“I’m very wise for my age,” she says. “And your sad heart means you want to go to the dance with Harper, not Maddie.”
I open my mouth to argue, but she’s already wagging her finger directly in my face.
“You’re thinking too much.” She wags her finger again. “You always do that.”
“What does that mean?” I grab her finger to stop her from poking me in the forehead.
“It means you make everything all twisty in your brain,” she explains. “Just tell Harper, ‘I like you, too,’ and boom! Problem solved.”
“It’s not that easy, Phoebe.” I sigh, staring at the ceiling. “That solves nothing.”
“Or,” she says, “you’re just a chicken.”
“I’m not a chicken,” I say, glaring at her.
“You are too!” She makes a clucking sound that soundsnothing like a chicken. “You’re afraid to tell Harper you like her, and now you’re grumpy she thinks you like Maddie and Maddie is your date.”
Wow. That’s all very…
Accurate.
“That’s not—” I stop, realizing I can’t argue with the truth. Instead, I let out averyloud, dramatic sigh. “You wouldn’t understand.”
Phoebe rolls her eyes like a tiny adult. “Boys are so dumb sometimes.”
Can’t argue with that, either.
“Says the kid who still thinks broccoli is poisonous,” I shoot back.
Her hands go to her hips. “Do you want my help or not?”
“Not.”
“Easton! You can’t go to the dance with a girl you don’t like!”
“I never said I didn’t like Maddie Miller! She’s beautiful and popular and…”
And.
And.
“Call Harper right now,” my sister demands. “Or write her a letter—but use prettier paper. Hers was kinda boring.”
“It’s not that simple.” I smile, rubbing the back of my neck. “What if she only wrote that letter to make me feel guilty?”
Phoebe gives me a pitying look, like she’s talking to someone who’s completely hopeless. “If she didn’t like you, she wouldn’t have written the letter in the first place. Duh. Stop self-sabotaging.”
“Maybe she changed her mind,” I mutter, slumping back into the cushions.
“She didn’t,” Phoebe asserts, as if she’s some kind of experton teenage-girl feelings. “She probably thinks you don’t like herback.”
I stare at her, wondering how my seven-year-old sister got so good at reading people. “And how do you know all this?”
“I watcha lotof TV. Like, a lot,” she explains, as if it’s the most logical thing in the world, and I have to wonder if I should talk to my mom about limiting her screen time. “Plus, I’m really smart.”
“Uh-huh.” I shake my head but can’t stop the small smile tugging at my lips. “You’re something, all right.”
Phoebe grins, clearly taking that as a compliment. “So are you gonna tell her or not?”
