Hannah Smart, Operation Josh Taylor

by Melody Fitzpatrick

  There is only one slight, potential problem — the weather. Looks like there might be a teensy storm tonight, nothing really, just a sprinkling of snow and a bit of wind. I’m sure it won’t be that bad. Just the same, Mom is a little concerned, and she’s driving, so it’s up to her. I told her not to worry; I mean, we have a tarp, but she’s making us wait until five o’clock for the updated forecast.

  By 5:15 I’m jumping out of my skin and so is Rachel.

  “Come on Mom!” I yell from the front door. “We need to get going if we want to be first in line!” I look at Rachel, frustrated. “What’s taking her so long? She’s driving me nuts.”

  “I don’t think she’s going to be driving us anywhere. Look …” Rachel points out the window.

  “Ah, it’s just a little bit of snow,” I say, opening up the front door to show her. “See …” A bitter gust of wind blows through the door, whipping me in the face with ice pellets and snow.

  Mom finally appears. “Shut the door, Hannah!”

  “Where’s your coat?” I cry, forcing the door shut against the howling wind.

  Mom shakes her head. “There is a blizzard outside and it’s only going to get worse as the night goes on.”

  “But …” I try to protest.

  “But nothing!” she hollers, “I’m not going anywhere, and neither are you!”

  “Mom, we have winter tires!” I yell, wiping the melting ice pellets from my face. “They’re like Michelin Blizzard Blasters or something. Don’t you want to try them out? Look, the conditions are perfect!” I open the door again and point outside to our soon-to-be-buried-van. “Imagine us fearlessly blasting our way through the snowy streets of Glen Haven, battling the elements. The three of us braving the treacherous storm! We could make video! We could put it on YouTube and maybe Michelin would see it and want to put us in a real commercial! We’d be famous!”

  “Hannah, shut the door. We’re not going.”

  “But, Mom, we’ve been working all day and we’re all ready to go!”

  “Hannah! Drop it now!”

  “Fine!” I fire back, slamming the door shut. I kick off my boots and stomp up the stairs.

  “Is your mom okay?” Rachel asks when we get to my room. “She seems … I don’t know … kinda cranky lately.”

  “Something is bugging her,” I agree, shrugging out of my jacket. “I don’t know, maybe it’s Dad’s promotion. He’s working a lot, and I know she doesn’t like it because I heard them arguing. I caught her crying a couple of times, too. She said it was just allergies, but I’m not stupid.”

  Suddenly, the lights flicker as a big blast of wind rattles the windows.

  “Man this sucks,” I say, plunking down on my bed.

  “Well, we’ll just have to buy them online tomorrow,” Rachel says, yanking off her snow pants. “It’ll probably be easier that way, anyway. Can you get your mom’s credit card?”

  “Yup. That’s what she wanted me to do in the first place. She said we can just pay her back with cash.”

  Rachel laughs. “Awesome! We’ve got lots of that!”

  * * *

  The whole night I can barely sleep; I’m tossing and turning, afraid we are going to sleep in, even though I’ve checked my alarm, like, at least five times. Finally, miraculously, I fall asleep. When I wake up it’s to the sound of my blaring radio. I try to unglue my eyes to see what time it is. It has to be really early because the alarm hasn’t gone off. When I finally manage to pry them open, I see Rachel pacing back and forth across the floor.

  “What time is it?” I whisper.

  “Eleven,” she says with a heavy sigh. “They’re gone, Hannah, they’re all gone …”

  “Eleven?” I ask groggily. Then I leap out of bed, screaming, “Eleven o’clock!” “Did you get the …”

  “The power went out. We slept in. The concert sold out in nine minutes.”

  “Nine minutes?” I say, laughing. “Yeah right!”

  “Hannah.” Rachel stops pacing and looks at me. “They’re all gone.”

  “They’re gone?”

  “Gone!” she says, rubbing her forehead.

  “Seriously? In nine minutes?”

  “Nine freaking minutes,” she answers, throwing her arms up in the air.

