Thirteen (13 page)

“Sinful Cinnamon,” Lars said. “What's up?”

“Winnie just told me to close my pie hole,” she tattled.

“Cinnamon!” I whacked her.

Bryce laughed, and Cinnamon puffed with pleasure. Bryce, too, had gotten cuter over the summer. I could see Cinnamon taking him in.

“Sit, sit,” Bryce said expansively, gesturing with his arm to show that there was enough grass for all of us.

We sat, me next to Lars and Cinnamon next to Bryce. Dinah hesitated, then plopped down on the outer edge of the circle.

“So anyway,” the unknown girl closest to Lars said. She widened her green eyes, giving him her full attention. “Prague versus Paris.”

“You can't go wrong with either one,” Lars said with the confidence of someone who'd been to both. He launched into an analysis of street life, cafés, and cappuccino—(cappuccino? since when did he drink cappuccino?)—and I studied the girl he was talking to. She had shiny red hair to go with her green eyes, and her skin was winter pale. She wasn't gorgeous, but there was something very…high-school-and-not-junior-high about her. A silver hoop glinted in her left nostril.

She must have felt me staring at her, because she turned and looked at me.
Yes
? she seemed to say with an arch of her eyebrows.

I blushed. Lars turned to look at me, too, and I wanted him to put his arm around me, to show her that I belonged. That I wasn't the interloper here.

“Have you been to Europe?” I asked. See? I was being polite. Mature. Marginally functional despite my lowly eighth-grade status.

“Me?” she said. She made it seem like a dumb question, which it wasn't. It wasn't dumb to ask someone if she'd been to Europe if Europe was what everyone was discussing. “No, I've only traveled to the Americas.”

“Oh,” I said. I didn't even know what that meant, “the Americas.” Was she making fun of me? Or was she talking about Brazil or something?

Her friend snorted, which solved the mystery. She was making fun of me.

“I've been to Europe,” Cinnamon interjected.

“No, you haven't,” Dinah said.

Cinnamon laughed. “Okay, you got me. But I want to.”

“Don't we all?” the friend of the girl with the nose ring said. She was Indian, with super glossy black hair, and now, because she was being nice, I wondered if I'd misinterpreted her snort. Maybe I'd also misinterpreted the redheaded girl's “Americas” remark?

I wished I could be easy and unabashed like Cinnamon. I wished I could just laugh at myself, instead of getting so anxious about everything.

Lars still wasn't treating me any differently than anyone else in the group, and I felt like I should stake my claim a little.

“Tell them about the singing barista,” I said, nudging his knee with mine. “The one who only sang Britney Spears songs. The one with a really thick accent.” Lars had e-mailed me about her from a cyber café. He'd typed, “
Oops! She's doing it again!
”

“Well, there was a singing barista,” Lars deadpanned. He adjusted his position so that our knees didn't touch. “She had a really thick accent, because guess what? She was from Prague.”

The others laughed, including Cinnamon. Dinah smiled, but her eyes, when they met mine, were uncertain. I laughed to show her it was okay, though it wasn't. Lars was the one who told me the singing barista story. He told me because he thought it was funny, so why was he turning it around so that
I
was the one who was funny—and not in a good way?

I should have left. I should have strode haughtily away with a cutting remark, or at least a withering glance to let Lars know I wasn't someone he could treat like this.

But I stayed. I stayed and forced my face muscles into appropriate expressions as Lars, Bryce, and the high school girls held their conversation, and inside, I felt hot and quivery and wrong. I fought hard to keep it under control…but what would happen if I didn't? If I burst into tears and said, “Lars, why are you being a jerk?”

Was this what getting older meant? Getting better and better at hiding your true emotions?

Eventually, Bryce slugged Lars's shoulder and said, “Dude, let's do it.” To the girls, he said, “Physics. Dr. Teaseley.”

The girl with the nose ring groaned. “I had Dr. Teaseley last year. He is so unbelievably strict.”

The Indian girl said, “Didn't he used to be in the military?”

