Brady looks at me for a beat longer than normal. “No, no, everything with the club is cool. It’s just …”
He lets his uncertainty linger in the air. I don’t want to push, but I know him. Something is bothering him. He wants to tell me.
I take a step so we are only inches apart. “Brady, it’s me. You can tell me anything.” Or at least he used to.
He nods to himself. “Yeah, so here’s the thing …”
I lean even closer into him. This is it. The confession I’ve been waiting for. There’s a problem with Parker.
“Yes?” I ask, trying to not appear so desperate.
“Yeah,” he says as he takes a giant step away from me. “I can’t believe I’ve been in your house for like ten minutes and your mom hasn’t gone into hostess mode.”
As if she were summoned (or eavesdropping), Mom calls down, “I’m bringing down some refreshments!”
“Nice, all is well with the world,” Brady says before abruptly turning around to head toward Dan and Conor, leaving me there alone and utterly speechless.
Nothing is well in my world.
At this rate, I’ll have every hair on the back of Brady’s head memorized soon, since all I see of him anymore is when he turns away from me.
Mom appears at the bottom of the stairs with a tray of snacks: chips with her homemade salsa, sandwiches, grapes, and assorted beverages. She’s excited, as always, to be in the thick of it.
The guys jump up with gratitude as they begin devouring the food. I take a sparkling water and a handful of grapes. “Thanks, Mom.”
“Oh, what’s this for?” She picks up a pulley system we rigged that will hopefully get a cannon to fire a ball that will hit a target that will launch a ship across a moat.
Dan begins to explain the system in detailed and complex mathematical terms. Mom appears enthralled, while I start to zone out. I’m able to look at our machines and see what needs to get done, but I can’t necessarily explain the whys of it in degrees and centrifugal force.
“That’s fascinating.” Mom’s eyes are wide as she takes in the mess we’ve made of her basement. “Don’t mind me. I know you guys have a lot of work to do.”
Conor’s in the corner fiddling with a fan, and notices us looking at the room with fear, dread, and uncertainty.
“It’s the job that’s never started as takes the longest to finish,” he says in a serious tone.
“Why that’s very wise of you, Conor.”
“Um, Mrs. Kaplan, that’s Tolkien.”
“Who?”
Conor looks as if he’s been slapped in the face. “He’s only one of the greatest novelists of all time! The Hobbit? The Lord of the Rings?” He’s searching my mom for some sort of recognition.
“Oh yes, I remember seeing one of those movies on TV once.” Mom shrugs an apology to Conor, whose mouth’s open in shock. Or disgust. “And, hon, it’s Gabriela, please.”
Conor shakes his head violently at the thought of calling anybody’s parent by their first name.
“Well, I guess I should get going and leave you geniuses to it. Let me know if you need anything.” She gives us her biggest smile before retreating upstairs.
“Okay!” I get the group’s focus back to our task at hand and away from the stairs. I break down everything that needs to happen and how best to tackle it. I attempt a schedule to keep us ahead of the game.
It’s remarkable how something so easy in theory can be so complicated in practice.
25 DAYS AWAY
“Thank you for gracing me with your presence,” Madelyn remarks dryly, the following Tuesday at lunch. She refuses to look up from her food. “So is this what I should expect if you and Brady ever get together: a one-way ticket to friend-dumpsville?”
“This machine is taking up all of our time, I swear.” It really is. Mr. Sutton’s free during our lunch period, so we’ve been spending the last week’s lunches going through each of our new parts and brainstorming.
“I have a feeling I’m seeing the new norm from you.” She starts scraping the black fingernail polish off her thumb with her pointer finger. It’s something she does when she’s nervous or irritated. If I were a betting person, I’d put all my money on the latter. “I’ve already resigned myself to the fact that we’re a continuingly failing Bechdel test. Heaven forbid we have a conversation that doesn’t revolve around Brady, but now I never get to see you because of Brady.”
