Mom looked at me skeptically. “What do you mean?”
“What if Agnes dreamed that it happened and thought it was real?”
Agnes, brilliant though she was, was also young enough to get confused about what was a dream and what was real. If she saw a movie one day, she might tell you the next day about the dream she’d had and then recount the entire plot of Finding Nemo. One recent morning, we were eating breakfast in the kitchen, and Agnes started yelling, “This is a dream! I have dreamed this all before!” It took about a half hour to explain that she was having déjà vu, and even then, she wasn’t fully convinced she was awake.
Mom drew back slowly and regarded me with admiration. “Gladdy,” she said. “That is good.”
Aw, shucks.
I looked down bashfully, but I was glowing with pleasure. Compliments are like chocolate chip cookies—you can never get too many.
Mom rose from her seat and started pacing. “Right. Agnes had a bad day at school, and then she fell asleep in the car, so I carried her up to bed, and she had a bad dream, but she thought it was real. Brilliant!”
She beamed at me and kissed me on the head, then ran to her bedroom to change her clothes before Dad got home. I went upstairs to our bedroom to see how my little sister was doing and try to convince her when she woke up that her upsetting reality had been just a dream.
Looking back on it now, I feel terrible that I lied to Agnes. I remember how frustrated she was that afternoon, insisting that it had happened, Mom forgot her at school, it wasn’t a dream, while I told her over and over that she was mistaken. That’s a messed-up thing to do to somebody. I’ll have to think of a way to make it up to her.
At the time, though, I didn’t think I was doing anything wrong. I didn’t particularly enjoy watching Mom lie to Dad at the dinner table that night, while Agnes pouted upstairs because nobody believed her true story. But I had to keep Mom and Dad from fighting, and it worked.
I wanted to be Mom’s helper and make her happy. I tried to keep her and Dad together in harmony. I used every bit of my great imagination and puzzle-solving skills to make that happen, but it wasn’t good enough.
Mom still left.
Last time I spoke to Mom was about a week ago. I was sitting on my bed, picking at the leftover polish on my toenails, trying to picture what Mom was doing on her side of the phone. I could hear a sink running on and off in the background, people talking, a dog barking. She was telling me about the kiln they’d built on the farm, and how she wanted to expand it into a whole ceramics studio. “Besides the money we could make, it’s such a physical, creative exercise, you know? So primal.”
“When are you coming home?” I asked.
Mom stopped short at my blunt interruption, and I held my breath. Questions like this always upset Mom, and I didn’t want her to start crying—nothing feels worse than making Mom cry. But I couldn’t stop myself from asking.
She sighed. “I miss you, too,” she said sadly. “This is also hard for me, you know?”
That wasn’t exactly an answer to my question. “So come home.”
This time, her sigh sounded a little impatient. “It’s not that simple, BunBun. I mean, the timing … It’s been very busy here, all the animals decided to give birth at the same time, and I’ve been up to my ears in baby chicks. They’re so cute, you would love them—”
I cut her off. “But we really miss you. All of us do.”
There was a long pause. I held my breath. I’d messed up, I’d upset Mom—I was pushing her too hard, and she hated being pushed. But her voice was gentle when she finally spoke. “Honey, you know I miss you girls so much. I wish this was easier for everyone. But the longer I’ve been here, the more I realize that your father and I … Oh, never mind. I shouldn’t be talking to you about this stuff.”
“Dad can change,” I said.
Mom scoffed, “He’s not changing. He wants me to change. And I tried for years, BunBun, but I was getting to the point where I just didn’t recognize myself anymore…”
I knew the rest of this speech. She’d been lost, and she needed to find herself. She couldn’t be a good mother until she became a full person. She would only be at the farm a little bit longer. She would come visit soon, she just had to figure out the timing.
“BunBun. Please. Please understand how much I miss you, and how much I want to work things out. I just need a little bit longer here. I promise I’ll come see you as soon as I can. Maybe in a few weeks, when the timing is better…”
I am so sick of the stupid timing.
