#3 Truth and Kisses

by Laurie Friedman

  © 2014 by Laurie Friedman

  All rights reserved. International copyright secured. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of Lerner Publishing Group, Inc., except for the inclusion of brief quotations in an acknowledged review.

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  For reading levels and more information, look up this title at www.lernerbooks.com.

  Main body text set in Janson Text LT Std 12/17.

  Typeface provided by Linotype AG.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Friedman, Laurie B., 1964–

  Truth and kisses / by Laurie Friedman.

  pages cm. —(The mostly miserable life of April Sinclair ; #3)

  Summary: Diary entries reveal thirteen-year-old April Sinclair’s complicated best-friend/love triangle, her new friendship, a busy dance team schedule, and a closer relationship with Matt Parker that surprises her and everyone else.

  ISBN 978–1–4677–0927–9 (trade hard cover : alk. paper)

  ISBN 978–1–4677–4648–9 (eBook)

  [1. Friendship—Fiction. 2. Dating (Social customs)—Fiction. 3. Interpersonal relations—Fiction. 4. Dance teams—Fiction. 5. Diaries—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.F89773Tru 2014

  [Fic]—dc23

  2013045913

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  1 – BP – 7/15/14

  eISBN: 978-1-4677-4648-9 (pdf)

  eISBN: 978-1-4677-7470-3 (ePub)

  eISBN: 978-1-4677-7471-0 (mobi)

  We don’t know where it will lead. We just know there’s something much bigger than any of us here.

  —Steve Jobs

  December 31, 5:45 p.m.

  I can’t decide if the year is ending horribly or if what just occurred is an omen of the next one beginning like crap. It’s probably both.

  My problems started last week when Mom showed May, June, and me the dresses she’d made for us to wear to Gaga’s wedding, which is tonight. “Gaga chose the color,” said Mom. “Eggplant is a lovely shade of purple,” she added, like it was a little-known fact that might convince me the dress isn’t hideous.

  “I think it looks like something you’d find in a bin at the farmer’s market,” I said.

  But Mom kept talking like it was a done deal. “You girls will look so pretty at the wedding.” Apparently, picturing us in our veggie-inspired getups was enough to make her happy.

  I didn’t want to be the one to burst her happy bubble, but I didn’t have a choice. It’s bad enough that I have to go to my eighty-year-old grandmother’s wedding on New Year’s Eve, but it’s completely unacceptable that Mom thought I’d show up wearing the same thing as my seven-and ten-year-old sisters. Two words: Ain’t. Happenin’.

  I looked at the blur of shiny fabric like it was a dead cockroach. “I’m not wearing matching dresses.”

  Mom eyed me in her don’t-be-ridiculous way. “I thought you’d say something like that. Look, they’re different styles—just made from the same material so they coordinate.”

  Seriously? Did Mom really think coordinating eggplant dresses are better than matching ones? Whatever. That was a week ago, and right now I’d give anything to be wearing the dress she made, because what I’m currently wearing is so much worse. Thanks to May, a “last-minute wardrobe change” (Brynn’s phrase) was required.

  Brynn made it sound glamorous, like something that might happen on a Hollywood movie set, but it wasn’t like that. When Brynn came over this afternoon to help me with my hair and makeup (which I was happy about because she’s awesome with both), I asked May to get the curling iron out of her room and plug it in.

  Brynn and I went in the bathroom, and she got out some of the makeup she’d brought over to get started on my face. “I think we should go for smoky eyes and sun-kissed skin.” She applied bronzer to my cheeks. “It’ll look good with your dress,” she said.

  “Nothing will look good with my dress,” I said.

  Brynn made a hmmm sound. “We’ll make your hair and makeup look so good, no one will even notice the dress.” She smiled at me in the mirror, and I smiled back. Even though she was being her brutally honest self and had just acknowledged that the dress was actually as bad as I thought it was, she was sweet to help me. I knew she was doing her best to be a good friend.

