by Beth Turley
“Changes,” I tell Buela, and go upstairs.
Daniella’s door is still closed. I press my ear to the wood, and the seashell DANIELLA swings above my head. She’s listening to a slow song about breakups that we’ve listened to on her pillows a hundred times. I go to my own room and keep the door wide open, remembering how Jac and Ben and Aaron and I listened to “Elmtown” outside on the deck. Even after the rice had burned.
My speaker is in the drawer of my nightstand. I wipe the dust away and sync the speaker to my phone. The breakup song is downloaded there. I press play, leaning myself against the pillows, imagining I’m sitting next to Daniella. I can still hear the song playing through her door, which means she can hear mine too. We’re listening to music together again.
Even if everything else around us changes, this song won’t.
33 Truth or Dare
I’m at our house with Jac and Ben, like on most Saturdays when Jac isn’t at her mom’s. My door is open, and every once in a while the sound of laughter slips in from downstairs, where my parents are playing cards with Uncle Eric, Leslie, and Mr. and Mrs. Chay. An apple-scented candle makes my room smell like autumn. Jac’s sleepover stuff is all over my floor. Ben isn’t allowed to sleep over because Mom says it’s inappropriate, no matter how good a friend he is. I wonder what she’d say if she knew about the closet and the boy in the Rudolph sweater.
“What’s Aaron doing tonight?” Ben asks. His script for Bye Bye Birdie, the spring musical, is in front of him. He found out last week that he was cast as the lead, Conrad Birdie.
“How would I know? I don’t, like, keep track of him.” My voice is high and nervous.
Jac puts down the video game in her hands.
“Prank call him,” she says. Her eyes flash like the apple-scented candle flame behind her. She picks my phone up and puts it on my lap.
I push it off. “No way.”
Jac presses it into my leg again, harder this time.
“I dare you.”
Ben laughs and turns the page of his script.
“I don’t even know how to prank call,” I say. The phone gets sweaty in my hand.
“Improvise. All the great actors do it,” Ben says.
I don’t move. My mind spins with all the stupid things I could end up saying. Jac gets a hold of my index finger and uses it to open up the keyboard.
“You have to dial star-six-seven so that it goes through as an unknown caller,” she says, and then she does. “What’s his number?”
“I don’t memorize phone numbers,” I say.
“You memorize everyone’s phone number.”
Jac’s set of Cassi Facts is too long. I sigh and give her the number I memorized from our Math Olympics roster, while she maneuvers my finger around. The ringing starts. Each ring sounds louder than the last. Jac makes me press the speaker button and then finally lets go.
“Hello?” Aaron answers.
I forget everything—every number I’ve ever memorized, why I’m doing this in the first place.
“Is this Pepper’s Pizza?” I ask.
Ben laughs. Jac puts her hand over his mouth.
“What?” Aaron sounds like he might be laughing too.
I wait for my body to evaporate into a million embarrassed particles.
“Is this Pepper’s Pizza?” I ask again.
Aaron is definitely laughing.
“No. Is this Cassi?”
I hang up and drop the phone. It bounces on the princess blanket. Jac and Ben lie on their backs, hysterical. The apple-scented candle on my nightstand crackles like it finds this funny too.
“I thought you dialed anonymously,” I say.
“I did,” Jac says between breaths. “He must’ve known your voice.”
The thought makes my heart pound like I’m making the prank call all over again.
Daniella’s door opens across the hall. She walks out in her gray Eliza T. Dakota sweatshirt, the one I wore on that Three Kings’ Day when we collected grass. She holds a blue cereal bowl. Jac stops laughing and rolls onto her stomach.
“Dani, come in,” she says.
I expect Daniella to pretend she doesn’t hear. Instead she steps in. “What’s up?” The milk crashes around the periwinkle rim.
“Truth or dare?” Jac asks.
Daniella rolls her eyes. “I don’t know, Jac.”
This was normal once, the four of us knee-to-knee in a circle, telling truths. I want Daniella to climb up into the spot between Jac and me.
I have a wall in my chest and it’s broken, she’d say.
