“So what are you doing after school?” he asked.
Racing you to Green Gates so we can skate the bowl and talk about how much we L each other, Drew wanted to say. Instead she mumbled, “Making GIM signs with Fonda and Ruthie.”
“Jim?”
Yeah, Jim. He’s a pro-skater-slash-model-slash-musician who has a massive crush on me. The signs are to cheer him on because he’s going to do an ollie over fifteen lions this weekend for a sponsored TikTok event, Drew also wanted to say. But only insecure girls lied to make boys jealous, and Drew wasn’t insecure. Okay, fine, she was. And she would stay insecure until she knew if Will L’ed her more than Keelie. Still, she opted for the truth. “GIM stands for general interest meeting. Fonda is going to hold one tomorrow after school so she can tell everyone how cool Catalina is.” The sparkle in Will’s eyes dimmed a little. Assuming he was bored, Drew changed the subject. “What are you doing after school?”
“Skating with Henry, I guess.”
Drew tried to look concerned. “What about Keelie?”
“She has band rehearsal on Wednesdays.”
“Keelie’s in the school band?” Drew asked, awash in relief. Not that there was anything wrong with band; it just wasn’t one of Will’s interests. And if band wasn’t one if his interests, maybe Keelie wasn’t one of his interests either.
“Not the school band, a garage band. They’re called Roar, and Keelie is the lead singer. You should see them play. They’re super rad.”
Of course they are.
“Anyway.” Will cut a look to the clock over the water fountain. “It’s a bummer we can’t all hang out later.”
“Yeah, even if we weren’t making GIM signs, there’s no way Fonda’s hanging out with Henry. Not after their fight on Monday,” Drew said, hoping Will would suggest they hang without friends. He didn’t.
“And Henry won’t hang with Fonda either.”
“I think they’d actually like each other if it weren’t for this stupid competition. It’s so annoying.”
Will sighed. “I wish we were doing the class trip at your parents’ camp. That place was cool.”
Drew was touched by the compliment, but no way. For one, Battleflag was closed during the winter, and for two, she didn’t want her parents tagging along on her seventh-grade overnight. “We can’t all agree on one location as it is. Imagine throwing another into the mix.”
“Solid point.”
“Unless . . .” Drew tap-tapped her chin.
“Unless what?”
“Unless they called a truce.”
Will raised an eyebrow. “They’ll never do that.”
“Well, what if we did it for them?”
“Like The Parent Trap?”
Drew wanted to hug him right there in the empty hallway. Not only did she and Will share movie love for The Skateboard Kid, he knew The Parent Trap too and wasn’t afraid to admit it!
“Exactly like The Parent Trap, only without parents—”
“Or twins.”
“Or Lindsay Lohan.”
Will considered this for a moment. “So . . . how?”
“Hmmmm . . .” Drew scratched the back of her head. Unlike in the movie, she and Will weren’t identical twins. They couldn’t swap identities and trap their friends into making up. Or could they . . . “You know Henry’s password, right?”
“Yeah.”
“And I know Fonda’s.”
“Go on . . .”
“Get on Henry’s phone after school, text an apology to Fonda, and say you want to be friends. Tell her you think Catalina would be fun, then delete it from Henry’s phone. I’ll send basically the same text to Henry from Fonda’s phone and delete it. Then we’ll lure them to Van’s Pizza tomorrow at like five thirty. They’ll think they’ve already made up, peace will prevail, and we’ll have our do-over.”
“This is way better than The Parent Trap!” Will beamed. “Text me when I should text you . . . I mean, when Henry should text you . . . I mean, when Henry should text Fonda . . . I mean . . . You know what I mean.”
Drew giggled. “I will!”
“Okay, this is awesome,” Will said as he hurried back to class.
“Thanks,” Drew called. “You are too!”
Oops.
* * *
The girls had been in Fonda’s kitchen for hours, making signs to promote tomorrow’s general interest meeting, and the vinegary Magic-Marker smell was giving Drew a headache. Or maybe her mind was so stuffed with Will thoughts, they were jammed up against the sides of her brain.