  I closed my eyes, and Brynn had just started putting shadow on my lids when we first smelled it. “Is something burning?” she asked.

  I inhaled. “Mom must be cooking.” In my family, Dad is the cook.

  Brynn continued with mascara. Then she stopped. I opened my eyes and saw her fanning the air in front of her nose. “It smells like it’s coming from your room.”

  Right when she said that, we heard a blood-curdling screech. And then another.

  “APRIL’S ROOM IS ON FIRE!” yelled May.

  “APRIL’S ROOM IS ON FIRE!” repeated June, who, I have to admit, for the first time in her life, had finally found something worth repeating.

  Brynn dropped the mascara wand, and we ran into my room.

  After that, everything spun together. Flames were shooting up from the top of my dresser. Mom ran into my room. Dad wasn’t far behind with the fire extinguisher. The next thing I knew, my dresser was covered with charred shreds of eggplant-colored satin, a smoking curling iron, and extinguisher foam. Dad was beside himself. Mom wasn’t exactly happy either. “April, how could you leave a curling iron plugged in on top of your dress? You know it’s synthetic!” she scolded.

  I shot a look at my mom. Who clothes their daughters in material that’s a fire hazard? Then I turned to the real culprit. “Why are you yelling at me? May was the one who put the curling iron there.” My parents’ eyes fixed on her.

  May pointed at me. “April told me to do it.”

  My parents looked at June, like they actually expected a seven-year-old to act as referee in this situation. Which she did. “Yeah,” said June. “I heard April tell her to do it.”

  Dad slumped down on my bed and clutched his chest like he was having a heart attack. Then the questions started flying. April, why didn’t you check to be sure the curling iron was plugged in safely? April, do you have any idea what could have happened? April, how could you be so irresponsible? He asked all kinds of questions except the most important one.

  “WHAT AM I GOING TO WEAR TONIGHT?” I moaned.

  Dad blinked like that was the last thing on his mind.

  Mom, to her credit, actually sprang into action. But unfortunately, the answer to my question is a disastrous mix of color-correct items including purple tights, a purple stretchy mini-skirt from sixth grade that I have pulled down as low as possible so my butt doesn’t hang out the back, a purple cardigan of May’s with a Nick Jr. logo on it that Mom covered up with a fake purple flower pin she made, and some purple felt and curtain rope that she twisted together and wrapped around my waist like a belt. I look like a craft project that just walked out of Michael’s. I didn’t even have to ask Brynn what she thought. The look on her face said it all.

  God help me tonight—since no amount of makeup will.

  1:08 a.m.

  Back from Gaga’s wedding.

  Tonight was more like a Saturday Night Live skit than a wedding.

  Every single female in my extended family was wearing eggplant. My mom and her sisters all had on the same long, flowy dresses. They looked like bridesmaids gone terribly wrong. My cousins Amanda, Charlotte, and Izzy wer
e dressed in eggplant skirts and sweater sets.

  When Amanda saw me, she frowned.

  “What’s your problem?” I asked. But I didn’t hang around for an explanation. The answer was obvious.

  As I looked around the room, I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. The ladies weren’t the only ones sporting the color theme. The men had on purple ties that Gaga and her groom, Willy Sherman, had bought online. They were more electric purple than eggplant, and Gaga was upset they didn’t match the color swatch she’d gotten, but Willy assured her that they looked like something the British monarchy would wear. I don’t know which gossip mags he reads, but I’d never seen Wills or Harry or any other royal wearing anything like that. Gaga and Willy were also in eggplant, from head to toe—for better or worse (wedding humor). The rest of the room was purple too. Flowers. Candles. Tablecloths. You name it. It looked like someone had projectile vomited grape juice all over the place.

  Our family wasn’t the only group there to witness my fashion humiliation. All of Gaga’s lady friends from the Happiness Movement were there, in eggplant, and so was Willy’s family. He actually doesn’t have much family—just one daughter, who’s married and lives in New York City and was there with her husband and their daughter, Sophie.