  “I can’t believe this, after all our hard work, after all we’ve been through. We’re not going to get to see him?”

  “This can’t be happening,” Rachel says, shaking her head in disbelief.

  “How do you know for sure?” I ask.

  “I heard it on the radio, Hannah. It’s the big news of the day.”

  I don’t think I can describe how awful we’re both feeling right now, but I’m sure you can imagine. Even when I say the words out loud, it’s almost too hard to believe — we’re not going to see Josh Taylor.

  Heartbroken, we mope in my room for the rest of the morning. It’s safer in here, anyway; my parents have been arguing for the past hour. I crank up the radio, trying to drown them out just as the announcer repeats again how fast the concert sold out this morning.

  “Can you believe it? Nearly ten thousand tickets gone in less than ten minutes,” the DJ says, chuckling. “Unbelievable,” he adds, as Josh Taylor’s “Heart Attack” begins to play.

  “That’s it!” Rachel screams. “Hannah! Where’s the phone!”

  “What?” I tilt my head to the side, confused.

  “The contest, Hannah!” Rachel shouts. “They’re playing ‘Heart Attack’!”

  I’m shaking like crazy. “I think the phone’s in the bed.” I squeal. “You look there, I’ll look downstairs.”

  I throw open the door, tear down the hall, round the corner, and fly down the stairs two at a time, leaping to the bottom. I am searching desperately, running all over the place when suddenly I spot Mom’s cellphone on the counter, right beside her.

  “Mom!” I say, choking and out of breath, “I need your phone!”

  “What, Hannah? Slow down.”

  “PHONE!” I scream. “It’s life or death!”

  “What’s going on?” Mom instantly panics. “Rachel! Is she okay?”

  “Rachel is fine,” I say dragging my nails down my cheeks. “Mom … Josh Taylor … tickets sold in nine minutes … radio contest … INEEDYOURPHONE!”

  “Take it!” She thrusts it forward, looking at me like I’m a crazy person.

  “Thanks!” I grab it, and tear back up the stairs, dialling as I run. I trip at the top, stubbing my toe, and the phone flies out of my hand and into the air. The searing, stinging pain pulsing through my toe is so intense, I feel like I might throw up. I bend over, grab the phone from the floor, and hobble down the hallway in agony. When I reach my bedroom, I hear Rachel speaking to someone.

  “My name is Rachel Carter,” she says with a shaky voice.

  “And are you a big Josh Taylor fan?”

  “His biggest.”

  “So, Rachel, have you brushed up on your Josh Taylor trivia?” the DJ asks.

  “Yes,” she answers, giggling nervously.

  “Okay, for two amazing, front-row tickets to see Josh Taylor live in concert, can you tell me what musical instrument Josh Taylor’s parents have played since they were teenagers, which Josh refuses to learn to play? Rachel … you have fifteen seconds to answer, starting now.”

  Rachel opens her mouth to answer, but then suddenly, grabs a scrap of paper off my desk and scribbles French horn. She looks at me, widening her eyes, waiting for me to nod that she’s right. Instantly, I grab the paper, scratch out French horn, and write trumpet, which I’m positively sure is the right answer. OMG, I’m so happy she didn’t say French horn.

  “Rachel, you’ve got nine seconds left,” the DJ says.

  “Um … I’m not sure,” she squeaks out, “but I think … oh …” She sighs heavily. “I’m not sure.”

  I furiously poke my finger on the piece of paper. I can’t believe she’s not saying it. Just say TRUMPET! Just say it!!!

  “I thin
k … it’s the trumpet!” she finally blurts out.

  “Ohhhh, I’m sorry Rachel, that’s not the right answer. Actually, Josh and his parents all play the trumpet. Being his biggest fan, I’m surprised you didn’t know that. French horn was the answer I was looking for.”

  13

  The Big News

  I don’t know how much more disappointment I can take. I’ve been trying so hard to be positive but now I’m worn out. I’m tired of trying. I’m tired of being almost there and then failing. For a “successful little businesswoman” I don’t feel very successful at all.