“Please pick one.” Jac’s jaw flexes.
“Fine. Dare.”
I can’t fix it.
“I dare you to explain why you don’t hang out with us anymore.”
The room seems to take a breath and hold it.
“I’m not answering that.” Daniella hardens her grip on the cereal bowl.
Help.
She turns toward the door.
“You have to. It’s a rule.” Jac’s voice sounds like something leaking.
“What you’re doing right now, Jac. And your stunt in the kitchen. And your little comment on New Year’s. That is why I don’t do stuff with you anymore,” she says to the pebble CASSANDRA. She slams my door behind her. It’s somehow worse than when she slams hers.
The apple scent is too sweet, and autumn is long gone. I blow out the candle. Smoke curls away in a thin, wispy line like it’s trying to write a message.
“I didn’t want to make her mad.” Jac pokes at one of the magic mirrors on my blanket.
“We know,” I say.
“And we burned that rice trying to help her.” She punches the mirror this time.
I grab her hand the way she did to me to make the prank call. My head feels heavy with mathematical facts—we might never be the Chordays again.
Ben draws a star next to a line in his script.
“Here, run this scene with me,” he says.
Jac looks up. “Can I do voices?”
“I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.”
34 An Aaron Equation
Snort-laughing at lunch when he mentioned the prank call + spilling juice on myself while flipping my hair + wearing a shirt like Sage’s and looking like a potato sack + a stress zit in the middle of my forehead + more snort-laughing + writing him a note and getting a paper cut so bad that I had to go to the nurse = All the ways I was uncool in front of Aaron this week.
35 Daily Double
Mom and Dad watch Jeopardy! after dinner, while Daniella and I take care of the dishes. I unload the dishwasher; she reloads it. That’s been our arrangement forever. I hear the host list the categories for that round’s questions. “Rhyme Time. You’ve Got Mail. Chemical Properties.” My head snaps up.
“Like your textbook,” I say too loudly. Daniella puts a dirty plate on the bottom rack. Mom made steak for dinner; the plate is stained with blood.
“What?” she asks. I pull out the basket of clean utensils to unload.
“Nothing. Just. ‘Chemical Properties.’ Thought you had a textbook about that. That’s all.” I separate the utensils. Forks, spoons, butter knives, sharper knives.
“Are you going through my stuff or something?”
I put the basket back into the washer for Daniella to fill, and then take out the clean bowls. How do I explain that the title stuck in my head after I saw the textbook on her floor on the first day of school? That I’ve seen it in a pile on her dresser when I sneak into her room to read her diary?
“No way. I just assumed you were taking Chem.”
Daniella pulls a detergent pod out of the bucket under the sink.
“Good. Because that would be pretty messed up.” She pops the pod in place and sets the dishwasher to auto. She leaves the kitchen. The living room stands between her and the stairs.
“Hey, Dan, what’s a kind of mail from medieval times?” Dad asks.
“I don’t know,” Daniella says, and keeps walk
ing, even though I’m sure she knows it’s chain mail. Mom reaches out from the couch and grabs Daniella’s wrist.
“You are a part of this family. Act like it,” Mom snaps.
I freeze. The stack of bowls in my hands trembles. I think about the patient way Mom used to explain Daniella’s growing pains. Her voice doesn’t sound so calm and understanding now. But she can’t give up on Daniella before I’ve found the right way to help her. I need more time.
Daniella pulls her arm, but Mom keeps holding on.
“I just don’t feel like playing, Mom.” Daniella’s voice is heavy. Maybe the weight above her head is crashing down again. Maybe she’ll tell my parents about it.
“I’m only asking that you try a little harder. Can you do that?” Mom lets go of Daniella’s wrist.
“Yes.”
Mom nods, and Daniella flies up the stairs. Dad watches her go, squeezing the remote. I wonder if he wishes he could press the rewind button until we’re back to a night when we all watched Jeopardy! together.
I put the bowls in the cabinet. Maybe Mom and Dad would feel better if they knew I’ve been trying to fix things. They could join my team; we could all work together to bring Daniella back. I step into the living room.
