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“You never — ”

“Oh. I know, you’re busy dating and hanging out with stars and preparing to flunk your finals.

Guess they’ll just have to walk the fifty-seven miles from the airport.”

She leaves the room without even closing my door. I nearly throw my alarm clock at her.

Nbook, she never asked me to do this. (At least I don’t think she did.) Besides, why can’t Hector and Cristina rent the car themselves?

And what’s that crack about flunking my finals? I know the material (mostly).

(Well, some, anyway.)

(I can study for the rest.)

(I better.)

I just looked at the math.

Remind me never, ever, ever to open up a math book on a Saturday.

What language is this stuff?

Maggie calls. She apologizes about last night.

She hated the movie too. She was pretending to like it because she figured Tyler did. Turns out he slept through most of it.

I’m barely hearing her. I’m freaking about the finals. Especially math.

Finally I admit this to her.

She ignores me. Says she’s spending the day with Tyler on the set. They’re shooting extra footage for his latest movie — which was supposed to be finished, but they need some match prints (whatever they are). Anyway, they’re going to have lunch at the food trailer.

“I’m going to flunk math,” I persist.

She replies, “We’ll swing by and pick you up.”

“ We’ll?”

“Tyler and me. In the limo. Bring your math. I can help. We’ll have plenty of time. You and I will just be sitting around and eating while they shoot.”

Now we’re talking.

I feel relieved.

And then I think — is this Maggie talking about (a) actually going on a movie set willingly and (b) eating?

I was right, Nbook. She’s turning the corner.

Progress, progress, progress.

I just hope she holds on. …

6:02 P.M.

Honestly, I think he reads my mind.

Just as Maggie’s limo pulls up this afternoon, Brendan calls. When he finds out where I’m going, he practically begs to come along.

I make him promise not to get in the way of my remedial math. He says he’ll help Maggie help me.

So Maggie, Tyler, and I swing by his house to pick him up. Here’s what we see:

His whole family’s lined up outside the house, along with neighbors and their pets. To see the star, of course. Brendan is so embarrassed. He apologizes like crazy.

Tyler’s cool. He just waves back. “You get used to it,” he says.

We have a laugh about last night. Then the boys start yakking away about baseball and cars and stuff. (This is how guys get to know each other, Nbook. It’s not who you are or how you feel,

but how many statistics you know.) Anyway, just as I’m about to fall asleep from boredom, Tyler asks Brendan what he’s doing for the summer.

And Brendan says he’s going to camp.

For seven weeks.

In western Massachusetts.

Yes, you heard me right.

I believe it’s somewhere around here.

Yeah, OK, I knew he was going to camp. I just didn’t know where. I guess we never discussed that.

What kid goes to summer camp clear across the continent?

Someone who used to live back East, that’s who. (Nbook, why do people say “back East” but

“out West”? I find it offensive. I don’t know why, I just do.)

Brendan talks about how his parents used to drive him five hours from New Jersey to camp every summer, and now he can’t imagine not going, because he’s a CIT, yada yada yada. And I have no idea what a CIT is (“Coastally Insane Traveler”?), plus he doesn’t seem the least bit … I don’t know … thoughtful or doubtful or

SAD.

GUILTY.

BROKEN UP.

DEVASTATED NOT TO SEE ME FOR ALMOST TWO WHOLE MONTHS WHILE I SIT

AROUND HERE WITH NOTHING TO DO.

There.

I got it out of my system.

It’s really not that big a deal.

It’s a free country. He can do whatever he wants.

Sunday night

Just a little wired

Today, around noon, Maggie calls me and asks if I’m OK. She says I looked “upset” yesterday.

(Am I the worst actor, Nbook? Am I so obvious?)

“I’m not upset,” I lie.

“Don’t worry, maybe you can visit him.”

“In western Massachusetts? Do planes actually fly that far?”

She laughs and tells me she’ll be right over. She says I need company.

Actually, I don’t. I feel like being alone. (Obviously I don’t tell her that.)

There’s a pause. I can hear yelling in the background.

Maggie’s voice drops to a whisper. “Um, I’ll … be right over,” she says again.