Since that last phone call, I’ve been racking my brain for a plan to get Mom home for good. Like, what if there was an emergency? What if I pretended to get really sick? No, Dad would just take me to the doctor, and they’d figure out that I was faking it. What if Agnes blew up the house? No, then there’d be no home for Mom to come back to. What if …
I’m glad I’m not one of my clients, because I got nothing. No scheme, no story, no luck. It worries me. As much as I don’t want to admit it, I know from watching other people’s mistakes that some things can’t be fixed.
What if our family is one?
3
Monday Afternoon
Fixers don’t have a lot of friends.
I wish I’d known that was part of the deal. The whole reason I got into the fixing game was to make friends. I never really fit in at my old school—I wore the wrong brands and liked the wrong things, so I mainly hung out with the other nobodies. I was hoping that would change when we moved to be closer to Dad’s work and I was enrolled here at Elmhaven, but I transferred in the middle of sixth grade and everybody was all paired up already. Nobody needed a spare friend, especially not a weird new girl with a stupid name. “Try getting involved with an activity,” Dad suggested, seemingly forgetting that I have no special talents or hobbies and I’m no good at sports. So I thought maybe I could help people with their problems, and that would make them like me.
Well, people have been helped. People still don’t like me. These are facts.
I mean, nobody hates me. I don’t get picked on, like some kids, and I’m grateful for that. Nobody even teases me. Maybe they’re afraid of what I might say in return. I’ve never broken my “I know nothing, I remember nothing, and I delete everything” policy, but they don’t know that. Why would they risk me opening my mouth?
At this point, I’d almost rather be teased than ignored. Nobody says mean things to me, but nobody says anything nice to me, either. I don’t get invited to sit with people at lunch. People don’t say hi in the halls. I walk out of school at the end of the day with everybody else, but I still feel totally alone.
I scan the various clusters of kids standing together outside. There’s Olivia Kurtzweil, who lost her retainer last week and came to me for help. “I already lost two this year,” she pleaded. “My parents are going to take my phone if I lose another one.” I didn’t find it, but I did tell her how to replace it: “Grab someone’s old retainer from the Lost and Found, stomp on it, then tell your parents it fell on the ground and got crushed by someone when you took it out of your mouth at lunch. A broken retainer is better than no retainer. You’ll still need a new one, but this way it’s not your fault.”
Olivia sees me looking in her direction, gives me the shortest of smiles, and turns away.
Over by the benches there’s Damien Ng. On Valentine’s Day, Damien asked me to tell someone he liked them—my favorite kind of job. Unfortunately, that someone didn’t like Damien in return, and I had to go back and break the bad news to him—my least favorite kind of job. So Damien got mad at me, like somehow it was my fault, and now he ignores me entirely.
Bethany Bond stands alone on the sidewalk. Bethany came to me last month with a problem: She left her phone unlocked around the wrong people, who forwarded certain messages to other people, who definitely should not have seen them. As a result, Bethany lost two friends, a crush, and her trust in humankind. I tried to be nice about it wh
en she told me the problem and asked for my help, but part of me was like, What do you want me to do for you here? Hypnotize everyone into amnesia? I told her I was sorry, but I didn’t see a way to make the situation better. And Bethany told me she wasn’t sorry, but I was a terrible, selfish person for not doing anything to help her.
Sometimes I wish I’d stuck to fixing things at home—covering for Mabey when she went through her vaping phase, convincing Dad that Agnes wasn’t using the barbecue lighter as a blowtorch. I thought that sharing my gift at school would make me popular, but it had the opposite effect. And what am I going to do about it now? Stop helping people who need it? It’s the only thing I’m really good at.
Madison Graham gives me a nervous look as I pass her standing with her friends Violet and Vanessa. At least I understand why Madison doesn’t say hi to me—our business is ongoing and confidential. Last week, she asked me to help prove to her friends that she really does have a boyfriend in Canada—the fake social media accounts she made aren’t enough anymore. She needs texts, and she needs to get them when she’s with her friends. So my number is now in her phone as “James,” with a picture of a handsome boy with a tight fade, and this morning I texted her a good-morning medley of kissy-kissy emojis.
