxes in their arms. At some point the three of us stopped moving.

  “It’s at this new jazz club in San Francisco. There’s a cover, but I’ll take care of that.” He tucks his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “They’re playing some old school songs, the stuff my dad listens to.”

  I look from Dean’s face—olive, handsome, smug—to Marcus’s red, pinched face. I have to make him understand that I didn’t do this. I didn’t want this.

  But then I let my eyes travel back to Dean, his tall frame, the defiant slope of his shoulders, and I realize that maybe I didn’t agree to go with him, but I kind of want to. I picture the two of us, out in the big city, at a club, listening to his father’s music together. Marcus doesn’t understand how much this means to Dean. Just last week on one of our walks home, Dean opened up about his music, about how his father was always out playing in the evenings when he was a kid, about how he and Fletch took up the sax because of how much it meant to their father. He didn’t say it, but I know hearing his father play reminds him of his brother. It’s a part of his past, a part of what made him who he is now. I want to be a part of it too.

  “Maybe we could go for just bit.” Even as I say it, I know how stupid it sounds. Dean’s not going to skip out on his dad, but it makes me feel less guilty somehow. “And then I could come over to see you when I get back,” I add quickly. “Or we could hang out earlier or something.” The bell rings, and the last few shadows scurry across the quad, but none of us move.

  “What about bookstore night?” Marcus’s voice squeaks on the last syllable, and it takes me a second to realize he’s tearing up.

  “Well . . .” My heart sinks. I totally forgot about bookstore night. How could I forget that? “Maybe we could go another night instead, just this once?” A fresh wave of guilt washes over me as I watch Marcus’s face crumble.

  “I could find somebody else to go,” Dean says. “I didn’t mean to make things difficult.” He adjusts the strap on his bag, and a part of me wonders whether that’s exactly what he meant to do.

  “Zoe?” Marcus takes a step forward and turns to face me, still holding my hand. He looks into my eyes, and I can’t help it, I have to look away. This is killing him, and I don’t know how to make it better.

  “We’re just friends, Marcus.” I don’t mean to whisper, but my voice barely makes a sound. No one says anything, but Marcus releases his death grip on my hand and slowly pulls away. I bite back tears as Marcus steps away, and I realize that somehow I’ve made a decision without meaning to, without fully comprehending what I was doing.

  “I . . .” Marcus stops and takes a deep breath. “I guess you should go then.”

  I turn to Dean, his arms crossed over his chest, watching. He takes a small step forward, edging his shoulder behind mine. I can feel the heat of his skin through my shirt.

  “I’m sorry.” My voice comes out in a low wail. Marcus just nods.

  “I’ll always love you, Zoe.” He ducks his head, but not before I see tears pooling in his eyes. “I hope he is who you think he is.” He turns on his heel and walks away before I can even process what he’s said. A tear leaks out of my eye.

  “But we’re not—,” I start, but I don’t finish my sentence. He’s not going to stop to listen, and I don’t even know what I was going to say. Marcus’s footsteps echo in the empty quad as he hurries away.

  Without a word Dean puts his hand on my arm. It feels warm, and strong, and because I don’t know what else to do, I lean back, just a little, and let my back touch his chest. I don’t even know how long we stand there.

  32

  “Oh,” Ed says. Dreamy and Nick startle too. They’re all sitting stiffly in the living room, and there are papers scattered on the coffee table. “I thought you were going to youth group with the girls, Butterbean.”

  Even though I can see that something horrible is going on, I allow myself a few moments to enjoy the sight of my father back in our house. If this were a snapshot, you’d never know how dysfunctional the real life behind it is.

  “It’s over.” I swallow and start walking. Ed looks at his watch and mumbles. Dreamy collects the papers into a pile and bangs them on the edge of the table. “The others went out afterward, but I wasn’t feeling up to it.”

  Ed laughs awkwardly. “Well . . . it’s good to see you. Are we still on for lunch next weekend?”

  It’s so obvious what’s going on here. He’s come to pick up the divorce papers. Dreamy must think that no one can hear her talking on the phone. Come on.

  I cross my arms over my chest. “I’d rather do dinner tonight. Why don’t I order some Thai?”

  Nick flinches and hops to his feet. “I can’t. I’ve got . . . to run an errand. Thanks, though.”

  “Yeah, tonight doesn’t work for me either.” Dreamy grabs a few pillows from the floor and tosses them back on the couch. She picks up an empty plate and walks into the kitchen. “I was going to organize my checkbook.”

  I shoot a pleading look at Ed that he takes pains to ignore.

  “I’ll see you soon.” His voice cracks. He stands up slowly, grabs a manila envelope from the table, and then shuffles to the front door. His jacket is slung on the back of one of the dining room chairs.

  His face shows that this is killing him too, so I decide not to push it. I can’t bear to see my father cry.

  “Hold up.” Nick darts across the room and shoves his feet into his old work boots. He pats the front of his coat, looking for his wallet. “Can you give me a ride downtown? I’m meeting some people.”

  Ed’s face brightens. “Sure.” He opens the door, then pauses and turns to me. “Um, bye,” he says quietly over his shoulder. Nick joins him at the door, but just before he closes it behind them, he winks at me.

  33

  The club is dark and noisy, but I try to act like I know what I’m doing as I duck around a low table and slide onto a velvet booth. There’s an ottoman across the table, but Dean doesn’t even hesitate before he plops down next to me on the booth. I guess it’s so he can see the band. If he sat on the ottoman, his back would be toward the stage.

  “That’s him,” he says, nodding at a dark form hunched over a speaker on the stage. His shape becomes clearer as my eyes adjust to the dim lighting. He appears to be plugging in some cords, though it’s hard to tell from here, especially because several other people are rushing around the stage, setting instruments in stands and running wires along the floor.

  A loud, brash song trills
out from Dean’s back pocket, and he grabs his phone quickly. I see a picture of Grace flash across the screen for a split second before he silences the call.

  “Maybe you should get that?” I gesture at the phone. “Take it outside or something. I can wait here.” I watch him carefully.

  “No,” he laughs in a sad, somber way. “Now is definitely not the time.” He powers his phone down and puts it back in his pocket.

  So they must have broken up too. Poor Grace. I hope she took it well. At least they haven’t been together very long.

  “You want a Coke or something?” He gestures toward the long, dark wooden counter that takes up one side of the room.

  “Sure.” Before I can say more, he stands up and walks toward his dad. I watch as he leans in to say something to him. Mr. Marchese looks in my direction, then the two of them head toward the bar.

  I’ve never been anywhere like this. It’s the kind of place adults go, but Dean seems perfectly at ease. I wonder how many evenings he’s spent at hole-in-the-wall jazz clubs, listening to his dad play.

  For a moment I try to imagine my parents in a place like this, and it almost makes me laugh. I wonder how they’d feel if they knew I was here. Ever since their problems started, they’ve been too distracted to ask many questions about where I’m going and what I’m up to. Still, it feels very grown-up and exciting.

  “Zoe,” Dean sets two drinks down on the low table in front of me, “I’d like you to meet my dad. Dad, my friend Zoe.”

  I stand up and thrust my arm out, and he grasps my hand and shakes it.

  “Nice to meet you, Zoe.” His voice is deep, a little scratchy, but warm. “Dean tells me you’re a musician.”

  “Not a real one.” I run my hand through my hair to smooth it down. “I just play the piccolo.”