I glance down the street at the nearby park he must be coming from. It’s really more a square of lawn than a park—snow-covered now, of course—with one large rock and a single line of planted trees. “What do you do? Practice on squirrels or something?”
He laughs, and a little wrinkle forms in his forehead, just above his eyebrow—adorably cute. “It’s target archery, not hunting archery. There’s a range at the club. About five blocks that way.” He waves his hand haphazardly in the direction he had been coming from.
“Oh. That makes a lot more sense.”
“Hey, you going to Schiller’s party on Friday?” Grayson asks. I know Ryan Schiller, but I didn’t know that he was having a party. Now that Lindsey and I don’t talk anymore—we haven’t texted since that weekend she went away—I never know about the good parties.
“Of course,” I say. “You?”
It might just be the snow reflecting in his pupils, but I swear his eyes lighten a little at my words. He nods. “Do you want to— Hey, should your sister be doing that?”
I whirl around, cursing Kenzie in my head before I even see her. She’s two houses away, on someone’s porch, pouring their small tub of ice melt into a heaping mound right in front of the door.
“Kenzie!” I shriek at her. “Put that down!” She doesn’t, of course, and blue crystals keep pouring like a landslide from the tub in her hands.
“At least they won’t have to worry about slipping on ice when they step out the door,” Grayson calls after me, laughing, as I run toward her. I bound up the front steps, snatch the bucket from Kenzie’s hands, and point at the blue pile.
“Clean that up,” I demand, and she scowls at me. As I scoop up gloved handfuls of the stuff, I look back to the sidewalk. Grayson has already moved a few houses down the street, but he’s still looking at us.
“See you Friday!” he shouts, waving.
My hands are full of blue crystals, and I can’t wave back.
KAT
MEG POPS HER HEAD INTO THE KITCHEN, HER SNOW-DUSTED BLACK CURLS hugging tightly together, free from their frequent ponytail. Snow in October is something I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to get used to, no matter how long I end up living here.
“Did Mom let you in?” I ask. “I didn’t hear the doorbell.”
“No, your door was unlocked, so I just came in.”
“It was?” I smother the panic in my voice.
“Yes. And an evil murderer named Meg broke in. Be very afraid.”
“Shut up,” I yell over my shoulder as I duck into the hallway to lock the door. When I return to the kitchen, Meg’s sitting in a kitchen chair, backward—she has actually gone to the effort of turning one of the chairs around just to sit in it that way. Her chin rests on the top of the chair back.
“So, let’s talk about what we’re going to wear to Friday’s party.” Since she doesn’t lift her chin, the rest of her head bobs up and down as she talks.
“I thought you came over to borrow my math textbook.” She texted me that she forgot hers at school, and apparently she’s going to get a detention if she fails to do her math homework one more time this month. “And wait, what party?” There’s no way I agreed to go to a party. I would never agree to go to a party.
Meg slips off the chair and heads toward the fridge. “And people say I have a bad memory. I messaged you about it last night. Grayson’s going. Remember?”
“Oh, yeah. I just—I thought you were going with him.” One baboons . . . two drunken revelry . . . “I can’t go.”
“What? No! You have to come with me,” Meg whines, opening the fridge to pour herself a glass of milk. If we were at her house she’d grab a Coke, but we don’t usually have pop in the house unless someone else brings it.
“There’s no way,” I tell her flatly. “I don’t do parties.” Three panicky stampede . . . four trapped in crowded corners . . .
“Don’t do parties yet.”
The only time I’ve ever been to a party, it was an accident. My so-called friend invited me over with “just a few people.” Turns out “just a few” meant at least thirty. Not as many as those huge parties you see in movies, but enough that when she disappeared to make out with her boyfriend and I found myself alone on a couch in a dark corner surrounded by strangers, I forgot how to breathe. I sat there forever, the chatter and faces and laughter swirling around me as I struggled to remember where my lungs were, until finally I pulled myself together enough to go outside and call my mom to pick me up.
I’m not going through that again, but how do I get out of it without telling Meg about my panic attacks? Because there’s no way I’m telling Meg the Fearless that just sitting on a couch with strangers can make me hyperventilate. “Can’t you just go by yourself?”