“Hey, Glad.”
“Bagawk.” I’m startled into making a noise like a defective emu. While I was busy moping about how nobody says hi to me, Hot Guy Taye snuck up behind me and whispered my name. Which is not okay. Like, I understand you want to be hush-hush about talking to me, but I can’t help you if I’m dead from shock.
“Did you … deliver the package?” he whispers.
“Done,” I report. Easy as one, two, three:
1. I put the fancy box of chocolates in a plain paper bag for ease of transfer. That box was too noticeable to carry undisguised.
2. I waited until just before seventh period, when the Target was socializing over at someone else’s desk, leaving their backpack open and unattended on their seat.
3. I walked by their desk and discreetly dumped the box from its paper bag directly into the backpack.
Taye anxiously looks over at the Target, standing a few yards away with their mutual friends. “And nobody saw you?”
Okay, there’s a very small chance that Taye’s friend Jackson saw me make the transfer out of the corner of his eye, but I’m not sure. Jackson didn’t look right at me, and he didn’t say anything about it to me, so I figure we’re safe. “No one,” I assure Taye.
He keeps his eyes on his group of friends and frowns. “I was kind of hoping for a response.”
I shrug. That’s not my department. “You sent them anonymously.”
“Could you maybe find out—” he starts, when Liz Kotlinski shouts to him from their cluster.
“Taye!”
Liz waves, and Taye waves back. “Gotta go,” he mumbles, then jogs away to join his friends and probably scramble to explain why he was talking to me. Because everybody knows, the only reason to talk to Glad the Fixer is when you need something fixed.
I head toward my bus. Taye is now with his group, standing next to the Target. He doesn’t acknowledge me as I pass.
As usual, I’m one of the first people on the bus. I take a seat near the front. Through the window, I see everyone else hanging out with their friends, laughing and yelling, totally carefree. Even Perfect Sophie Nelson is giggling with her dance squad girls, no trace of the trouble she’s in on her face.
Bye, Olivia. Bye, Damien. Bye, Bethany. Bye, Madison. Bye, Sophie.
All in a day’s work.
4
Tuesday Morning
I am silently studying Dad at the breakfast table.
Dad is now the focus of my astounding fixing powers. I’m going to get him to change his ways so that Mom will want to come home. Of course, he doesn’t know about my plan—he doesn’t even know my powers exist. For someone who went to school for so many years, Dad doesn’t know about a lot of things.
Correction: Dad knows about a lot of things, but he doesn’t know very much about people. Look at him now, reading his tablet and slurping his coffee, oblivious to his daughters, who wince with every slurp. Mom hated his slurping, and Mabey and I learned to hate it, too, but Dad says that slurping helps cool the coffee on the way to his mouth so it doesn’t burn his tongue. Everything Dad does is great with Agnes, so she doesn’t mind.
We’ll have to fix the slurping.
“Mmm, Agnes,” Dad says absentmindedly. “Baxter is picking you up after chess today.”
“Okay,” she says. “Can he take me to the hardware store on the way home?”
See, now, this is exactly the type of thing Dad needs to notice. Certainly he’s aware that Agnes + hardware store = mayhem in the basement. But Dad just slurps his coffee, eyes on his tablet, and says, “Sure.”
Baxter, BTW, is Agnes’s babysitter. Dad pays him to pick up Agnes from school most days, and even though Mabey is there to “watch” us in the afternoons, Baxter often sticks around until dinner, doing college coursework at the kitchen table or playing a game with Agnes. Sometimes he even stays to eat with us. Baxter is a giant nerd (literally giant—he’s nearly seven feet tall, and he has to get his enormous shoes from a specialty store that caters to basketball players and clowns), but I kind of don’t mind having him around after school, especially when Mabey brings her high school friends home.