“He thinks he still is,” the nose-ring girl said. “Plus, he's got the worst coffee breath. You
don't
want him getting in your face.”

“Man likes his joe,” Lars said.

I shot him a look, not that he noticed.
Man likes his joe?

The guys got to their feet. The high school girls followed suit.

“See ya,” Lars said to me, because apparently he was big enough to at least say good-bye.

On the inside, I was thick, black sludge. On the outside, I was nothing. Blank.

“See ya,” I replied.

 

Mom took Ty and me to Baskin-Robbins to celebrate our first day of school, since of course I had so much to celebrate. Whoopee! Mainly I let Ty do the talking while I sat there and nudged my spoon around my cup of chocolate chip mint. Mom looked at me funny a few times, but didn't bug me about it. Maybe she understood the whole moodiness thing, being pregnant. Although in her case, it didn't affect her appetite. She finished her own two scoops of rocky road and then gestured at my cup.

“May I?” she asked.

I pushed it toward her.

“And that's a whole
'nother
thing that's different,” Ty said, continuing his monologue:
Second Grade: A Whole New Ball of Wax
. “Silent. Reading. You heard it here first, folks. For an entire half hour after lunch! Right at the sleepiest time of day!”

“That doesn't sound like good planning,” Mom said.

“No, it's not,” Ty said. He turned to me. “Winnie, did you have silent reading when you were in second grade?”

“Huh?”

He stared at me. Then he focused back on Mom. “
And
Cody cried because Hank made fun of him for picking his nose.”

Mom dragged the spoon around the ice-cream cup. “Well, Hank shouldn't have done that. But I've always told you kids not to pick your nose, and that if you do, someone's bound to notice.”

“Mo-o-om, I
sneak
it,” Ty said.

I took in his face, the mustache of ice cream above his upper lip. He was such a messy eater. When he was five and I was eleven, Sandra had a job here at Baskin-Robbins, and Mom used to drop the two of us off for free babysitting. This was where Sandra met Bo, actually. I had a crush on him. I used to make him show me his scooper's muscle.

Anyway, Ty was messy back then, too. Odds were he'd be messy his entire life.

Me, on the other hand. I reflected on my eleven-year-old self, so filled with importance at being at the ice-cream store without Mom, and thought,
I am not that girl anymore. I will never be that girl again.

Ty downed his Dixie cup of water and looked at mine. “Can I have a sip? I promise I won't backwash.”

Yeah, right
, I thought, knowing he'd return it milky with French vanilla. But I passed it over anyway, because what did it matter?

 

By the time we got home, it was starting to get dark. Mom stopped the car at the base of the driveway and said, “Winnie, will you please hop out and get the mail?”

“I will,” Ty said, already unbuckling. He opened his door, and his voice changed pitch. “Hey, look—it's Lars!”

I snapped to attention. “What?”

Ty waved in the direction of the house. “Hi, Lars! We're here! Winnie's here!”

I saw Lars rising from one of the red chairs on our front porch, and my heart jolted into overdrive. My sweat pores, too. I scrambled out of the car.

“I'll be inside in a minute,” I told Mom.

“That's fine,” she said. “I wondered if something happened between you two, if that's why you've been acting poky.”

“Nothing happened. I'm not poky. Bye!”

I fast-walked up the drive, sliding my palms down my jeans. Lars shifted his weight.

“Hey,” he said when I reached him.

“Hey,” I said. Was he mad at me? Was I mad at him?

“So…how'd the rest of your day go?” he asked.

“It was good. Yours?”

“Ah, you know.” He did this cute thing with his eyebrows—quirky, like a puppy—that I didn't know how to interpret. Mom's Volvo zoomed up the driveway, with Ty and the mail included. When they were safely past, Lars grabbed my hand.

“C'mere,” he said. I resisted for a second, then let him pull me toward him. His arms circled my waist; my knees knocked against his legs. I breathed in his smell. I felt grateful, so grateful.

