Let Me Fix That for You

by Janice Erlbaum

  “I got nervous that people were watching. The second I said it, I wanted to take it back. I’m really sorry, Glad.”

  Whatever. I get that he’s sorry, and I’m happy he said so. But it hurt me. Like, a lot. Even now, a few days later, I don’t know if I’m ready to say That’s okay. Instead I go with “Thanks.”

  Taye stays next to me down the stairs, until I stop on the first floor, and he stops, too. He puts one hand around the back of his neck like he’s trying to cover a sunburn. Actually, he does look a little red. “So … listen,” he says.

  I’m listening, and what I hear is a request coming. I shake my head no and cut him off. “I’m not going to carry another package.”

  He looks dejected, but he nods. He must have expected my response. “Thanks anyway,” he says. “Sorry again.”

  One nice thing: Since I no longer care about pleasing my clients, I can say whatever I want. “Taye, anonymous gifts are getting you nowhere. Just deliver the message yourself!” I tell him. “It’s the only way you’re going to get a response.”

  “But…” I watch him struggle with this idea, weighing the risk against the reward. What if Taye bares his heart to the Target and gets humiliated? But then again, the Target might be super-happy and excited to be liked by Taye. Maybe they could be a thing.

  “Okay,” Taye decides. He takes a huge breath in and out for courage. “You’re right. I’m going to tell him tonight. You really are the best, Glad.”

  Okay. One day I might forgive him after all.

  I’m still waiting for Sophie, who’s probably (a) puking in the bathroom or (b) running away from the building right now. Everyone else has gone in to lunch when the door to Schellestede’s office creeeeeeaks open, and Jasmine and her mom emerge. Jasmine’s mom, a stout woman in makeup and workout clothes, looks mighty pissed, holding Jasmine by the upper arm like she’s a seven-year-old about to get a spanking. But Jasmine appears perfectly content, with a dreamy expression on her placid face.

  “Jasmine!” I’m so relieved to see her, I practically weep. I rush over and embrace her, breaking her mom’s grasp. “Where’ve you been?” I whisper. “I was worried.”

  “I said you didn’t help me,” she whispers back. “I wouldn’t snitch on you.”

  “I know. I was worried about you.”

  “We’re leaving right now,” Jasmine’s mom growls, retaking her daughter’s arm to haul her out of school, perhaps even out of existence. I manage to get in a few last words before she’s dragged away.

  “What happened? Are you okay?”

  Jasmine flashes a huge smile over her shoulder at me. “I’m great!” she calls. “I have a boyfriend!”

  “NO, YOU DO NOT!” Her mom’s voice echoes in the hall as they disappear.

  When I turn around, Sophie’s right next to me, her confession folded in her hand. She looks shaky and pale, but there’re no chunks on her shoes or anything, so I guess she kept breakfast down. “Okay,” she says, determined. “Here goes.”

  Sophie keeps her head high as we walk over to the A+ table, where Rich Savoy is getting ready to start the meeting. “Great, here’s Sophie. Is everyone else here? Where’s Carolina?” He looks surprised at seeing me. “Oh, hey, Glad. Are you … rejoining us?”

  Sophie makes my answer unnecessary. “Rich? Before we start, I have to say something.”

  Everybody at the table turns their attention to Sophie. Her hands tremble as she unfolds the note. I feel like fainting.

  “‘I made a very bad mistake,’” Sophie begins, her voice shaking. “‘And I regret it. I have no excuses…’”

  “Yeah, you made a mistake.” From out of nowhere, Carolina swoops over to the table and hands Sophie a fat envelope. “You dropped this in the hall, dummy.”

  Sophie blinks a few times, looking at the envelope in her hands like she’s never seen such a thing before. What is this rectangular pocket made of paper? And what’s inside—grayish-green papers with numbers on them? Is it … money? Could it be … $450?

  CLUNK.

  Jaw, meet floor.

  Sophie hands the envelope to Rich, obviously dazed. I can barely believe it myself. Carolina knew about the missing money? How? Since when? And how was she able to raise that kind of cash so quickly?

  Carolina smiles. “You’re lucky I was behind you.”

