Get Real (14 page)

I check out the tangled hair again. “Where
did
you spend last night?”

Jil stretches out her legs and stares at her feet for a long time. Picking the best one to put forward? I doubt it. Finally, she says, “Target.”

“Target!” I shriek.

“Yeah. It's near Mom's house. They stay open twenty-four hours.”

“You cruised the deodorant and pots-and-pans aisles of Target all night, and nobody noticed you were just a tiny bit out of place?”

“Well, yeah, they did notice. So, around one
A.M.
, when one of the clerks started watching me funny, I left, then sneaked back into the bathroom and didn't come out.”

I stare at Jil. She's done some weird stuff, but this beats them all. “You slept on a toilet?”

“No. I
sat
on a toilet. Sleep wasn't an option.” She leans her body into mine, cozy, like we're both in on the same joke. “That's why I was late. I've been on campus for hours. Practically since dawn. Waiting on a sofa in one of the lounges, but I sort of fell asleep.”

“Jil.” I flop my arm over her shoulder. “Let's go home.”

She slides two feet away and, through clenched teeth, says, “No way.”

The next thing I know, I'm letting her push me up in front of a reservation clerk at the Sheraton. I stand up as straight as I can and chirp, “Hi! I'm Destiny Carter, and I'd like to check into my room, please.”

A young woman with sophisticated pulled-back hair looks up at me and smiles. “Do you have a reservation?” she asks pleasantly.

“Yes, ma'am. I do. It's under my name, Destiny Carter.”

Jil elbows me in the ribs.

I know.
I elbow her back. I shouldn't have said “ma'am.”

The clerk types something into her computer. Then, with her face still directed at the keyboard, she says, “May I see some identification, please.”

I shoot Jil a look that says
See? I told you so,
and turn to walk away. She grabs my arm and holds me in place. “She lost her purse,” Jil explains. “Can you believe it? Do you know how much trouble it is to get all your credit cards replaced, your license reissued?”

The clerk looks up, and says, sweetly, professionally, “I'm sorry, ladies, but we can't rent rooms to minors.”

“She's not—”

I jerk Jil away from the counter and out of the building before she can say another word.

“We can try someplace else,” she calls after me as I stomp down the street. “Hey! Wait up. I know! We can tell the clerk at the next place that there's a camera crew coming from CBS to film a reality show. You know, a show all about kids and what kinds of goofy stuff they'd do if they could stay in a hotel without their parents.”

I whirl around to tell her that she is certifiably insane, only to see that she is covering her mouth to keep from bursting out laughing.

I start giggling. We lean on each other and laugh until I think I may wet my pants.

“Let's get a tantoo,” says Jil when we finally calm down.

“I don't want a tattoo.”

“Not a
tattoo.
A
tantoo.
You go to a tanning salon, to get a suntan, but you pick out a sticker that will cover part of your skin so you're left with a white patch that's shaped like a skull or a butterfly or something.”

How does she know this stuff?

The next thing I know, I've ridden in a broken-down taxicab to a strip mall and I'm stretched out under a row of tanning lights. The tanning contraption is a long, clear plastic dome with a sort of cotlike bed under it, covered with a clean white sheet. I feel like the dead Snow White, except that I'm wearing tiny little plastic goggles to protect my eyes, and I'm naked. On my left butt cheek is a sticker shaped like a daisy.

Jil's in the next booth, so we talk through the walls.

“Whoa! This is so weird.”

“Tingly.”

“What if the timer doesn't shut this thing off?”

“We'll charbroil.”

“Jil?”

“Yeah?”

“Don't you feel like the seven dwarves should be lined up around this thing?”

A hysterical whoop of laughter slices through our shared wall.

“I see Prince Charming,” cries Jil.

“I see dead people,” I answer. This is so much fun.

We go to Southern Lights for lunch—Jil's four-star recommendation. It's full of adults, talking loud and eating gourmet salads and sandwiches. I watch two stylish women at the next table, animating their conversation with exaggerated hand movements, acting like best friends, laughing.