My parents sit close together on the couch. Mom holds her gift from last Mother’s Day—a coffee mug with a printed image of our family portrait. Daniella and I wear matching dresses and our sister smiles. Mom and Dad have their hands on our shoulders. Mrs. Chay took the photo, and then we got the mug made at the mall. Our faces look all grainy, but Mom cried when she opened it anyway.
“You’re blocking the questions,” Mom says.
“I need to talk to you,” I say.
Mom looks at Dad, and then back at me.
“What’s wrong, mi amor?”
My heart speeds up. I can’t let Daniella hear me. I can’t have her think I’m more messed up than she already does.
“Daniella needs our help,” I whisper.
A siren goes off on the TV behind me. The sound for the Daily Double. Dad turns the volume down.
“We’ve talked about this. She’s going through changes.” Mom sets the mug down on the coffee table. The day we took that portrait, Daniella and I fought on the car ride to Mrs. Chay’s studio. I don’t remember what it was about. Maybe that part doesn’t matter. I fumed in my yellow dress and our identical San Juan sandals, and had to act happy anyway.
“It seems like more than that.”
The Jeopardy! contestant wagers all his money on the Daily Double. If he answers the question wrong, he’ll lose everything.
“It’s not. You’ll understand when you get to be her age,” Mom says.
I already understand. I read about it in her diary. I’m too afraid to say it. I’m too afraid of how mad Daniella will be, like that day of the family portrait times a thousand.
Dad grips the remote tightly again.
“I think she has a point, Flora. It’s gone on for quite a while now,” he says.
Mom’s eyes narrow. “I know my daughter. I’ve talked to her. If she needs help, she knows to ask for it. And she’s not asking.” Mom looks at me. “You can be sad that she’s not spending as much time with you. It’s okay. But she’s older. Your lives are different now.”
Mom seems so sure, like that contestant who picked the Daily Double and bet everything.
But I don’t think she has the right answer.
36 The Ice Plex
I haven’t been to the Ice Plex in forever, but everything is exactly the same. The entrance leads into a big sitting area with the skate rental booth and snack bar. A clear divider separates the sitting area from the actual rink, like the glass cafeteria wall at the high school. The whole place smells like wet socks.
Eliza T. Dakota Middle School has taken over. Sixth and seventh and eighth graders are everywhere—in line for fries and out on the ice and on every single bench. I tie up my skates next to Jac and Ben, making sure to get the laces extra tight around my ankles the way I learned in skating lessons. Ben is putting on full padding. He has knee pads, wrist guards, and a helmet.
“Explain yourself,” I say, and point to the chest protector on the seat next to him. I recognize it as Mr. Chay’s. He’s an umpire for the town softball league. I almost expect Ben to pull a face mask out of his bag too, and the little clicker Mr. Chay uses to keep track of the strikes.
“I have a performance coming up. I cannot bruise,” he says. Jac smiles, and I swear the air in the rink gets colder. Ben presses his lips together. “I realize now that I shouldn’t have mentioned that.”
Jac puts a dramatic hand over her heart and bats her eyelashes. It reminds me of how Sage has been acting toward Aaron ever since the day at the adventure course. My stomach rolls. I can see her on another bench with Allie and their friends. She’s wearing a gray vest and a matching knit head wrap. Her tan socks end above her boots. I saw an outfit like that in one of those catalogs that come with the Sunday paper. It looks even better on her than on the model.
I try to convince myself that she won’t steal Aaron away, no matter how trendy she is. He’s my friend. He sat at the hummingbird place mat and ate Buela’s tostones. Those things are important.
“Let’s skate,” Jac says. We waddle out of the sitting room. It’s hard to walk on blades. The ice is already carved up when we get out there, but it’s still smooth enough for us to glide. I feel weightless and free. I stretch my arms out like wings and tilt my head back. I forget to care about who could see me and think I’m not cool.
“I didn’t know you could fly.” Aaron’s voice brings me back down to earth. I start to sweat even though I’m in a room full of ice.
“Yes, well, learning,” I spit out.