“Not when I’m trying to impress a guy! What if he’s watching for me? I’ll look like a loner if I show up by myself.” Meg pouts as she slides back into her seat. “Don’t be nervous. It’ll be fun.”
I nibble on a hangnail. The party she’s talking about is probably the full-blown movie type. If she thinks it’s silly for me to be nervous about that, she’s going to think it’s completely ridiculous that a party with thirty people lounging around on couches induces full-blown panic mode. I definitely can’t tell her that. I can’t even tell her that I’m freaking out at the thought of testing thirty people for our science project. Ever since we handed in our proposal, I’ve been waking up in the middle of the night thinking about it. Eight overstimulated . . . nine disappearing friend . . . “Who is this guy again?”
“Grayson. The guy I pointed out in the cafeteria. Like, multiple times. You know, Boxer Boy. You’d like him, Kat. He’s an archer.”
“We don’t need a new archer,” I protest. “We need a tank.”
“No, not in LotS. In real life.”
“What, like with a real bow and arrows and stuff?” I stop gnawing at the tiny, loose flap of skin and nail. “I didn’t know people actually did that.”
She giggles girlishly. “Right? That’s exactly what I thought. So cool.”
“And you think he likes you?” It comes out sounding skeptical, which is not what I mean. Thankfully, Meg doesn’t notice.
“I think he was going to ask me to go with him. Before Kenzie screwed it up.” She scowls and pushes my math text away.
“Well, problem solved then.” My tension-filled shoulders relax. “Call him up and the two of you can go together. You don’t need me.”
Seventeen romance . . . eighteen archery range . . .
Meg plants both her hands on the table, elbows in the air, and stares me down. “I’ll call him up and invite him if,” she challenges, “you pick up your phone and invite any guy in the world on any date of your choice.”
I break eye contact first, glancing down at my phone, then back at her, as my shoulders reunite with their familiar tension. I can’t do that. Obviously I can’t do that. “All right, fine, you win. But I’m still not going.”
“Not going where?” Granddad asks as he shuffles into the kitchen. He was downstairs with Mom and Dad, watching some documentary on whales. I don’t know how he got up the stairs without me hearing him. I don’t know how he ever manages to get up those stairs without breaking his hip again.
Meg hops up from her chair. “Hi! You’re Granddad. We haven’t met yet.” She strides toward him.
“And you’re Meg,” Granddad says. “And no, we haven’t.”
Meg sticks her arm out and I think she’s going to shake his hand, but instead she offers him her fist. Granddad doesn’t even hesitate, just presses his own bony knuckle up to hers in a fist bump.
“I’ve been dying to meet the man with the epic eyebrows,” Meg says, and my face flushes instantly hot. But Granddad just grins and makes the white, bushy caterpillars on his forehead bob up and down. Meg laughs appreciatively. “You sure seem to go out a lot. You’re never here.”
I’m always bumping into Granddad around the house and trying to figure out what
the heck to say to him, so it seems to me like he never leaves. But I guess he’s been out when Meg’s visited before.
“Well, I’m not going to let this thing”—he waves his hand toward his hip—“stop me from living my life.”
That’s a sentiment I don’t understand. If I had an excuse to never leave the house, I’d take it.
“You’re even cooler than I expected,” Meg says. Granddad laughs at that, and my stomach twists. This is the first time Meg’s ever met Granddad, and she’s already talking more comfortably with him than I ever have.
Meg heads back to the table, and Granddad hobbles after her. “So, where were the two of you going?” he asks.
“Nowhere, apparently,” Meg says as she plops back down on her backward chair—sideways this time. “Kat’s being a real party pooper. Literally. There’s this party on Friday night, and she refuses to go for no reason.”
“A party?” His eyes travel far away for a moment, before drifting back to us. “You should go, Katharina. Your grandma and I used to go to quite a few before she stopped leaving the house. I met her at a party.”
Even though we’re so different, I’ve always felt like Granddad somehow gets me. But if he thinks I should go to this party, maybe he doesn’t get me at all.