Lars stepped sideways, shuffling us to the left so that his back was pressed against the house and we were as far out of sight of the front window as we could be. He lifted my chin with his fingers, making it so I had to look at him. It was hard to hold his gaze. His body was so close.
He
was so close.

“I missed you,” he said.

“I missed you, too,” I whispered.

He leaned in, and I stretched onto my tiptoes so our lips could meet. Which they did, again and again and again.

O
N THE LAST MONDAY OF OCTOBER,
Westminster had a teacher workday. Trinity didn't, which Ty thought was terribly unjust. He had a point: Westminster did seem to have a heck of a lot more teacher workdays than Trinity.

“Sorry, Charlie,” Mom said as she picked up the crust of his Eggo to throw away. “Find your shoes. It's time to go.”

“But it's not fair!” he complained, draping himself over the sofa like a sack of flour.

“Welp, life isn't fair,” I said. “Never has been, never will.” Which oddly enough failed to raise Ty's spirits, so to appease him, I told him I'd come be a reading volunteer with Mom. At eleven. After a lovely long bath and an episode or two of
Judge Judy.

“For real?” he said.

“Sure,” I said magnanimously. I could say “hey” to my old Trinity teachers and at the same time earn brownie points for being such a good and loving sister. Afterward, I could probably persuade Mom to take me to Pricci's for a girls' lunch.

Mom and I arrived at Mrs. Webber's room five minutes before Reading Workshop started, and I blinked at the bright colors and construction-paper-happy bulletin boards of the second grade classroom. Squishy beanbags for the kids to flop down on: check. Class snake in a glass tank: check. Poster of a kitten clinging to a tree with the inspirational message
Just Hang In There
: check.

I felt old soaking it all in.

There was still a soft spot in my heart for that scrappy kitten, though. When I was seven, I'd loved that kitten, and I'd imagined gently lifting him from the tree branch and lowering him to firm ground. “There you go, teensy bitsy,” I'd say. “Next time, don't climb so high!”

“Ellen, why don't you start with Ty,” Mrs. Webber said, handing Mom the reading workbook and showing her what lesson Ty was on. Ty waved at us from his desk, which was pushed up against three other desks to make a cluster. A construction paper sign printed with the words “Crazy Crabs” hung above them from the ceiling. Other desk-clusters were labeled “Super Seahorses,” “Wonderful Whales,” and “Jiggling Jellyfish.”

“And Winnie, I think I'll have you work with Joseph,” she said. She handed me Joseph's workbook and lowered her voice. “He could really benefit from a little one-on-one. Not that he's struggling academically. Academically, he's fine. But I just love that kid. I want to give him all the TLC I can.”

The three of us glanced at Joseph, who sat at the “Dapper Dolphins” cluster. He didn't notice us, but stayed bent over his spelling book, lower lip between his teeth. He wore a red knit cap, even though he was indoors. A plastic container of antibacterial gel sat on the corner of his desk.

“How's the chemo going?” Mom asked softly.

Mrs. Webber frowned and shook her head, either to mean “Not now” or “Not good.” I wasn't sure which.

“So…do I just go over the lesson with him?” I asked.

“That's right,” Mrs. Webber said. She smiled and snapped back into teacher mode. “Why don't you take him to the Commons? Find some place comfy to sit.”

On an overstuffed purple sofa, I ran my finger under blocky black sentences while Joseph sounded out the words. The story was a juicy tale of suspense involving an inscrutable cat and an equally inscrutable rat. “The cat sat,” he read aloud. “The cat saw a rat. The rat sat by the cat.”

Oh, the joy of short A's. Might there be a bat in the cat's future? A bat wearing a hat? Who knew! That's what made it so exciting!

Joseph sighed. His skinny legs dangled from the couch in brown corduroys, and his fuzzy sweater stretched past his pale wrists. It wasn't the kind of sweater a boy would usually wear. It wasn't girly, exactly, but it also wasn't rough and tumble. It smelled nice, like laundry detergent.

“Um…do you want to keep going?” I asked.