“Wait.” I’m confused. “What test?”
She sighs as if I asked her what one plus one equals. “Well, it’s used to assess a work of fiction, not real life, but it’s a test to see if two female characters have a conversation about something other than a guy. After I read about it the other week, I started to notice that all we do is talk about guys. Well, one guy in particular. If you even bother to make time for me lately. Then any time I try to mention a new band I’ve discovered, you start wondering if Brady would like them, and if they came nearby in concert, if you could get Brady to go without Parker.”
“I’m sorry, but I’m not talking about Brady right now—this is about the machine.” My whole life this past week has been all about the machine. Yes, Brady is a part of that, but despite what Madelyn thinks not everything is about him. I’ve put so much blood (from scraping my hand against a nail), sweat (putting together that LEGO castle was no joke), and tears (seriously, the LEGO castle almost destroyed me) into this machine, I have to see it through.
“HA!” she says so loudly the table next to us turns around. It’s pretty clear she doesn’t find any of this funny. “Like your machines aren’t all about Brady.”
While it’s true the club started because of him, I really do enjoy working on the machines. Next year, after Brady’s at college, I’ll still be as involved in the club. It’s Dan who’ll be the hardest to replace.
“The club’s really important to me. You know that. I’ve invested so much into it. We have less than four weeks to pull this off, and if we do, we’re practically guaranteed to move on to nationals.” I’ve already explained this to her, when I had to cancel our weekly concert outing last Saturday.
“Again, I’m really sorry.” I nudge her foot under the table in hopes that she will at least look at me. Madelyn can hold a grudge, so I want to get back in her good graces as fast as humanly possible. “After the competition, we’ll go dancing and to concerts all the time. But for now, no more talk about the B-word, unless it’s a band.”
She isn’t budging, so I continue, “We haven’t named the machine yet, what if we called it the Madelynator?”
A slight smile cracks her face. She finally looks up at me. “I thought you said the machine made a balloon pop, not that it made awesome.”
“My bad.” I wink at her. “So what’s been going on with you?”
“Besides having rock stars wanting to be my groupies?”
“Obviously.” I’m relieved things are getting back to normal. Plus, I need to prove to her, and maybe more to myself, that I can go an entire lunch period without talking about the henceforth-banned B-word.
I never wanted to be one of those girls whose entire life revolved around a boy, so sometimes when I step away from myself and see how desperate I’ve become it makes me ashamed.
My head and heart really need to find some sort of compromise.
“Mi corazón!” Mom greets me after school before I even have the front door entirely open. “How was your day? How were classes? How’s Madelyn?”
My initial urge is to be agitated at her constant bombardment, but I stop myself.
“It was good,” I reply as I take off my coat. It suddenly hits me that the house smells of freshly baked cookies. “Smells amazing in here, Mom.”
“I’m glad you think so.” She pats the seat next to her on the large V-shaped sectional couch in the living room. “I made them for you.”
There’s a plate of my favorite cookies, double-fudge chunk, on the coffee table with a glass of milk. Mom’s constantly maki
ng cookies for bake sales and school events. While she always saves some for Dad and me, there’s only one reason Mom would make a batch solely for me: something’s wrong.
“What’s going on?” I feel a knot form in my stomach. “Is everything okay with Grandma?”
“Yes, of course.” Mom hands me a piece of paper as I sit down. It’s from my math teacher. I scored a sixty-four on the last exam. To be honest, I’m pretty pleased I got more questions right than wrong. “I had a conversation with Ms. Porter about your progress in class.”
More like lack of progress.
“If you don’t start getting at least a C plus or higher on the three remaining tests this semester, you’ll fail and have to repeat the class next year.”
There’s a buzzing noise in my ears when I hear the word repeat. There’s no way I can go through this again.
Mom continues as she begins to rub my back. “So you’re going to work with a tutor immediately, starting tomorrow.”