Meg raises her eyebrows at me, as if Granddad meeting my grandma at a party is so romantic that I can’t possibly argue with it. But it does nothing to quell my panic. I might find it more compelling if I had ever met my grandma, but she died before I was born. Granddad has always just been Granddad. My granddad.
“Was she a good dancer?” Meg asks, and Granddad’s face lights up. How does Meg always know what to say? Even to people she’s just met?
“Oh, was she ever,” he says. “She could dance a mean twist.”
“Man, I wish I could dance the twist,” Meg says, climbing to her feet as if she’s going to try right now.
“If it wasn’t for this hip, I’d teach you.”
Their banter is so smooth. They’re both so adventurous.
I’ve always known how much Granddad loved me. Always. Except, now that we live together, now that he’s seen how terribly scared I am all the time, I wonder if that’s changed. Not that I think he doesn’t love me anymore, but if he doesn’t understand, then maybe he’s unimpressed. Disappointed.
Meg and Granddad chatter away about different dance moves, old and new, as I try to imagine going to another party. I can’t picture it. My brain shoves the image away and I see only darkness. Feel the tightness in my lungs from holding my breath.
I let it out. One elephant . . . two fear . . .
Granddad should just go with Meg. He’d probably love that. She’d probably love that. They could go together, and I could sit alone in my room watching LumberLegs like I’ve done so many times before.
Except I don’t want that. I don’t want to be left behind and forgotten about. Don’t want to never leave the house because I’m too afraid. Don’t want to fail our science project because I can’t talk to people. Meg laughs at something Granddad says, and I scowl, but neither of them notices. I’m already being left behind.
Would it really be so bad to go to this party? I wouldn’t have to talk to people there, just be around them. It’s a baby step, really. If I can just be around hordes of people, then maybe I’ll be able to test hordes of people for our project when the time comes. Maybe I’ll be able to stop being a disappointment.
Meg and Granddad won’t need to understand me if I can just keep up with them. And I’m a capable, competent person; I should be able to keep up with them.
Seven baby steps . . . eight bravery . . .
“Fine, I’ll go,” I spit out, interrupting them.
Meg stops the pop-and-lock dance move she’s showing off to Granddad and spins toward me, beaming. “Really?”
No, not really, I want to say. No way in hell. No way in the badlands. No way in an epic rift of doom. But with both of them grinning proudly at me—proud of me for being brave, for being adventurous, for being more like them—there’s no way to back out.
Meg and I are going to a party.
MEG
I CRANK THE VOLUME ON MY SPEAKERS AND LEAP ONTO MY BED. THE MUSIC acts like a duck call; Kenzie comes flapping into the room and hops up beside me. I twirl her around and we leap, spin, and head pound around the room together.
I’ve already showered and scrunched styler into my hair and hung upside down off my bed while diffusing it and dressed and put on my makeup for tonight’s party, which means I should probably sit quietly with my ankles crossed until it’s go time. But screw that.
Droplets of sweat gather in my armpits. Thankfully, the sleeves of the hugely oversized green shirt I’m wearing over black leggings are too big and flowy to get noticeable pit stains. I texted Kat pictures of all my different outfit options yesterday, and this is the one she picked. Well, actually, she picked a different one, but I vetoed that one, and this was her second pick.
Aside from outfit choices, I tried not to bring up the party too much this week, because Kat’s already-pale face gets even paler every time I mention it, but yesterday, Grayson waved at me again from across the caf, and then, admittedly, I couldn’t really talk about anything else all day. Kat will be fine, though—more than fine; she’ll have an epic time. We’ll dance together, and then I’ll introduce her to Grayson, and then we’ll all dance together, and she’ll loosen up so much that we might even scope out a cute guy for her to say hello to.
My phone roars its Chewbacca cry. Speak of the devil—or the Wookiee or whatever.
I can’t make it. Sorry.
Ha-ha, funny. I tap out my response.
lol good try, see u soon
I know she’s a bit nervous, but I also know she won’t stand me up like Lindsey used to. Kat’s dependable that way. And she has nothing to be nervous about, because she’ll be with me. BFFs together forever. I stick my pinkie up in the air. “I promise I won’t leave your side for any reason whatsoever. Pinkie swear.”