Normally, Drew would have unloaded these thoughts on the girls, thereby ridding herself of the uncomfortable brain pressure. But she couldn’t share details of the hallway hang, Will’s knowledge of The Parent Trap, or her mortifying slip-up when they parted ways—not without revealing their devious scheme. A scheme that, if properly executed, would unite their friend groups and give Drew and Will a second chance at like. It was worth the headache.
“This GIM is gonna to be the jam,” Drew said, eager to wrap things up so she and Will could set their plan into motion.
Fonda circled the kitchen table and evaluated. “Do you think fifteen puffy-paint posters and thirty-five flyers are enough to get the word out?”
“They will be if we throw in some free lollipops,” Ruthie said.
“Where are we going to get lollipops?” Fonda asked. “I spent my entire budget on puffy paint.”
“My mom’s a pediatrician, remember?” Ruthie said. “She gives them to her patients to make them stop crying. We have hundreds of them in the garage.”
Fonda gave Ruthie a gigantic thank-you hug. “I have a good feeling about this.” She gathered a handful of her cinnamon-brown waves, then released them like a wish. “Once everyone learns how cool Catalina is, there’s no way they’ll support Ava or Henry.” Her certitude was infectious. Her mood, calm and positive. It was time.
Drew sent a thumbs-up emoji to Will, and seconds later Fonda’s phone dinged. Drew clenched her fists. She forgot to silence the ringer! Now Fonda would see the text and would respond to it herself—a response that Drew would not be able to control.
“Hand me my phone, please,” Fonda said as she watched Ruthie paint a puffy heart on top of the i in lollipop.
Drew, having no choice, took Fonda’s phone off the countertop and entered the password. Maybe if she was fast enough, she could erase it and have Will send a new one. But Fonda was already standing behind Drew, reading over her shoulder.
“It’s from Henry,” she said, stunned.
Ruthie put down the paint. “Henry Goode?”
Drew nodded. “I wonder why he’s texting you.”
“Hopefully to let us know he’s moving to Swahili,” Fonda said, brown eyes shifting as she read the message.
“I think Swahili is a Bantu language used in East Africa, not a place,” Ruthie said. And by I think, she meant I’m 100 percent sure. It was her way of politely correcting people without coming off as a know-it-all.
“And I think I’m hallucinating.” Fonda showed them her screen. “Look.”
SORRY FOR BEING A JERK AT F&F. CATALINA SOUNDS COOL. TRUCE? VAN’S TOMORROW at 5:30? BRING YOUR FRIENDS.
“Wow!” Drew said a little too enthusiastically. “That’s so nice of him. Let’s do it.”
“Do what? Walk into his trap?”
“Trap? Why do you think it’s a trap?”
Fonda cocked her head. “Seriously?”
“Do you really think he’s smart enough to plan a trap?” Ruthie said. “He didn’t know the yo in fro-yo stood for yogurt.”
“True,” Fonda said.
“And pizza after the GIM would be fun,” Drew added.
“Yeah, with you guys, not Henry.” Fonda turned her attention back to Ruthie’s puffy hearts.
Drew said, “Can I grab some popcorn from the pantry?” When Fonda said yes, Drew also grabbed Fonda’s phone and texted:
HEY IT’S FONDA. I’M OVER THIS COMPETITION AND SUPER OVER THE FIGHTING.
CAMP P DOESN’T SOUND SO BAD. TRUCE? VAN’S TOMORROW @ 5:30 FOR A DO-OVER? BRING YOUR FRIENDS.
Drew quickly hit Send, then erased the text from Fonda’s phone. Moments later, Will texted to say that Henry bought it and was all in. Now all Drew had to do was convince Fonda to go to Van’s after the GIM and everything between their friend groups would be good. Correction: everything would be Goode . . .
chapter nine.
“GOOD EVENING, MRS. Mumford,” Ruthie said when her elderly neighbor answered the door. It wasn’t even dinnertime, and the woman had already zipped herself into a flannel housecoat. She was clearly tucking in for the night, possibly the rest of the week, which made her an ideal prospect for Ruthie’s new business venture. “How are you today, ma’am?”