“Okay.” I resign myself. I’m horrified at the thought of having a tutor, since it means one of my classmates will know how absolutely idiotic I am, but I really don’t have a choice. That’s a better option than the entire school knowing I have to repeat a class.
“So, I’ve spoken with Parker—”
“WHAT!” I scream. “You don’t mean Parker Jackson is going to be my tutor?”
Mom looks genuinely shocked. “What’s the problem with Parker?”
Seriously? Where do I even begin?
Mom goes on. “Ms. Porter highly recommends her. She has experience tutoring in algebra and had a ninety-eight average on her exams last year. We’re fortunate she’s able to fit us in three times a week.”
“THREE TIMES A WEEK?” I can’t help but shriek back everything she’s saying. I refuse to believe it. I have to come up with something. “But what about the machine? We have so much work to do before regionals.”
Mom waves her hand dismissively. “You can work on the machine after your tutoring sessions are over. There are three other people who can cover for you. This is more important. We will work around Parker’s schedule—she’s very busy with her job at The Pie Shoppe.”
Yes, what a saint. We don’t want to inconvenience Parker, do we? It’s not as if she’s doing this out of the goodness of her heart. She’s going to get paid.
I wouldn’t put it past her to sabotage me so I fail.
There’s no way I can tolerate one tutoring session with her, much less three a week for the rest of the year.
I decide to go for broke. “Mom, can we talk to Dan instead? He’s ridiculously smart. Or anybody else? I’d really prefer it not be Parker.”
Mom shakes her head. “You’re being silly. Why wouldn’t you want Parker? She’s the sweetest little thing. Besides, it’s a done deal.”
“Mom—,” I protest.
“Enough!” She snaps. Mom rarely loses her temper with me. So when she does, it’s terrifying. “I don’t want to hear another word about this, Hope. You’re not failing a class, period. You’re going to meet when it works for Parker. I will not let extracurricular activities get in the way of school. I will not let you mess up your chance for a good college by being stubborn. I’m not having this conversation again. Have I made myself clear?”
All I can do is nod. She has made herself crystal clear.
I’m at Parker’s mercy.
I fight back the tears stinging behind my eyes.
Mom’s face softens. “Sweetie, I’m sorry I raised my voice, but I need to do what’s best for you.”
It’s hopeless. I shove a cookie into my mouth. It’s soft and gooey, and exactly what I need.
A memory flashes into my head of when I was little. Brady would come over after school if his mom was working late. There’d be napkins on the kitchen table with our names written on them, and the fresh cookies Mom used to make whenever I’d have someone over. Brady used to spend the day at school guessing which cookie it would be. Anytime we passed each other in the hallway, he’d say a different kind. I’d start to giggle even before he reached me. He always started with the basics—chocolate chip, oatmeal raisin—and then by the afternoon he’d start making up insane flavors. (Chocolate ant pistachio fig being my personal favorite of his made-up ones.)
“See, I knew a cookie would make you smile.” Mom brushes my cheek lightly with her thumb.
But, of course, it isn’t the cookie that did that.
24 DAYS AWAY
“I have a surprise for you!” I say to Brady as he arrives at his locker the next morning. I keep my right arm behind my back, concealing the cookies I’ve wrapped in a napkin with his name on it. That burst of nostalgia alone should score me some extra points.
He gives me that crooked smile of his. “Did you figure out the pulley system?”
“No. It’s something very, very sweet.”
“Ah, you discovered a way our machine can make chocolate as well as pop a balloon?” He scratches his head, making his hair even messier.
“No.” I bite my lip flirtatiously. “Guess again.”
He laughs a little. “Well, now all I’m thinking about is chocolate.”
“You almost got it!” I bounce on my tiptoes so I’m closer to him. I nudge him playfully. “You know, I should make you close your eyes as I’m about to take you on a journey down memory lane.”
He folds his arms. His eyes squint suspiciously. “Are you going to throw a pie in my face again?”
