Thirteen Plus One (27 page)

He handed me the bakery box. I took it, but didn’t open it. I wasn’t ready to stop the hugging.

“It’s a cupcake,” he said.

“Cool.”

“It’s chocolate with chocolate frosting. And they put a candle in it for me.”

“Is the candle pink?”

“Pink and white striped. Does that work?”

I hugged him tight and told the universe
thank you, thank you, thank you
for letting me have this wonderful boy in my life. I could have ruined it, and I felt a brief, dark tremor at just how close I came.

Lars pulled back and looked down at me. I lifted my head, and our eyes locked. We stayed like that for a long time, just soaking each other in.

Then we kissed. We did that for a long time, too.

 

That night, we decided to sleep on the beach: me and Lars, Dinah and Milo, Cinnamon and James. It wasn’t all that comfortable, but the stars were amazing. God’s jewelry box, Virginia said. Distant bright glimmers in a sky as inky-dark as the ocean. Plus, speaking of the ocean, the
swush
of the waves was better by far than Dinah’s sound machine, which she used back in Atlanta.

I might have to buy a sound machine myself, though. The one Dinah had made a pretty good “waves” track. I’d kinda like to keep falling asleep to the sound of waves, even back home.

Home.

Lars took off his long-sleeved flannel shirt (he was wearing a T-shirt underneath it) and let me use it as a blanket. It smelled like him and, after the others had drifted off, I held it close and thought about tomorrow. I’d have to say good-bye to so many things: DeBordieu, the beach house, Virginia, all my new summer friends who’d probably slip quietly from my life, despite the promises I bet we’d make to keep in touch.

Or maybe they wouldn’t. Who knew? Dinah and Cinnamon had already invited Milo and James to come to Atlanta and go to Six Flags before school started, and they both said they would. I’d be up for an end-of-the-summer Six Flags blowout, as long as Lars was by my side. We could ride the Scream Machine. We could share a kiss on the tippy-top of the Great Gasp.

But tomorrow we’d drive back to Atlanta, and if Cinnamon had her way (and she almost always did), we’d stop at the halfway point for burritos from Taco Bell. And then she would get gas, and she would find herself hilarious, while the rest of us rolled down the windows and gagged.

When I got home, there would be hugging galore, and Mom and Dad would
000
and
ahh
over the pictures on my iPhone. I’d suggest that getting a beach house of our own would be a supergood idea, and Dad would say, “How about a new lawn mower instead?” I would say, “Ha ha ha,” and Mom would say,
“joel.”

There would be Sandra-ish-ness, and maybe Bo would stop by to say hey. And of course Ty would have all sorts of stories about the inventions he’d designed and the “water feature” he’d constructed for our backyard, made entirely out of multicolored plastic straws, aluminum foil, and Mom’s baking bowls. (Mom had told me about the water feature already, last week when I called to check in. But I’d let Ty tell me fresh.)

As for teensy baby Maggie, sheesh, she was probably driving by now. She could take me for a spin!

Beside me, Lars microsnored: not loud and chainsaw-y, but just audible enough to be endearing. I yawned and snuggled up next to him, knowing that I needed to get some rest, too. Anyway, cute as snoring-Lars was, I was not Edward, and he was not Bella. (Thank God.)

I loved the guy, but I didn’t need to watch him sleep.

Peace Out

C
OMING BACK TO ATLANTA was like unraveling a sweet roll and plucking off bites and popping them one after the next into my mouth until my taste buds sang.

Teensy baby Maggie? Had a tooth!!!!! Her very first!!!!

“It broke through her gums, and so we immediately told
all
the grandparents and aunts and uncles,” Dad said.

“But not me?” I said indignantly.

Dad squeezed me. He was sitting beside me on the sofa, his arm around me as I held my baby sister. “Well, hold on, it gets complicated,” he said.

“Yeah,” Sandra said, leaning between us from behind. “Because before calling you, Dad had to tell
all
the neighbors.”

“It was smack in the middle of the day,” Dad protested. “I knew your schedule by then. I wanted to talk to you in person, not leave a voice mail.”

“So he filled the hours by also telling the dude at the grocery store,” Sandra said. “And the dude at the drugstore, and that creepy lady with the mustache who works at the dry cleaners.”

