“He’s kidding, Dad,” Sara says, tugging my good arm and pulling me down the hall and into her bedroom. “Of course he’s not in a gang.”
“Hey! No funny business in there,” he shouts after us.
Sara all but shoves me into her room, rolling her eyes as she closes the door to a narrow crack. “Ew, Dad. I’m just finishing my makeup!”
Ew?Should I be offended?
As she shuts her door, I look around. I’ve been in Sara’s room hundreds of times, but today there’s a stronger scent of something sweet—like peaches and vanilla undertones. Like her. She’s made her bed, lavender comforter neatly tucked in, and I sit on the edge of it as she moves to the mirror hung on the wall behind her dresser. Her makeup is all spread out like it’s on a beauty counter.
She reaches for a soft-looking pom-pom that reminds me of a fluffy cloud. “How’s your arm?”
“Broken, but it’s fine.”
In the end, the hospital X-ray proved I had broken my arm, and the doctor said I did a number on my wrist and shoulder, which was dislocated. It hurt like hell when they reset it, so much so that my eyes had teared in pain. Now my arm’s in a cast, and I have to decrease mobility in my shoulder for a few weeks, which is why I’m in a sling. They also gave me medication to dull the pain, and that kicked in on the walk over here.
She unclasps a compact and dabs the pom-pom thing on a pink hue. “Oh geez. Are you sure you should go tonight? I mean, aren’t you in a lot of pain?”
I’m momentarily mesmerized by the subtle color the blush creates across her cheekbones.
“Uh.” I snap out of my trance. “No, not really.”
“But shouldn’t you rest?”
I adjust the bill on my backward cap. “Resting is overrated. I thought the festival would be more fun than staying home.”
“Oh, well, I’m not even sure I’ll have time to hang out, Patrick.” She’s swiping mascara over her eyelashes now, and I have no idea how she does it without blinking or getting it everywhere. That’s true talent. “I’m going to be working the festival with the rest of Newspaper Club, probably interviewing a ton of students.”
I snort. “Yeah, right. You probably think you’re going on a date with Joseph Yang.”
The tips of her ears tinge pink, the same color as her blush.
“And that’s why you’re getting ready like you’re attending a ball,” I add.
“Okay, yes, there’s that too.” She combs her fingers through the short ends of her hair. It looks wavier than usual. She must have styled it differently. “But I’m really excited to have my first Newspaper Club assignment. I’ve been looking forward to it for a while. Seeing my words in print—how cool is that?”
I grab her heart-shaped pillow with my good arm and pull it into my chest. “Fine, fine. As long as you focus on that instead of Goody Two-Shoes Joe.”
She whirls on me, hands on her hips. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“What?”
“Why don’t you like Joe? He’s, like, the nicest guy.” She smooths her hands over her butter-yellow skirt, the one with tiny daisies all over. “Earlier you said you were happy for me.”
“Nothing,” I insist, eyes on her pillow. “I’m just worried about something Rose said earlier about you two, which I think she might be right about—”
Sara frowns. “You’re listening to Rose now? Patrick, are youhearingyourself?”
“No, listen.” My eyes jump to hers. “She had a good point. She said—”
All of a sudden, she slaps a hand to her forehead. “Wait—that’s it!”
Huh?
“My prediction,” she clarifies, setting down the pom-pom. “I remember it now. Lulu’s final tarot prediction was that someone would try and steal my man. That’s totally gonna be Rose tonight when I try and get my first kiss from Joe!”
First kiss? FromJoe? How did we even get here?
And why does it feel like my stomach is twisting into knots?