Mrs. Mumford drew back her lips in amusement, revealing a crooked row of coffee-stained teeth. “Ruthie, I knew you when you were in your mama’s belly. Please, call me Lorna.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Mumford, I will.”
“Wonderful,” she tittered. “How can I help you, dear?”
“I’m starting a dog-walking service, and I’d love to count Balthazar among my growing list of clients. Does he still love chasing bunnies?”
“Oh, honey.” Mrs. Mumford lowered her foggy blue eyes. “Zarzar passed six months ago.”
“I’m so sorry to hear that,” Ruthie said with a hand to her heart. Though she wasn’t particularly fond of the gigantic poodle or his gigantic poops—which Mrs. Mumford never picked up off the sidewalk because of her sciatica—it was a serious bummer. “What about grandchild babysitting? I love kids, and I’m CPR certified.”
“I should be so lucky. Both of my children are married to their careers.” Her attention drifted to a mom pushing a baby stroller up the street. “If they did have kids, they probably wouldn’t visit anyway.”
Sadness weighed on Ruthie’s body. She felt like she was talking to the Giving Tree. “Okay, well, thank you for your time,” she said, tears pinching the backs of her eyes as she turned to leave. But what was making her cry? Mrs. Mumford’s hopelessness or her own? “Oh, and just so you know, I can use my bike to run errands if you ever need anything from the store . . .”
“Are you saving for something special?”
“Yes,” Ruthie said proudly. “A smartphone.”
Mrs. Mumford clenched her jaw. “Those damn things are destroying your generation. If you ask me, you’re better off without it,” she said, then swiftly shut the door.
Eyes pooling, Ruthie crossed Mrs. Mumford’s name off her list of possible employers. There was only one house left—the biggest one on the street. It belonged to Owen Lowell-Kline: the pick-me boy Fonda called Weird-O; the Girl Scout cookie buyer Ruthie would forever defend.
The home looked more like a museum of modern art than a typical neighborhood dwelling. All those sharp angles and glass panes made it impossible to imagine anyone eating buttery popcorn on the couch or lazing around in sweatpants. Did they even own sweatpants? Did they ever sweat? If the inside felt as cold as the outside, then no.
Ruthie rang the bell. Beethoven’s “Für Elise” began to play.
“Coming, Ruthie!” Owen called.
“How did you know it was me?” she asked when he opened the door. He was wearing red velvet slippers, socks pulled to his knees, khaki shorts, and a striped button-down; his dark hair had the neatly combed side part of a Lego figurine.
Owen wagged his cell phone. “Security cameras.”
“Ah,” Ruthie said, wondering what it must be like to have a cell phone that could see though walls. “Nice doorbell, by the way. Was that ‘Für Elise’?”
He nodded. “Also known as ‘Bagatelle Number Twenty-Five,’ ” he said with a shy smile.
Ruthie shy-smiled back. “I used to think it was about a girl named Elise who was covered in fur.”
“Same!” Owen said. “I thought Beethoven composed the song to cheer her up. You know, because she looked like a primate.”
Ruthie laughed. “Me too!” She appreciated that Owen said composed instead of wrote. Few people knew the difference.
“I like your hair, by the way.” His full cheeks flushed red. “Short bangs remind me of Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s.”
Ruthie thanked him, though technically she was trying for the main character from the film Amélie. But she’d take it. It wasn’t every day a boy her age mentioned her hair and a Hollywood screen legend in the same sentence. “Are your parents home?”
“No. They work late on Wednesdays.” He chuckled. “Wait, what am I saying? They work late every night.”
“Who takes care of you when they’re gone?”
“I’ll give you one clue,” Owen said. “It speaks French and has two thumbs.”
Ruthie squinted. She hated when she couldn’t crack a brainteaser. “I give up. What speaks French and has two thumbs?”
Owen hitched his thumbs toward his chest. “Moi.”
Ruthie giggled. Amused as she was, Owen’s riddle also made her sad. Who did he talk to after school? Who did he eat dinner with every night? “Would you mind leaving a message for them?”
“My parents or my thumbs?”
Ruthie smiled. “Parents.”
“Are you selling more Girl Scout cookies? Because I wouldn’t mind giving the Lemon-Ups a try.”