  I don’t like to give her any credit, but yeah. Sophie is very lucky to have Carolina behind her. I still have many, many bad things to say about Carolina Figgis, but I’ll never say she’s a fake friend to Sophie.

  “That’s great, Carolina,” Rich Savoy says, with just a hint of suspicion. “But, Sophie, what were you going to say?”

  Sophie has not yet recovered from her shock. She looks at me, mouth hanging open. The note I wrote is still in her hand, damp with sweat and bleeding ink on her palms. I can practically hear her thinking, What do I do now?

  I shrug and give her a sad smile. I can’t help her anymore. She’s got to help herself.

  Sophie nods, returns the sad smile, and begins to read again. “‘I made a very bad mistake and I regret it. I have no excuses. I made the wrong choice, I lied about it, and I have to tell the truth now.’”

  I see facial expressions change as Sophie makes her confession. “‘For the past year, I’ve had a problem I’ve tried to hide…’”

  Carolina looks devastated, Rich looks concerned, Hannah looks positively overjoyed. There’s going to be an open seat on the student council and an open seat at the head of their lunch table, and Hannah has her eye on both.

  Carolina stands next to Sophie, taking her hand and squeezing it. Sophie squeezes back. They’re both crying, but she keeps reading. “‘I … I take things that aren’t mine…’”

  I don’t need to hear the rest of it, because I wrote it. And I can already see Rich’s stern expression softening in sympathy—I know the council will deal with her fairly. They have the money; there’s no need to press any charges. This will be the end of Sophie’s student council career, but it won’t be the end of her life.

  I slip away from the table to go join Izzy and Harry at ours, grinning as I approach. And I sit down right where I belong.

  “Hey, jackweeds.”

  32

  Friday After School

  Detention wasn’t so bad.

  All you have to do is sit there for forty-five minutes. I’m very good at sitting. It was way worse for Izzy, because she was missing softball practice—she kept looking longingly out the window in the direction of the ball field. After we were dismissed, we walked over to the field together, she caught the last fifteen minutes of practice with the team, and then we all got on the late bus, which serves both the kids with extracurricular activities and the delinquents with detention like me.

  Nobody’s there when I get home. That’s weird. Mabey should have picked up Agnes and brought her home by now, but there’s no stuff in the hallway, no voices shouting hi. I yell for Mabey and get no answer; I go up to the attic, but it’s empty.

  On my way downstairs to the lab, I call Agnes’s flip phone, the relic Dad makes her carry for emergencies. Her phone, sitting on her lab table, buzzes mockingly at me.

  Okay! No problem. I’m sure Mabey picked up Agnes, and they decided to stop off on the walk home and get some food or something. Nothing to worry about. They’ll be here any minute. They’re simply enjoying a delicious order of French-fried potatoes at a fast food restaurant, and that’s taken them … I check the time … an hour and a half.

  I think I’ll text Mabey.

  Where r u and Agnes? Nobody’s home.

  I look around the lab while I wait for a reply, as though Agnes is hiding somewhere, or I might find clues to her whereabouts. My phone rings—it’s Mabey.

  “I FORGOT!” she yells. “I forgot I had to pick up Agnes today, oh my God! She’s not there? What am I going to do?”

  Instantly, I panic. What is Mabey going to do? What am I going to do? Most important, what is Agnes going to do? Her
school got out an hour and a half ago—has she been waiting there in front the whole time? Maybe she called Dad to pick her up … No, she doesn’t have her phone. But maybe a teacher saw her waiting outside and called Dad? That’s probably what happened. Agnes is probably somewhere safe with Dad right now.

  Unless she decided to walk home alone. In which case, she should have been here forty-five minutes ago.

  Mabey’s still shrieking in my ear. “You have to cover for me. Say I got sick at school, and … and … I don’t know! Think of something!”

  I’m thinking of many things. Calling the school. Calling Dad. Jumping on my bike and searching for Agnes along the route she’d take if she were walking home. My brain has gone into frantic Fixing Mode, but coming up with an excuse for Mabey is not on its to-do list.

  “I’m coming home right now,” she says. “We’ll find Agnes. Don’t tell Dad!”

  She hangs up. I take a minute to calm down and clear my head. I don’t want to jump to any conclusions—just because Agnes isn’t here doesn’t mean she’s in trouble. She might still be waiting at school.