Kenzie yanks at my leggings. “Who’re you talking to?”
“Invisible Kat,” I say.
“Oh,” she says, as if this makes perfect sense, then continues her own special version of headbanging—ducking her head down between her knees, curls hanging almost to the floor, before whipping up so quickly she almost throws herself backward.
My palms are sweating, but I’m not sure if it’s from dancing, nervousness, or excitement. I can’t wait for Kat to meet him, not just have him pointed out from across the room. I want her to tell me if he likes me or if I’m reading it all wrong.
I pick up Kenzie and twirl her around so fast the giggles burst out of her like a sneeze. A rainbow sneeze. I set her back down and she wobbles on her feet like a little drunken woman. Or squirrel. I wonder what squirrels would be like drunk. Now that would be an interesting science project thingy.
“When’s Princess Kat coming?” Kenzie asks.
“Soon.” I check my phone. No texts. She should be here by now, should have been here a while ago, actually. “She’s not coming to play with you, though. We’re going out.” If she ever gets here. I message her again.
dude where are u?!!?!?
Kenzie sticks out her lip and puts her hand on her hip in a queen-of-brat pose that she definitely did not learn from me. I pat her on the head with one hand and dial Kat’s number with the other. It rings. And rings and rings. Then her boring, automated voice mail. “You have reached 780-5 . . .” I hang up, then try again. Still nothing.
I try another message.
Kat?!?!?
Nothing. I call again, and then again. Nothing and more nothing.
I flip through my text log and stare at her original message:
I can’t make it. Sorry.
Mom ducks her head through my doorway. “Meg, what time is Kat coming?” Her voice is more high-pitched than usual. A stray curl sticks out at the back of her neck. Did it come loose from her bun, or did she miss it w
hen she put her hair up in the first place?
“I—I don’t think she is,” I say. “I mean, she was supposed to be coming, but now she’s not. I guess.”
“You’re not going out, then? That’s a relief. You can watch Kenzie and Nolan. I’ve got to pop over to your aunt’s. Teddy’s having another seizure.”
“No, Mom, I—”
She’s gone, though, before I can even figure out how I want to protest. “Kenzie, Nolan—Meg’s in charge,” she calls, already somewhere far away—probably at the bottom of the stairs. “I’m going to help with your cousin. I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”
And then I’m stuck at home. In my bedroom. Alone. Looking after two miniature monsters. Not dancing. Not drinking. Not making out with Boxer Boy. The outfit we spent hours deciding on, the wave from across the cafeteria that made my heart race all day—all for nothing.
And all for nothing why? I don’t get it. Why isn’t she coming? Why would she abandon me like that? Without any explanation. Just like Lindsey. And Brad’s friends. Why does everyone end up being the same?
Why do I somehow always end up alone?
I drop my phone on the floor, kick it across the room, then flop down on my bed and start on what is now officially my most exciting activity of the evening—staring at the ceiling.
CHAPTER 7
KAT
WE SIT OUTSIDE MEG’S HOUSE FOR A LONG TIME, MOM AND ME. SHE KEEPS the car running the whole time; she has to, it’s twenty below. She doesn’t say anything, just waits for me, patiently, to get out of the car. Like she has been since we arrived, which was long enough ago that my knuckles are stiff and uncomfortable from gripping my knees so tightly.
That’s all I have to do—get out of the car. Take a dozen steps down the sidewalk. Knock on Meg’s door. All of which I’ve done multiple times before. Plus, I’m wearing my confidence-inducing pink shirt (not to be confused with my lucky pink shirt). So I should be able to get out of the car.
But thinking of getting out of the car makes me think of facing Meg’s eager excitement, which makes me think of the party, which makes me think of my fear of standing alone and awkward and overwhelmed in a corner while crowds of people jostle me and trap me in and judge me with their piercing eyes because I can’t remember how to do the most basic task of living—breathing. I hate my brain. I hate crowds. I hate people.
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