He gazed up at me. His expression said,
Would you?

I bit back a smile. He was such a little man, martyred by the cat and the rat. And it
was
a dumb story.

“Want to read something else, then?” Bookshelves lined the Commons, filled with picture books and chapter books and even big thick ones like
Harry Potter
.

“We're not allowed,” he said.

“What? That's silly. Sure we are.”

He looked dubious, but I felt utterly confident of my position. Maybe I wouldn't if I still went to Trinity, but I didn't. I was in junior high, and next year I'd be in high school. Joseph and I could read whatever we darn well pleased.

I strode to the shelves and pulled free a book with a bright green spine. It was
Shrek
. It wasn't the Hollywood version, but the real live story, which I guess came before the movie. I hadn't known there was a pre-movie version.

“How about this?”

Joseph quickly nodded. He was shy, which I found appealing, and it was clear he wasn't the type of boy who was a yeller and a hitter and a kicker. Another kid from Ty's class, his name was Taylor, had come home from school with Ty a week ago, and he'd dumped all of Ty's toys from their plastic bin and lobbed them at the wall. Then he called me “Whiny McTattletale” when I told him to quit. I thought that was so obnoxious.

I read to Joseph about the trials of being an ogre. By the middle of the story, Joseph had scooched close enough that our bodies were touching, and by the last page, his cheek was against my arm as he peered at the illustrations. Joseph was a skittish woodland creature, that's what went through my head, and it was my job to stay still and not scare him off. Maybe a chipmunk? Or an owl, with that fuzzy sweater of his. I thought about how he had leukemia. It made me sad.

At break time, Ty ran out to the playground with the other kids. Joseph, too, except he didn't run. He walked. Mrs. Webber waited till the room was empty, then said, “Oh, Ellen. That poor kid.”

Mom put the last workbook on the stack and joined Mrs. Webber at her desk. “Is he not doing well?” she asked.

“He never complains,” Mrs. Webber said. “And the other kids, they're so good. They just know that this is Joseph, and he lost his hair, and he's absent a lot. They don't make a big deal of it.” She pressed her lips together. “But, no. The treatment's not working the way the doctors wanted.”

“Oh, no,” Mom said. “I'm so sorry.”

“I know, I know.” Mrs. Webber's eyes were worried. “Things could change, there's still hope, but…”

Mom touched her arm. I thought of Joseph, touching my arm. All the touching. All the humans.

I was proud of Mom for not saying something fakey, because that would have been wrong. I told myself,
This is what you do when there's something sad. Just touch.

“I am such a fool,” Mrs. Webber said, putting her own hand over Mom's and patting. “Do you know what I said to him yesterday? He told me he wouldn't be at school on Halloween, because he'd be with his mom. That they were spending the day together. And you know what I said? I said, ‘Oh, how fun! What are you two going to do? See a movie? Go to the museum?'”

Mom clucked, but not unkindly. More like,
oh, dear.

“What
are
they going to do?” I asked. I understood that Mrs. Webber's question had been the wrong one, but I didn't get why.

Mrs. Webber turned toward me, surprised. Had she forgotten I was there?

“I suspect they'll be at the hospital,” she said. “He's due for another round of chemo, and there I was asking if he was off to the museum.”

“Oh,” I said. Now
I
felt dumb.

Mrs. Webber gave Mom's hand one last squeeze. “Well. Enough of my gloom and doom—and you with a brand-new baby on the way! What in heaven's name is wrong with me?”

Mom smiled. She slung her purse over her shoulder and said, “Winnie? You ready?”

I hopped off the desk I'd been sitting on. It belonged to the “Hilarious Humpbacks” cluster. The dangling sign showed a sky blue whale.

“I hope things take a turn for the better,” Mom said to Mrs. Webber. “I hope Joseph and his parents get good news.”

Mrs. Webber bobbed her head in a series of short, quick nods. “Oh, Ellen. I do, too.”