  November is a blur, an awful grey blur of high-fives and squeals and little giggling groups of girls. Obviously, they got tickets. And then there’s Scarlett and her stupid V.I.P. tickets. Honestly, I think if she goes on about them one more time, I’m going to seriously lose it. And then there is Rachel. She never did want to talk about the interview, or the lie, and she never brought up the radio contest, either. I really don’t deserve her as a friend, but I’m so glad she is, because she’s the only person who’s keeping me from going nuts right now.

  My parents have finally stopped arguing, but I still catch Mom crying every once in a while, and I hear them whispering sometimes, too, like they have some big awful secret, a horrible secret I don’t want to hear. They keep saying we need to talk about something. I keep saying later. Honestly, I’m afraid they might be planning to get a divorce, which would be the worst thing that could ever happen, which is why I keep saying later. I think maybe they need more time to work things out, and as long as no one says the word out loud, there’s still a chance to fix it. Unfortunately, there is no more time.

  “Hannah, you can’t keep saying later,” Mom says with a frustrated sigh. “We need to talk.”

  “I’m really busy right now, I was just about to practise the guitar.”

  “Hannah, you don’t own a guitar.”

  “I know that. I borrowed Rachel’s.”

  “But why, Hannah? You don’t even play the guitar.”

  “Exactly, that’s why I need to practise!”

  “Hannah, come have a seat,” Mom says, patting a chair by the kitchen table.

  This is it. Here it comes. I guess I can’t put it off any longer.

  Mom and Dad exchange a worried glance and then they both stare at me like they’re waiting for me to say something.

  “Okay, just say it!” I finally blurt out.

  “Well,” she says, rubbing the back of her neck, “we’ve been trying to talk to you about this for a few weeks now, but you wouldn’t listen, which wasn’t a big deal at the time because the decision wasn’t final yet.” She glances back at Dad. “But now it is, as of today.”

  “Final?” I ask, as a lump rises in my throat. “As of today?”

  “Yes, as of today,” Mom almost whispers.

  Suddenly, my world is spinning. I just want it to stop. I’m not ready to hear this. I just want everything to go back to the way it was, before all the arguments and whispering and crying.

  “I know,” I yell, “I know what’s going on. I know everything!” I shove my chair back and tear off up to my room. I try to fight back the tears, but realize it’s no use, so I bury my face in my pillow, but instead of crying, I scream. I scream because I’m frustrated, I scream because I have no control over what’s going on in my life, and I scream because I’m just so tired. How could I be so happy in September and so miserable now? How could my life get so totally messed up so fast?

  Exhausted, I drift off to sleep until the sound of knocking wakes me up. My dad is standing in my doorway, holding a plate of supper.

  “Can I come in for a sec?” he asks, smiling.

  “Fine,” I answer.

  “I’m sorry you’re so upset over what’s going on,” he says, putting the tray on my desk. He sits down on the edge of my bed. “Hannah, it’s not going to be that bad.”

  “Tell me, Dad. How is it not going to be that bad?”

  “Listen, this is going to be good for us. We’re all going to be better off.”

  “Better off!” I shriek. “You’re getting divorced! How could we possibly be better off?”

  “Divorced?” he says, raising his eyebrows. “We’re not getting divorced.”

  “What?”

  “We’re not getting divorced, Hannah,” he says, shaking his head.

  “You’re not? Seriously? Are you sure?”

  “Positive,” he answers, chuckling.

  I heave a big sigh of relief. “I totally thought that’s what you were going to say. I was so scared.”

  “No, it’s nothing like that.”

  “Well, what’s going on then? Why all the arguments? Why all the whispering, and why are Mom’s eyes always red?” All of a sudden I panic. “Are you sick? Is Mom sick?”

  “No, no, no,” he assures me, shaking his head again, “we’re both healthy and madly in love, okay?”

  “Okay.” I nod. “So then what’s going on?”

  “Well, honey, you know how hard you worked to earn that money for the concert?”

  “Yeah,” I say, feeling more confused than ever.