  I look up the school’s number and call, my voice shaking along with my hands. I’m surprised the man I’m talking to can understand me. “Um, I’m Gladys Burke … calling because she, um, my sister … Agnes … is she there?”

  She is not. According to the nice man, she left at the end of the day with everyone else. I stutter a thank-you and hang up.

  So Agnes is not at school. Beloved Agnes the Genius, the world’s greatest student, everybody’s favorite daughter, is not at school. Okay. My nervous system is hopping all over the place, yelling, AGNES IS MISSING! DO SOMETHING! But my slightly less-nervous system is telling me to calm down.

  I don’t want to be like Dad. I don’t want to freak out and assume the worst when one little thing is awry. I’m sure Agnes is fine. Here’s what probably happened: When Mabey didn’t show up, Agnes asked someone to use their phone and called Dad, then he came and got her, and she’s at his office right now, playing Sudoku. I’ll just text Dad to confirm.

  Is Agnes with you?

  No reply.

  Right, then. I’ll assume they’re at the office. But just in case, I think I’ll go get my bike. Agnes is fine, I know it, but I might as well take a long, healthy ride on this sunny afternoon. And I might as well take it in the direction of Agnes’s school.

  I’m in the garage grabbing my bike and helmet when my phone rings. Dad.

  “No, Agnes is not with me,” he fumes. “I just got out of a meeting, and I’m on my way to meet Gloria Nelson. Agnes is supposed to be home with Mabey. They’re not there?”

  How do I answer this without getting Mabey in trouble? “Not yet,” I say brightly. “But I’m sure they’re on the way.”

  “Well, then call Agnes,” he commands, like I didn’t do that right away. “And text Mabes and find out where they are. Let me know as soon as you do.” He ends the call.

  Mabey comes bursting in through the front door, out of breath, and drops her bag where she stands. “Is she here? Is she here?” I shake my head, and she wails, “Oh my God! What am I gonna do?”

  Mabey starts fanning herself with both hands like she’s going to pass out. “Okay,” she says, thinking out loud. “Um, um, um … okay. I was, like, five minutes late picking up Agnes, so she decided to walk home, so she wasn’t at school when I got there. And … I didn’t call Dad right away because … I figured she just left and I’d catch up to her…” Her voice trails off and she looks at me desperately. “You have to help me!”

  No, actually, I don’t. I don’t have to help anybody. What a revelation! “Why? This is your fault!”

  “It was a mistake!” she wailed. “Mistakes happen!”

  Yeah, that’s what Mom used to say when she blew things off. That’s what Sophie said when she was still lying to herself. Mistakes happen. Except … they don’t. The dance money didn’t steal and spend itself. Lies don’t tell themselves. Mistakes don’t happen unless we make them happen. And they don’t stop until we admit: I made this mistake.

  “I’m calling Dad,” I decide.

  Mabey bursts into tears. “You can’t! He’ll kill me!”

  True. Also, beside the point right now. “I don’t care! Agnes is missing!”

  “She’s not missing!” Mabey screeches. Her self-fanning has devolved into random flailing. “We just don’t know where she is!”

  I hope she smacks herself in the head, so I don’t have to do it for her. “That’s what ‘missing’ means!”

  I press Dad’s number on my phone. Mabey turns from me and scurries upstairs to her room, letting the hatch bang shut behind her.

  Dad picks up right away, like he’s been waiting for my call. “Are they back yet?”

  “No,” I say, as calmly as I can. “Mabey’s here, but Agnes isn’t.”

  “What?” His tone goes from slightly irked to massively annoyed. “Where’s Agnes?”

  “We…” My words get stuck in my throat. I’ve broken bad news many times before, but this is different. “We don’t know.”

  “What? What are you talking about?”

  “Mabey forgot to pick her up, and Agnes left her phone at home. I called the school and they said she left a while ago.”

  I listen to Dad’s loud, angry breathing as he thinks for a second. “I’m getting in the car, and I’m going to drive around until I find her. You and Mabey stay right there—don’t go anywhere. And call me right away if she comes in.”