That's me and Jil, I think, when we're fifty. The thought gives me a warm, happy feeling. Halfway through lunch, we sneak into the bathroom to look at our tantoos. The five-pointed star on Jil's left breast is showing up better than my butt-flower.

When the bill comes, I pull out the money that Mom gave me, but Jil won't let me pay. “It's the least I can do,” says Jil.

“Well, okay … Thanks.”

“Dez?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank
you.
”

“Sure.”

We sit there a minute, both sipping on our iced tea as if we're used to having fancy lunches every Wednesday.

“About tonight,” says Jil, tugging on her left earlobe.

I take another sip of tea. I want to say,
No. Please. Not now. This is too much fun. Let's talk about that later.
With my index finger, I make a path through the cold beads of sweat that have formed on my glass.

“I've got a backup plan,” says Jil.

I groan out loud.

She giggles. “No, really. Listen. The movie complex here is having a celebrate-summer, get-out-of-school special tonight. They're staying open all night and showing old movies. You know, kid-friendly ones—like
Star Wars.
It'll be one giant sleepover. Without the sleep part. If you're over twelve, you can get in without a parent. Dez. We can stay up all night.”

“You're kidding?”

“Nope.”

I'd been all set to tell her she was crazy again, and to talk her into coming home, but today's been so much fun. This freedom thing is cool. Besides, a whole night of movies sounds awesome. And my parents are trolls.

Jil is watching me expectantly.

“My mom's picking me up at four o'clock,” I confess.

“I knew it,” says Jil, slumping back in her chair. Abruptly, she sits up straight again, leans forward, her elbows on the table, her eyes dancing. “Call her,” she says. “Call your mom. Tell her you need to stay a week.”

“A week?” I ask. “The movie special lasts a week?”

“No, but we'll figure something else out tomorrow. Okay? Come on, Dez. When, in your whole life, will you ever be able to do this again?”

She has a point.

“Can I borrow your cell phone?” I ask.

She hands it to me, with my mom's number already punched in. All I have to do is push
Send.

Jil's eyes are doing that amazing thing they do—radiating energy and enthusiasm enough to light a city.

For one brief second, I think, No—I have to keep Denver tomorrow. Then I remember. No, I don't. I'm not babysitting him tomorrow, or ever. Because Mom and Dad lied. They had so much faith in their one-and-only daughter that they never even cancelled day care. I smile back at Jil and push the button.

“Mom. Hi!” I say. “The piano class is awesome. Can I spend the rest of the week with Jil?”

Chapter Twenty

All these lies are making my stomach jerk. The excitement of a night with no parents has flooded my entire body with a million vibrating hummingbird wings. And the caffeine from my fourth glass of iced tea is making my heart
vroom
like somebody revving up a race car.

In a way, it feels fantastic. In another way, I want to throw up. Is this what it feels like to be drunk? I don't know. The only alcohol I ever tried was two forbidden swallows of the Lewises' Christmas eggnog. And that was two years ago.

“Jil,” I say. “I think I've drunk too much tea.”

“Me too,” she answers gleefully. “Let's go shopping.”

We take a cab to the mall.

“This is so cool.” We race from one store to the next. “No curfew. No chores. No Denver to watch.” As much as I hate how my parents dumped all over my Denver commitment, I'm feeling secretly happy to have my summer back. And I'm feeling totally ecstatic to have Jil back.

As far as my piano goes, I might as well have wished for a planet.

We check out boys, try on jewelry, shoes, goofy hats—until our caffeine drops us both like two bowling balls. Jil crashes harder than I do.

“Dez,” she says. “I'm dead.” Her face is the color of a pair of Mom's sweatpants.

We find a seat at a small Formica-topped table in the food court and share an order of fries. She dumps the backpack she's been lugging around all day on the floor beside her chair. I'm guessing it has her things from Jane's house in it. Or at least the stuff she had time to grab before she took off.

The whole area smells like an overdose of world cookery—Mexican tacos, Chinese sweet-and-sour sauce, peppery Italian sausages, barbecue with hushpuppies, spicy egg rolls. All of it sizzling in too much overused peanut oil.