  When Sophie walked in, Amanda came over to me and whispered, “She looks like a super-model.” Amanda’s only in sixth grade, but it was an accurate observation. Somehow Sophie actually rocked the eggplant look, if that’s possible. “She’s probably totally not normal,” added Amanda, whose latest thing is trying to psycho-analyze people.

  I shook my head. “You can’t tell by looking at someone,” I said. But the truth was, I’d never seen anyone who looked like Sophie. She had pale skin, long black hair, and violet eyes.

  “Do you think her mother let her buy colored contacts for the wedding?” Amanda asked.

  From the looks of her mom, it seemed possible. She was even more chic than her daughter. She had on a long eggplant skirt, a sheer black top, ropes of black beads around her neck, and high-heeled boots. Sophie was wearing a short-skirt version of her mother’s outfit. Both of them had their eyelids done in dark, smoky eye shadow. As good as Brynn is at makeup, what she did to me couldn’t compare to how good their makeup looked. They must have had it professionally done.

  When Willy introduced Sophie to us, I just stood there like an idiot, staring at her. Even though he said Sophie and I are the same age, I had no clue what to say to her.

  The good news is that I didn’t stand there for too long looking mute, because Gaga announced it was time to start the ceremony, which fortunately was quick. When the justice of the peace asked Gaga and Willy if they vowed to love each other for as long as they both shall live, Gaga said, “It won’t be all that long because we’re so damn old.” Then she said she didn’t want to waste another minute, grabbed Willy, and kissed him long and hard on the lips, and the justice of the peace pronounced them husband and wife.

  “That’s repulsive,” muttered my cousin Harry.

  “I’m scarred for life,” said Amanda.

  I didn’t respond. What more was there to say? Everything about watching my eighty-year-old grandmother make out with her new husband was just so wrong. After the ceremony, there was a reception, and everyone made toasts to Gaga and Willy. Most of them were pretty forgettable. I guess there aren’t that many ways to congratulate octogenarians who hook up. Willy’s toast to Gaga was memorable, though. He told her how much he loves her, and then he said all her grandkids could call him Grandpa Willy.

  “Sounds like a perv,” whispered Harry.

  It’s a definite possibility.

  When Willy was done, Gaga made a toast to him. She tapped her spoon against her champagne glass until the room was quiet. “I wanted to get married on New Year’s Eve so I could start the year off right.” Gaga raised her glass and gazed lovingly (two words I’ve never used in conjunction with each other and never thought I would, especially in a case like this) at Willy. “Today is the first day of the rest of our lives.” They clinked glasses and kissed again.

  “Yuck,” said Harry.

  Then Gaga launched into a long speech about the importance of making a New Year’s resolution and sticking to it. “My resolution is to live every day like it matters,” she announced, slowly and loudly, enunciating each word, like we all might be deaf and she wanted to be sure we got how she plans to spend her time.

  I thought the reception should have been winding down at that point, but Gaga said it was time to dance. There was a band (if you want to call it that). But there wasn’t anyone to dance with, unless my dad or Harry counted (which they don’t). So I was left standing there, trying to look like I was enjoying myself, until the clock struck midnight, when Gaga said we would throw confetti while she and Willy made their departure. Luckily, Sophie came over and started talking to me. “So this is what weddings are like in Faraway?” she asked.

  “It’s the first wedding I’ve ever been to.” I wondered if it sounded babyish to admit that, but Sophie was nodding her head.

  “This is my first wedding too.” She paused like she was trying to decide if it was a good or bad idea to say what she was about to. “How weird is it that your grandmother and my grandfather just got married?”

  I stood there with my mouth open. She had taken the words right out of it. “So weird!”

  Sophie twirled a strand of beads around her finger. “So what does that make us, like, step-grand cousins?”

  I wasn’t actually sure. “Something like that.”

  Sophie grinned.