“Maybe work on the whole speaking thing first,” Jac suggests. She hovers near Ben, who grabs the edge of the rink with both hands.
I roll my eyes and take a deep breath of cold air. Get it together. Before I can try to speak a full sentence, Sage skates across the rink toward us, scraping her blades on the ice so that they make a little pile of snow. She picks up a handful and tosses it at Aaron. It splatters on the sleeve of his jacket.
“Oops. Sorry.”
Please don’t smile at her.
Aaron grins and starts scrounging up his own stash of snow. Sage skates away. She looks pretty even when she’s squealing.
None of Mr. G’s lessons have taught me how to deal with Aaron chasing after a girl with a perfect outfit on. Maybe he’ll keep skating all the way to another tree town.
I creep on the two of them so long that Ben and Jac leave me behind. I do the only thing I can think of, which is copy Sage, like the Fibonacci sequence in math that repeats itself. I rub the edge of my blade against the ice until there’s a powdery pile at my feet.
“Hey, Aaron.” I skate toward the center of the rink with my glove full of snow.
He looks up. I throw my ice ball. It flies fast and straight. Directly into Aaron’s eye.
“Agghh.” Aaron holds his face. There’s ice in his hair, and his jaw is clenched tight. I see Jac laughing in the background, which is how I know for sure that I’ve done something completely unfunny.
“I’m so sorry,” I say. I move closer, but Aaron is skating toward the exit. Sage looks at me, her cheeks rosy. Her high ponytail doesn’t have bumps the way mine always do. I bet she’s never doubted for a second who she’s supposed to be.
“Wow, Cassi. It was just for fun,” she says. She slips away with Allie.
Jac and Ben join me on the big logo at center ice. Ben looks like a beach ball with all his padding. I appreciate that he let go of the wall for me.
“Why are you going up against Sage the Great all of a sudden?” Jac asks. Hair falls out from her beanie.
“I wasn’t. I was joking around.”
Ben’s mouth forms an O. It makes him look even rounder.
“This is because of what she said about Aaron!”
“What did she say a
bout Aaron?” Jac points the tips of her skates together into the shape of a pizza slice. We learned how to do this in our skating lessons. The instructor said it was how you stop.
“That she was going to get him to ask her out,” Ben explains.
Jac’s mouth drops open. I wonder if the pizza-slice method can be used to stop this conversation.
“You. Like. Aaron.” I can see the jokes forming behind her eyes. How many times will I hear her sing “Cassi and Aaron sitting in a tree”? And it’s not even true.
Is it?
“Go to him. Shakespeare once said ‘love is blind.’ ” Ben points his elbow-padded arm at the sitting area. “And you have literally blinded him.”
Aaron is alone on one of the benches, with a paper towel held to his eye.
“What if he’s mad?” I ask.
Jac and Ben each take one of my shoulders and shove. I slide toward the entrance, feeling numbed by nerves and cold air, and then step off the ice. My blades dig into the rubber mat that’s all over the floor. I wobble, but keep my eyes on Aaron. Five more steps. Three more steps.
“Hi,” I say.
Aaron glances up. His face is half-covered with a paper towel.
“Hey.” He looks back down at his skates.
“Can I sit?”
Please say yes.
“Are you going to attack me again?”
I hold up my hands to show I have no weapons. Aaron nods, and I sink down next to him.
“I’m so sorry, Aaron.”
He pulls the paper towel away. His eye is squinted and red. It fills me with slimy regret. I add hates me to my set of Aaron Facts.
“You’ve been acting strange lately.” His voice is heavy with anger, like the boy in the Rudolph sweater getting mad that I wouldn’t kiss him.
My brain is a calculator with crossed wires. Is that what Aaron wants too? We’re sitting close enough on the bench that I could lean in and give him the quickest kiss—my first kiss. Would that make this better? What if I’m not ready for that? I wish I could be someone who boys ask to dance, someone who’s good at playing Spin the Bottle. But I’m not. I’m the one viewing from the corner. I’m the one on the couch with a napkin full of sugar cookies.