“No, I’m selling services this time. Dog walking, babysitting, chores . . . I’m saving for a phone.”
“Hmmm,” Owen said, glancing up at the orange-and-pink-streaked sky. “You’re in the TAG program, aren’t you?”
“I am,” Ruthie said. “How’d you know?”
“We go to the same school, but I never see you around, so I assumed. Anyway, that means you’re smart, right?”
“Smart is relative,” Ruthie said. Her parents told her to say that so she wouldn’t seem conceited. “But I get decent grades. Why?”
“I need a tutor.”
“You do?” Ruthie asked, surprised. Why would Owen be a pick-me if he didn’t know the answers? “What subject?”
“All subjects. I don’t know how much you charge, but we can probably pay you thirty dollars an hour.”
“You mean thirteen,” Ruthie said, trying to look professional by concealing her elation. Because thirteen dollars an hour was almost three times as much as she’d make dog walking.
“No, I mean thirty. And I’ll probably need help like four days a week.”
“Seriously?”
Owen’s chocolate-brown eyes held firm. “Seriously.”
Ruthie didn’t have to be talented or gifted to know that that would yield $120 per week. “I’ll take it.”
“Great!” Owen dropped his phone. Ruthie picked it up. “Can you start tomorrow after school?”
“I wish, but Fonda’s hosting a general interest meeting about Catalina Island tomorrow. You should come. There will be free lollipops.”
“Cool. I love GIMs,” Owen said. “How about Friday, then?”
“Weekly sleepover,” she said. “Monday?”
“Monday it is.”
Beaming, Ruthie waved goodbye and ran home, fueled by the knowledge that she’d have enough money to buy a phone by Christmas and a protective case by New Year’s. So what if Fonda thought he was a Weird-O; the pick-me picked her. She was officially employed.
chapter ten.
WHEN THE BELL rang, Fonda, Drew, and Ruthie blasted through the front doors of the school and positioned themselves under the flagpole to greet their audience. Soon, Catalina Island would be the new Slopover, the petition competition would be a thing of the past, and
the nesties would be remembered as the trailblazers who rewrote field trip history.
Students spilled onto the front lawn, and Fonda lifted a bullhorn to her glossy lips.
“For those of you who don’t know me, my name is Fonda Miller . . .” she began once the fifteenth person arrived. Fifteen, she decided, was the perfect number—big enough to start but not so big that the slow walkers would be too intimidated to join. “And I’m here to tell you about Catalina Island.”
Leah Pellegrino, a DIY entrepreneur who sold pom-pom keychains and tie-dyed knee socks, raised her paint-stained hand. “Wait. Are you related to Amelia Miller?”
Fonda wanted to jam her bullhorn over Leah’s head and make her wear it like a dog cone because only an animal could be that savagely rude. On the other hand, the crowd was thickening and Ava H. and Henry were probably halfway home, totally unaware that Fonda was stealing their votes, so why dwell?
“I am,” she managed. “Now, back to Catalina—”
“What about Winfrey Miller?”
Fonda nodded. “Yep, her too. Now, back to—”
“I heard they went to the high school homecoming dance barefoot, so I started following them on Insta. And guess what?”
Fonda glared at her, refusing to guess.
“They followed me back! And guess what again? Amelia ‘liked’ my triple-pom keychain, so I named it the Amelia. You can tell her that if you want. I don’t mind.”
Fonda looked out at Drew and Ruthie, hoping for a supportive eye roll or a don’t-let-her-get-you-down finger wag. But Ruthie was busy handing out lollipops and Drew was getting signatures, forcing Fonda to deal with Leah all on her own.
“You know what else Amelia likes?” she said, deciding to use Leah’s pathetic obsession to her advantage. “Catalina. She and Winfrey partied there on the Fourth and said it was epic.”
Leah and her friends exchanged delighted glances. Fonda, on the other hand, felt a bit ew. If the goal was to create a name for herself, by herself, involving her sisters was the opposite of that. Then again, this was a cutthroat competition. If victory required a bit of name-dropping, so be it.
Crush Stuff. Page 5