Mabey rolls her eyes. “Can you tell Baxter he doesn’t need to, like, hang around when Agnes gets home? He drops off Agnes, and then he stays all day. People are like, ‘Oh, who’s that, your nanny?’ I’m almost seventeen, I could be a camp counselor this summer! I don’t need a sitter. It’s embarrassing.”
Dad looks at Mabey over the top of his tablet. He does this thing where he just looks at you without speaking, tilting his head a little, like he’s honestly curious about exactly what kind of life-form you are. Then he waits for you to get so nervous that you blurt out something incriminating. I call it his Lawyer Look, and I hate being on the other end of it.
Mabey rolls her eyes again. “What are you looking at?” she asks rudely, but Dad doesn’t answer. He just keeps looking at her with mild interest.
“People,” he says finally. “People ask you about Baxter.”
She and I both realize her mistake at the same time.
“Who are these people?” he asks calmly. “And what are they doing in my house?”
Mabey’s face turns red. “It’s my house, too!” she yells. She flings one arm in my direction. “It’s Glad’s and Agnes’s house, too! You’re not the only one who lives here! God!”
Dad’s famous smile appears, the tiny one that drove Mom crazy. “Pretty sure my name is on the deed here. Pretty sure I’ve been paying the mortgage and taxes and upkeep for the past two years.”
We’ll have to fix this tone of voice. And the tiny smile.
“So what? Just because we don’t pay rent, we don’t get any rights?”
The infuriating smile gets bigger and Dad’s eyebrows raise. “I will answer your question after you answer mine.”
“People! Just, like … classmates!” She chugs the rest of her juice and gets up to slam her dishes into the dishwasher. “You should be happy at least one of your daughters has friends.”
Mabey storms out of the kitchen into the hall. We hear her quickly gathering her things, then the front door bangs shut behind her.
“I have friends,” says Agnes, offended.
“Me too,” I add quickly.
Kind of.
Agnes goes upstairs, and I head into the hall to get my stuff together for the day. When I go back into the kitchen to say bye, Dad isn’t smiling anymore. He’s not looking at his tablet. He’s staring at a spot on the wall. He doesn’t look happy.
I bet he’s thinking about Mom. I bet he wishes Mom was here to talk to Mabey, and to pick up Agnes from school, and to pack lunches for us so we don’t have to make our own, which is especially hard when you don’
t know what’s going to be in the fridge on any given day, because nobody actually grocery shops anymore, and you are so dead freakin’ tired of takeout and pizza and Chinese food every night, and you’re lucky that Mabey occasionally makes a list of things for Dad to get, because he’s still not used to grocery shopping, and otherwise you would have no toilet paper.
Or maybe that’s just me.
No, I know Dad misses Mom. I know he still loves her. He doesn’t ever talk about it, but I remember how it was between them, long ago, when I was a little kid. I remember how they danced with me and Mabey in the living room to the Wiggles; how he would say smooch right before he kissed her, and she would say smooch right after. They used to pat each other on the butt all the time. It was beyond disgusting.
Dad wants Mom home as much as the rest of us, I know it. He’s just too stubborn to do anything about it. Which means I’m going to have to do some major scheming if I want to make this family work again. But at least I know where to begin—I’ll figure out the rest as I go along.
Step one: Fix Dad.
5
Tuesday Lunch
Today’s to-do list is pretty long:
• Madison Graham needs me to send some more texts from James the Fake Canadian Boyfriend.
• Rebecca Lewis needs me to spread a new nickname for her, so people won’t keep calling her Becky. She wants people to call her Rebba. I’m not sure that’s better.
• Taye needs me to slip an anonymous note into the Target’s bag. I tried to tell Taye that he’s not going to get the response he wants if the Target doesn’t know who to respond to. But NMB = NMP (not my business = not my problem).
• Sam Boyd needs me to keep Evelyn Ferszt from smacking the teeth out of his head after she got busted cheating off his math test. “I don’t know how this is my fault,” he complained to me nervously. “But you gotta help me fix this. I’m too young for dentures.”
Let Me Fix That for You Page 2