“Sandra, be nice,” Mom said. She had her legs tucked up under her on the purple armchair, and she looked way more well-rested than before I’d left. In addition to having grown a tooth, Maggie was now sleeping through the night.
Go, baby Mags!

“Is ‘truthful’ not nice?” Sandra protested. “I think the ‘dry cleaning’ bit”—she made exaggerated air quotes—“is a front for a crime ring. That’s what I think.”

“A crime ring?” Ty said, his eyes lighting up. He was sitting on my other side and giving me a foot rub, that good boy. Though it was more like a foot pummel. “What kind of crime ring?”

“No crime ring,” Mom said.

“But all those chemicals,” Sandra said. “And that smell. She’s covering something up for sure—maybe a dead body.”

“No, Ty,” Mom said. “Do not go repeating that.” But her lips twitched, and Sandra (who would be leaving for college soon!
ack!)
grinned.

“Ahem,” Dad said. “The tooth?”

I’d been sitting quietly, just soaking my goofy family in, but I roused myself and said, “Yes, Dad. Pray continue.”

“The tooth emerged, like a great white whale,” he said. “We alerted the press.”

“All except
me!”
I said.

“And then the tooth
went back under
—”

“Also like a great white whale,” Sandra interjected.

Ty dove his hand down.
“Whoosh.
Back to the depths!”

“Huh?” I said. “Her tooth went
back into her gums?
That is just weird.”

“It finally came back again,” Sandra said. “Just not until Dad had to eat crow with Grandmom and Granddad and everyone who wanted proof of this alleged ‘tooth.’” She made more air quotes, and I giggled.

“So we waited this time,” Dad said, giving me a noogie. “We wanted you to see it for yourself.”

“Then let me see, baby,” I said to Mags. I turned her in my arms and wedged my finger into her mouth. She gurgled happily and chomped down.

“I can feel it!” I cried.

“That’s my girl,” Dad said proudly. I didn’t know if he meant me or Maggie, not that it mattered.

It was good to be home.

 

But there were sadnesses, too, since life wasn’t made up only of happy things. The last month of summer turned into the last week of summer, and one muggy Saturday morning, Dad helped Sandra load her stuff into the trunk of his Honda. Freshmen at Middlebury weren’t allowed to have cars, so Dad was going to drive her to Vermont and get her settled.

Sandra was the second person out of her group of friends to leave for college, and her remaining best buds came to the house to tell her good-bye. I watched from the back door. And then, when they left, Bo pushed off the side of the house from where he’d been waiting. He held her tight and rubbed small circles on her back ... except what good was his comfort when he was the one she was going to miss most of all?

I shouldn’t have watched, but I couldn’t help myself, until Dad came in all sweaty and said, “Let’s give them some privacy, huh?”

“But—”

“Come on and sit down with me,” he said. “I could use a break.”

When I didn’t budge, he placed his hand on my shoulder and steered me, still resisting, to the kitchen table. A lump formed in my throat.

“I don’t want her to go,” I said.

“I know,” he said.

“I’m going to miss her!”

“I know.”

I looked into his eyes, which were teary just like my own. He pulled me into a hug and held me tighter than normal.

“We’re all going to miss her,” Dad said. “But that’s just the way it is. That’s the way it should be.”

 

He and Sandra left an hour later. They pulled away, and Mom and Ty and Maggie and I waved and waved, and afterward, it was awful to see her golf-ball-yellow Bimmer parked lifeless in the garage. At the same time, it was reassuring. It meant she’d be coming back.

Then the last week of summer turned into the last day of summer, and the last day of summer was also—freaky, freaky—
the last day before high school.

Ahhhh!

I went from jumpy-stomach scared one second to excited the next, and my brain
would not shut up.

Holy crap, I am so not ready for this
, I thought, trying not to hyperventilate over grades and extracurriculars and permanent records, and the knowledge that how I did in high school would determine what college I went to. And after college came
life
, and, like, choosing a purpose for my entire existence, and holy crap, I was so not ready for that!

But on the other hand ...
000, what to wear, what to wear
? And all the people I’d meet, and the cool classes I could take, and just being in
high school
instead of junior high. It was a much realer feeling, somehow. Like—
ag,
but true—
I was growing up
. I
was,
and there was nothing anyone could do to stop me. Beneath the fear, I was pretty stoked.