“Multicultural grease,” I mumble, wiping lettuce and mustard off our table with a clean paper napkin. “Why can't people clean up their own mess?”

Jil shrugs and picks up her elbows so I can clean under them. “Tell me what happened,” she says.

“About what?”

“About babysitting Denver.”

I take my grungy napkin to the nearest trash receptacle, then sit back down with Jil and explain how Mom and Dad didn't believe I could do it. And how they never even cancelled day care. “So,” I say, “it doesn't matter when I go home.” I shove three French fries in my mouth, feeling yesterday's anger rush back over me. “I don't even care
if
I go home.”

“Me, either,” says Jil, double dipping her French fry into a tiny paper cup of ketchup.

I sit back in my chair and glare at her.

She pops the red-tipped fry into her mouth. “What?”

Suddenly, I'm so annoyed, but I don't want to spoil our day. How do I tell her that I think she's crazy? That I hate what her birth mom did to her, but what's that got to do with going home to her real mom and dad? The ones who, if you ask me, are the two best parents on earth!

“Jil,” I say. “I know you're hurt. I totally get that, and I don't blame you. But why can't you go back to your real mom?”

Her eyes flash. “Because I hate her. I'll never go back.”

“But why? She didn't do anything.”

“Are you kidding? She accused me of stealing. Of introducing her daughter to a life of crime, of—”

“Jil,” I interrupt. “I meant your
real
mom, not Jane.”

“Jane
is
my real mom.”

“Why does everybody keep saying that?” I hiss through clenched teeth. “
Real
isn't popping you out of the birth canal. It's raising you. Teaching you to tie your shoes. Holding your head when you barf. Knowing your favorite ice cream. Knowing
you.
”

“Dez! Geez! Calm down. Who pushed
your
button?”

“You did!” I exclaim. “And stop sounding like my mom,” I shout.

Jil gapes at me.

I wad up my napkin and scrub fiercely at the permanent ketchup stain on our tabletop, as if removing it can erase how stupid I just sounded.

“You know what I think?” says Jil. She's about to giggle.

I jerk my head up in disbelief. How can she be about to laugh when I just blew up at her?

“I think”—she circles a French fry gracefully in the air—“that we have parent issues.” Jil's too tired for her eyes to radiate their usual megawatt energy, but the tips of them
are
crinkled up slightly, like her mouth. Radiating warmth. Friendship. Humor.

We both burst out laughing.

But just as suddenly, I stop. “Jil. Look. Don't pay any attention to me. I have no clue what's real. Obviously, Jane doesn't know you well enough to know that you would never swipe a necklace.” I glance at her and feel the makings of a joke tugging at the corners of
my
mouth. “A soon-to-be-replaced street sign, maybe. But not a necklace.”

Jil nods in grateful agreement.

“And
my
parents,” I complain, “don't know
me
well enough to know that I'd keep Denver for a whole year if it meant I could get a piano. So,” I say, tossing the mangled napkin onto our take-out tray, “maybe none of them is real.”

Jil props one elbow on the table and rests her head against her upright hand. “I wanted her to be,” she says softly.

There's no hint of a joke anywhere. She just sounds sad.

“I know.” I reach across the table and gently touch her arm.

“I won't go back there. Even if she begs me. But I don't want to go home, either. I'd have to tell Mom and Dad what she did, what Penny did, and then they'd never let me see either one of them again.”

“Uh … Jil. I thought you didn't want to see either one of them again.”

“I don't. But … but … I don't know … she's my mother!” Jil jerks her head up, then drops it back onto her hand. “Isn't she?” she almost whispers.

I want to help her. I want to say the perfect thing. But I don't have a clue what it is. Jil has found the people who look like her. They have her DNA—and her ear-pulling genes. And, in their own way, they love her. I think.

If I found a mom or dad who was that much like me, would I want to give him or her up forever?

“And, Dez. I'm sorry I made you lose your piano money. You can come play mine anytime you want.”