 

Mom dropped me off at Cinnamon's, because I ended up not wanting to go out to lunch after all. I wanted to be with my friends. I
needed
to be with my friends. I needed the reminder that most of life was happy.

Cinnamon and Dinah met me at the front door, but instead of welcoming me in, Cinnamon took me by my shoulders and turned me right back around. She and Dinah were wearing their jackets. They both smelled of “Very Irresistible,” Cinnamon's favorite perfume.

“Where are we going?” I asked as they led me down the walk.

“Bryce's,” Cinnamon said. She was wound up; I could tell from the spots of color on her cheeks. “Lars called, looking for you, and said people are going to Bryce's to play pool.”

“Oh,” I said. I'd been counting more on quality girl time, but pool with the guys would be fun.
Unless
…

“By ‘people,' did he say who he meant?” I asked.

“No,” she said.

“Is Nose-Ring Girl going to be there?”

“Ew,” said Dinah. She and I shared a look. Hers was sympathetic; mine said,
Uh, yeah, that would not be good.

“Winnie? Dinah? Chill,” Cinnamon said. Her pace was brisk and determined. “If she's there, we'll ignore her. But we're going, and that's final.”

Dinah and I shared another look, this one about Cinnamon's burst of attitude. Did anyone suggest not going? No. Did anyone throw out the barest
hint
of not going? No.

“
Oka-a-ay
,” Dinah said.

Cinnamon glanced at her. “What?”

“What do you mean, what?” Dinah said.

“You know what I mean. Why are you acting weird?”

“Me? I'm not acting weird. You are!”

“You both are,” I said.

Dinah let out a yelp of betrayal.

“Could we get a move on, please?” Cinnamon said. “I want to get there before they cue up.”

“Is that so?” I said. “You suck at pool.” I waggled my finger. “Something's fishy, missy. I'm keeping my eye on you.”

Dinah thrust her head forward so that her actual eye was pressed against Cinnamon's arm. “Me, too,” she said, giggling. “I'm keeping my eye on you.” She walked hunched over and took hoppity steps to keep the position.

Cinnamon shrugged her off, but a smile flicked at the corner of her mouth. “God! You are such freaks, both of you!”

By the time we got to Bryce's, the guys—Bryce, Lars, and two other sophomores—were heavy into a game.

“Winster!” Lars called. He beckoned with his hand. “I'm kicking some serious booty. Come be my good luck charm.”

Nose-Ring Girl was
not
there—happy happy joy joy—so I went over and let him pull me into a squeeze.

“Hey,” he said, kissing my nose.

“Hey,” I said back.

Dinah came and stood beside us, while Cinnamon took on the job of cheering for Bryce. She was feisty and high-spirited, full of “Dude!”s and high fives, and it dropped into my brain with a clunk: Cinnamon was crushing on Bryce. Cinnamon was crushing on Bryce! Of course!

By the looks of it, Bryce was totally willing to take her on. He checked to make sure she was watching before making a tricky shot, and when he sunk the stripy “nine” ball into the corner pocket, he cried, “Yes!” and gave her a supposedly spontaneous bear hug. But I knew how these things worked. That hug was planned. That hug was a move.

Oh my frickin' God.
Cinnamon was going to start going out with Bryce, and we'd become a foursome: Me and Lars and Cinnamon and Bryce. And five thousand years from now, we could have a double wedding.

Only, where did that leave Dinah? I scoped out the other two pool players, checking for potential. Adam, who had curly blondish hair, already had a girlfriend, I was pretty sure. Amy something-or-other? Who played the flute?

But Dave was single—at least as far as I knew. He wasn't all that cute, but he wasn't hideous. He had bad skin, that's all. And his hair was on the greasy side. And his jeans—let's face it—came way too high on his waist. Maybe that was a good thing, though. Not the jeans, but his whole not-a-stud-muffin package, because even though it wasn't fair and I shouldn't even think it and it certainly wasn't Dinah's fault…well, odds were a stud muffin wouldn't be Dinah's perfect match. Someone like Dave maybe was?