  “Well, when you work really hard on something it doesn’t always turn out the way you expect. Sometimes it’s difficult to understand how all your hard work will pay off in the end.”

  “I’m still waiting to understand,” I say.

  “What’s to understand? Look how much you’ve learned over the last few months. When you started all this ticket business, you were disorganized and didn’t know what you were doing. Look at you now, a successful business under your belt, and an appearance on TV! You handled that interview like a pro, you know?” Dad smiles and punches my shoulder. “You’re a winner, Hannah.”

  “I feel like a loser,” I mutter.

  “Hannah, you never lose when you accomplish something. You become a stronger, better person.”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “So, just like you, I’ve been working hard for quite some time now trying to accomplish something. And guess what?” Dad pats my leg. “It hasn’t turned out the way I expected.”

  “It hasn’t? What do you mean?”

  “Well, you know that promotion I was given a few months back?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I worked really hard to get that job, and once I got it, I realized that it wasn’t for me. I’m not good at being a supervisor. I realized I don’t like being the one telling everyone else what to do; I like to be the one doing it.”

  “Okay, could you just tell me what is going on?” I finally interrupt.

  “So, after all of the hard work and training I went through to get that promotion, I’m finally in the position to take on some exciting, new challenges.”

  “Dad,” I say, sighing in complete and utter frustration, “would you please get to the point?”

  “Well, not too long ago, an amazing opportunity just fell in my lap.”

  “What was it?” I ask anxiously.

  “So, turns out you’re not the only one in the family who’s a natural in front of the camera,” he says with a wink. “You are looking at the brand-new meteorologist for Channel 9 News in Maine.”

  “Maine?” I say, my forehead creasing. “You’re going to be a weatherman on TV in Maine?”

  “Yes I am,” he says proudly.

  “So, you’re moving?”

  “No silly,” he says, laughing, “we’re moving.”

  “We’re moving?”

  “Yup! On December thirty-first, we’re headed for Maine!”

  14

  The Cat’s Out of the Bag and Has Her Eye on Rachel

  Suddenly, everything is starting to make sense … the arguments, the long hours, the whispered conversations, and OMG … the travel guide with a lighthouse on the front. Was it from Maine? Probably!

  I can’t believe we’re moving. I’m leaving the only home I’ve ever known … and Rachel. How can this be happening? And to make matters even worse, like, HORRIBL
E, we’re leaving on December 31, the night of the Josh Taylor concert. Even if Rachel and I could still somehow magically get tickets, I can’t go. Dad says the plane tickets are bought and there’s no changing them; the station wants him to start on January 1. Unbelievable!

  I just got the best and the worst news of my life in the space of five minutes. I don’t know whether to be relieved or completely and utterly devastated. I guess I feel both really, if that makes any sense. When it comes down to it, I would rather move to Maine than see my parents getting divorced.

  But Maine, what is there in Maine, anyway? I’ll tell you what, lobsters and lighthouses, and none of my friends! What if my new neighbourhood has no kids? What if my school is huge? I mean it’s the middle of the school year; everyone has friends already. What if they all hate me? I’m going to be friendless!

  Even if I do somehow manage to make a friend, I’m sure she won’t be a Rachel, because Rachels are rare, one-of-a-kind people, who just don’t go randomly showing up in your life every day. What am I going to do without her? What am I going to do without my sweet, wonderful Rachel, who is always there for me no matter what?

  I really need to talk to her and tell her what’s going on. I know she’ll be upset, but at least we can cry together. I roll over on my bed, grab my phone, and start dialling.

  “Hi, Mrs. Carter. Is Rachel there?”

  “I’m sorry Hannah, Rachel is at Scarlett’s house.”

  “Pardon me? What?” I cough. “Did you say Scarlett?”

  “Yes, she’s at Scarlett Hastings’s house.”

  “I … I don’t understand,” I stammer.

  “Hannah, Rachel must have told you she’s doing a project on fashion history.”

  “I don’t remember,” I admit.

  “Well, Scarlett’s mom is a fashion buyer, and she offered to let Rachel interview her.”