“That was not my fault!” I protest, but I can’t help but smile as the memory surfaces. Thrilled he remembers it, even if he’s besmirching my reputation.
It was the summer I turned eleven. Mom hosted an ice-cream social as a fundraiser for the nursing home. Brady and I were in charge of bringing new pies to the table where they were being served. I turned around with a pie, right as Brady, graceful as ever, tripped on the rug. His face landed right in the pie.
I can no longer contain my laughter as I picture his bewildered expression as he wiped cherry filling from his glasses.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” He shakes his head. “You had impeccable timing. You probably put the rug there.”
“Well, here!” I proudly hand him the cookies. “Consider it a peace offering. Five years later.”
His eyes light up as he begins to unwrap the napkin. “Aw man, your mom makes the best cookies.” Despite the early hour, he happily takes a huge bite. “You know, I think this much-needed apology has probably accrued some interest. I’m going to need many, many more cookies to even begin to emotionally recover from that humiliation.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
See, Brady? I think to myself. See how easy things are with us? How come it can’t always be like this? How come you can’t pick me?
“Babe!” Brady says, and my stomach flutters for a brief second. But a quick look over my shoulder confirms the truth: He’s talking to Parker.
Parker, the reason things can’t be like this between us. He has her. He chose her.
She approaches us cautiously with her normal tight smile on her face. I try to keep my face neutral and suppress the murderous rage growing inside me. I can’t believe I have to spend an hour with her after school today. Even thinking about it causes a pain in my stomach. I don’t want to know if Brady’s aware of my horrible grades and how his perfect, angelic girlfriend’s going to save me.
“Babe,” Brady continues, oblivious to this awkward situation. “You’ve got to try one of the cookies Hope’s mom made.”
To my horror, he hands her a cookie. She gives him a little smile as she takes a bite. She begins nodding. “So good,” she says to him as she covers her mouth. Finally, she turns to me and deigns to acknowledge my existence. “Thanks, Hope.”
I stand there dumbfounded as I watch her greedily eat an entire cookie before eight o’clock in the morning.
I’m so tired of this.
“Well, I better get to class,” I say between clenched teeth. I force a smile as
Brady thanks me again before I walk away.
I try to remind myself that I have a Plan. That I will eventually Persevere with a little bit more Patience.
But at this moment I don’t want to think about that. I hate, absolutely hate that I have to rely on Parker for anything. That the only way I have a chance to pass is because of her. I don’t want to owe her anything, to be beholden to her.
Parker has everything, while I’m desperately holding on to the little I do have.
I don’t see the point of looking into the past.
Why would I? There are way too many bad memories that lie in its ruins.
All I want to do is look ahead. I’ll get out of here, go to college, and hopefully forget everything that’s happened in the past year.
While there isn’t much I can do about the family I was born into, I do realize how lucky I am to have the friends I have and, of course, to be with Brady.
“You working tonight?” he asks as he pulls into the school parking lot, his right hand lightly resting on my knee.
“Yes, from six to ten. I also have a tutoring session after school.” I don’t know if I should mention I’m tutoring Hope. There’s a good chance she’s going to tell him, but it isn’t my place to divulge her academic issues.
“Do you need a ride?”
“I don’t think so.” Hope’s mom called last night to inform me that Hope is going to take us to her house after school. I figure I could ask her mom for a ride to The Pie Shoppe or, worst case, walk. It’s only two miles away. “I’ll call you if I need one tonight.”
I hate that I have to rely on Brady and my friends to drive me around. Brady always tells me it’s okay, but then I overhear him canceling plans. He’s had to miss his Rube Goldberg club meetings because of me. Not as if Hope needs any more reason to hate me.
It’s not fair that Brady has to rearrange his life because of me, although my situation isn’t fair to me either.
Brady puts his arm around me like always as we walk into school and down the hallway. He’s so much taller than me. I fit perfectly in the crook of his arm. He’s become a security blanket with his body and weight somehow protecting me.
Just Another Girl Page 5