  He hangs up. I don’t know what to do with myself. I still want to bike around to look for Agnes, but Dad said stay here, and today is not a good day to disobey him. What else can I do? How else can I help? I can’t just stand here in the kitchen, powerless to make the situation better.

  I think I’ll go stand in the attic, powerless to make the situation better.

  * * *

  I climb up to Mabey’s room and push my way in. She’s on her bed with her face mooshed into a pillow. Her body is still hitching with little sobs.

  “Dad’s going to look for her in the car,” I report.

  Mabey keeps her face buried and says nothing, aside from a few hitches. Is she angry at me? Because that would be ridiculous. I’m not the one who lost Agnes. I’m the one trying to fix things. “I had to call him. You know that, right?”

  She stays facedown and silent. I shove her shoulder to make her move. “Come on. We should go downstairs and wait.”

  Still nothing. I shove her a few more times, annoyed. “Come on,” I prod. “Don’t make me do this alone.”

  Mabey finally lifts her face from the pillow. She doesn’t look mad at me. She looks anguished and racked with guilt. “If anything happens to Agnes…,” she says, breaking down and sobbing again. “It’s all my fault.”

  Great. Now I feel bad for Mabey.

  I try to reassure her. “Nothing’s going to happen, and it’s not all your fault. Agnes is okay. Dad will drive around and find her, or she’ll come walking in any minute. She’s smart—she’s not going to, like, get in a car with a stranger. It’s just taking her a while to get home.”

  Mabey nods gratefully. She sits up into a cross-legged position and tries to control her runny snot situation with her sleeve. “I’m so stupid,” she says, hanging her head. “I can’t believe how stupid I am.”

  Her left forearm is quickly soaked, so she switches to her right one, holding her forearm under her nose, which continues to drip. It would probably work better if she stopped crying. “You didn’t do it on purpose,” I say.

  “Not that.” Mabey looks up at me tentatively. “I talked to Mom last night. She’s not coming.”

  Oh.

  Of course.

  I feel like I’ve been punched in the stomach. I’m so upset, it’s hard to breathe. I’m so disappointed, and so mad at her, and SO mad at myself. What was I thinking? How stupid am I? How gullible can a person be? Of course Mom’s not coming. Of course. Why would she act differently than she�
�s acted for most of my life? This is what Mom does: Mom breaks promises. Mom makes excuses. Mom doesn’t show up.

  I didn’t think this afternoon could get any worse, so, Thanks, Mom, for the opposite of help. My face is hot, I still haven’t caught my breath, and I want to destroy something—smash it on the floor, break it, and jump up and down on the pieces until they’re dust. All the plans I made for her visit, all the work I did, all the hopes I had, have all gone down the drain.

  Mabey bursts into a fresh round of tears and brings her fist down on the mattress next to her. “Why did she say she was going to visit? Why does she always do this?”

  I know what I should say here: She didn’t do it on purpose. Or You know she misses us. I should fix this situation—make excuses for Mom, tell Mabey what she wants to hear, get her to calm down so we can focus on Agnes.

  But all I can think about is that day, years ago, when Mom did this exact same thing: forgot where she was supposed to be and left Agnes waiting after school. I’m remembering how Mom got me to lie for her, to tell Agnes it was all a dream and make her doubt reality. I can’t believe I did that to my sister. I can’t believe Mom did that to her daughter.

  I swear to God, the minute Agnes walks safely through the door, I’m telling her the truth about that day.

  Mabey keeps crying, but my eyes have dried. “I don’t know why Mom does anything,” I say.

  And I’m done trying to figure it out. I’m done trying to make Mom come home. I’m done watching what I say to her, and I no longer care about pushing too hard or upsetting her. I’m not making any more lists of things she likes. I’m not going to call the farm over and over and listen to that busy signal. I’m done with “the timing.” And I am extra-finally-finished trying to change Dad, or myself, or my sisters, so Mom will love us more.

  I no longer care about Mom coming home. All I care about is Agnes coming home. “I’m going downstairs in case Agnes comes in,” I say, going for the hatch.

  Mabey wipes her eyes and clears her throat. “I’ll be right there.”

  I’m coming down the stairs when Dad’s car screeches into the driveway. He bursts through the door, alone, and sees me there in the hall. “She’s still not here?”