  I was trying to figure out what to say next. What I really felt like doing was explaining why I was wearing such a ridiculous outfit. I didn’t want Sophie to think I always dressed like this, but before I could say a word she launched into her personal history. Born in France. Dad from Paris. Lived there until a few months ago, when she moved to New York City. I wanted to find out more, but Gaga broke up the party and made us dance. When the clock struck twelve, we all screamed “Happy New Year!” and threw confetti as Gaga and Willy left to start the rest of their lives together.

  The whole night was surreal. I never expected to start the year off at my eighty-year-old grandmother’s wedding or that I’d have a new super-model-slash-step-grand cousin.

  It makes a girl wonder: What does the rest of the year have in store?

  Much unhappiness has come into the world because of bewilderment and things left unsaid.

  —Dostoyevsky

  New Year’s Day

  Off to a bad start

  The first word I should be writing today is happy, as in “Happy New Year!” But the year’s not starting off so happy. Brynn just called and was like, “Get over here ASAP! My mom said I could have a New Year’s getty at my house. It’s going to be so much fun. I’m calling Billy when we hang up, and then I’m calling a bunch of other people. I’m super excited!”

  I was super excited too, but when I went into the kitchen and asked Mom if I could go to Brynn’s getty, here’s what happened:

  Mom: “Getty” isn’t a word.

  Me (Patiently): Get-together. May I please go to Brynn’s today for a get-together?

  Mom: We’re going to be spending the day with family.

  Me (Not as patiently): We spent last night with family.

  Mom (Looking confused): Your point is?

  Me (No longer patient): I was with my family last night, which happened to be New Year’s Eve. Is it so hard to understand that I want to spend New Year’s Day with my friends?

  Apparently it was, for Mom, because she went on a long rant about how I shouldn’t start the year off with such a fresh mouth and that Gaga only gets married once.

  I corrected Mom. “This makes twice.”

  Mom said that wasn’t the point. “April, your family is spending the day together at Gaga’s house, eating brunch and watching football. Since you’re part of the family, that’s what you’ll be doing too.”

&n
bsp; I often wonder if I was one of those sad cases of babies who are switched at birth and end up with the wrong family. Today I’m almost sure of it.

  6:42 p.m.

  I can’t decide if today was more good or bad. It was definitely some of both. The good part was that Sophie was at Gaga’s, and I hung out with her all day. She’s really cool. When I got there, Sophie was nowhere in sight. I thought it was going to be just another long day at Gaga’s listening to Harry complaining and Amanda trying to analyze people. Gaga had a huge buffet laid out. I loaded my plate with eggs, bacon, biscuits, and what Dad calls his “world famous” cinnamon rolls from the Love Doctor Diner. I was on my way to sit in the den with my cousins when Sophie materialized. (That sounds unnecessarily Twilight-ish, but it was kind of like that.)

  “We should eat outside,” she said. I glanced at her plate. It was piled high with eggs and cinnamon rolls too. She didn’t look like the kind of girl who would eat that stuff, but I was glad to see she was.

  “It’s pretty cold out there.” I pretend-shivered.

  Sophie laughed. “I’m from New York. This isn’t cold.” She started walking toward the patio like there was nothing about an Alabama winter day that scared her. I followed and sat down beside her. “So what’s it like to live in this little town?” she asked.

  Even though I’d be the first to admit it has never been my dream to live in Faraway, Alabama, part of me didn’t want to make it seem so bad. “It’s small,” I told Sophie. “But there are some cool things about it.”

  Sophie raised a brow like she wanted me to elaborate.

  “There are beaches nearby.” I had to think while I talked. “You can walk just about anywhere, and there’s an awesome ice cream place in the middle of town called The Cold Shack that Brynn and I always go to.”

  I waited for Sophie to say something like, “That’s the best you got?”

  “Who’s Brynn?” she asked.

  “My best friend since kindergarten.” It was kind of hard to decide what else I wanted to tell Sophie about Brynn, but she kept munching on her cinnamon roll and not saying anything, so I kept going. “She’s an only child, so in a way, we’re more like sisters than friends.”