“Why? What hap — ?”

Click.

About half an hour later, Maggie’s limo is pulling up. When she steps out, she’s carrying a duffel bag, and she’s probably in tears. “What happened?” I ask.

“I. Can’t. Live. With. Them.”

I calm her down and invite her inside. As we sit on the living room sofa, she tells me the news: Her mom’s drinking has gotten out of control. Mr. Blume wants her to go to the Betty Ford Clinic — but when he suggested it, she went ballistic.

Maggie asks if she can stay the night.

Of course I say yes.

All my little problems fly away, Nbook. I feel so bad for her.

I run out back. Mami and Papi are reading on the deck. When I tell them what happened, they agree to let Maggie stay. Mami suggests we borrow her bike and take a ride. Maybe that’ll calm Maggie down.

Soon Maggie and I are heading to Las Palmas County Park. We sit on a bench and watch a pickup soccer game. A couple of families have spread out blankets and are eating a late lunch.

“You know the worst part?” she says. “Zeke. He’s got this shell around him. He’s, like, eleven going on thirty. Today he tells Mom to grow up. Right to her face. Dad starts screaming at him.

Then Mom starts screaming at both of them. Then Dad screams at Mom. …”

“I thought she was getting better.”

Maggie shrugs. “She was. Until the day Dad announced he had to go to Italy, on location. That set her off.”

“Why can’t he take her?” I ask.

“He offered, but she refuses to go. I can’t understand her. No one can when she gets like this.

Anyway, when Dad brought up the idea of the clinic, Mom freaked out. She said, ‘I’m just a social drinker’ — but she could barely get the words out, and she was banging into furniture. In the middle of the day!”

I tell Maggie things will work out. I remind her how far she’s come with her problems.

This is so sad, Nbook. Maggie’s trying not to cry. I’m trying not to cry. Just then, two hands reach around my head and cover my eyes. “Don’t even try to get away,” says a deep voice.

“Hi, Ducky,” I say. (He’s a worse actor than I am.)

He’s with Sunny. They’re escaping Dawn. They’re planning some kind of goodbye celebration for her. (She goes back to Connecticut to stay with her mom every summer.)

As they tell us about it, I watch Maggie. Her eyes are dry. She seems psyched, and she asks about the date of the party.

Ducky shrugs. “Don’t know yet.”

“Where’s it going to be?” I ask.

“Don’t know,” Ducky replies. “We’re just at the talking stage.”

“She’s not leaving for Connecticut for two weeks,” Sunny says.

Sunny and Ducky start throwing out suggestions for the party. (I’m thinking: Connecticut …

that’s close to western Massachusetts, right?)

Anyway, they can’t agree on anything.

Finally Maggie puts in her two cents — have the party at Ducky’s. His parents are still in Ghana, so there will be “no permission problems.”

Brilliant idea. Ducky and Sunny agree.

And then:

She answers. It’s her dad. He wants her to come home and convince Mrs. Blume to listen to him.

Maggie says no, she’s already agreed to stay for dinner — and for the night — at my house.

So here we are, in my room. Maggie’s asleep in a sleeping bag on the floor, twisting and turning.

And I’m finally tired.

Much more to say.

Mañana.

Monday, 5/31

Homeroom

OK, I didn’t tell you what happened after Maggie and I got home last night.

It’s almost dinnertime. Maggie goes to the bathroom to wash up. Papi’s standing in the front hall with the phone notepad in his hand. On it are two words:

— Brendan

— Brendan

“He called twice,” Papi says.

I thank him and take the sheet.

He’s standing there, not moving aside. “How’s your homework going?”

“Fine,” I say.

“You’re going to be prepared for finals?”

“Hope so.”

Now Mami comes into the hall. She’s got a warm, patient smile. She asks about our afternoon, then says, “Brendan seems like a nice boy.”

I can see where this is leading. “He’s just a good friend,” I say.

Isabel, studying in the den, has a sudden coughing fit.

“You know, Amalia,” Mami says, “finals are coming up.”

“What does Brendan have to do with finals?”

“You do seem to be spending an awful lot of time with him,” Papi says.