And then, out of nowhere, Amanda called.
Amanda,
my old best friend. When we were ten, we thought we’d grow up together and be old ladies together. We totally planned it out: We’d live in a huge house with wood floors, and we’d wear our gray hair in braids, and we’d roller skate in swooping circles around the living room. It was a done deal ...

... and then it wasn’t.

And then, five thousand years later, an unknown number flashed on my iPhone. I knew from the area code that it was an Atlanta number, so I answered.

And it was
Amanda.

“Sorry to bother you,” she said. Her voice was halting, yet familiar enough to make the blood rush from my head.

I sat down on my bed. “No problem,” I said dumbly. “What’s up?”
And vvho’d you get my number from? And you’re probably calling from your cell phone, huh? Because I still know your home number. I’ll probably know it when I’m forty, or even when I’m eighty.

(But will I wear my gray hair in braids?)

“Nothing,” she said. “Anyway, I’m sure you’re busy.” I heard her swallow, and it was her nervous swallow, and I knew she was upset. And it was so frickin’ weird to be talking to her out of the blue and to
know
that.

“Amanda,” I said, “what’s wrong?”

She started crying. My throat closed.

“Sweet Pea died,” she said. “She got hit by a car.”

“Oh,
Amanda!”

Sweet Pea was Amanda’s cat, and also my cat’s adoptive cat sister. Only now Sweet Pea was ...
dead
?

On reflex, I scanned my room, and my rib cage loosened when I spotted Sweetie Pie in her customary spot on my computer chair. Then it tightened right back up again with sorrow and guilt.

“When?” I asked Amanda.
“Today?”

“I found her when I got”—she gulped—“when I got home from Gail’s. And ... and whoever hit her hadn’t even
moved
her.” Her crying sounds stretched into keening. “Can you come help me, Winnie? Puh-puh-
please
?”

I couldn’t speak. My heart raced, and I felt sweaty, but in a cold way that made me dizzy. And Sweet
Pea
was dead,
and
poor
Amanda found her ...

“Never mind,” Amanda said. She pulled herself together, and
wham,
her weakness was gone, shoved deep down inside her, the door slammed shut. “I’m fine. Really.”

“No, you’re not,” I fumbled. “And of course I can come. I’ll be right there.”

“Seriously, Winnie, I’m fine,” she insisted. “I’m sorry to bother you. I was feeling ... you know ... but I’m better now.” She let out a small self-deprecatory laugh. “Just a minor freak-out, I swear. Um ... thanks so much for listening.”

Maybe I would have believed her if I were someone else and not her best friend from years and years ago.

“I’ll be there in ten minutes,” I told her.

 

She’d put Sweet Pea in a box. A Fendi shoe box, to be exact, and I knew just which shoes had been in it ... well, unless Amanda had tons of Fendi shoes and not just the one pair of suede platform pumps I’d noticed her wearing last year. They were crazy, those pumps. The spiked heels were six inches tall at least, but the toe parts were thick and round and chunky, and the whole package was swampy brown with black trim, if I was remembering correctly. So while it looked like the type of shoe only a New York fashion model would wear, it also had a slight grunge factor, or an alternative factor, or
something
, and Amanda had found a way to pair those pumps with a retro babydoll dress and somehow avoid the dress code police.

It was a cool look, and I’d wondered, at the time, if I could pull such a look off. (I couldn’t.) I also wondered how much a pair of shoes like that cost, and if I could even afford them. (Later, I Googled them. I couldn’t.)

But no Fendi pumps lay in the shoe box today. Only Sweet Pea, who was no longer Sweet Pea but a limp ball of fur. It seemed horribly and wrenchingly wrong that a body could exist without a soul, because what was in front of me ... it
wasn’t
Sweet Pea.

“Amanda ...” I said. I lifted my eyes from Sweet Pea’s body to Amanda’s tearstained face. “I am so sorry.”

She nodded. Her hair was short—her beautiful blond hair, and not just short but
way
short—and her eyes were puffy. Green eyeliner dribbled down. “I hid the spot ... you know.” She sniffled. “Where the blood is.”