She stares at me and then at the propped lid of the piano. “They’re not.”
A lump grows inside my throat, invades it. The Dylans, or whoever they are, are good people. Even though a part of me still wonders who they could be, another part is telling me to stop meddling.
When Mom leaves to get dinner ready, I plod upstairs to my bedroom, take my cell phone out of my pocket, and tap on Ten’s contact. I write a thousand different things. I erase nine hundred ninety-nine of them. In the end, I send:I’m sorry.
A short while later, hair damp from the shower, I return downstairs and set the table as Mom closes the oven door on something that already smells divine.
“The chicken’ll be ready in a minute. Just crisping up the skin.” She takes a seat at the table, then pats the chair next to her. “Baby, come sit. I want us to talk.”
About the Dylans? Is she finally going to confide in me?
“I don’t feel like I see enough of you these days,” Mom says, nursing a glass of white wine between her palms. “And I’m sorry, because it’s entirely my fault. I’m always runnin’ from one construction site to the next.” She sighs. “I’ve becomethatmother. The one who spends more time with people who shouldn’t matter, instead of with the only person who truly matters.”
I’m about to tell her that working doesn’t make her any less of a mother, that if anything I’m proud of her. I think I can even use this as the perfect segue into the contest.
Before I can open my mouth, she asks, “So what’s happening in your life? Have you started on your college applications? Have you written an essay yet? If you have, I’d love to read it.”
I trail one finger down my glass of water, creating a path through the condensation. Water beads on the glass tabletop. “I’ve started looking into schools”—I haven’t, but considering how every senior in Reedwood is chattering on about college, I’ve picked up some details I can use to substantiate my lie—“and everything else is fine.”
Tell her about the Mona Stone contest. Tell her, Angie. Before playing Dad’s song, I was practicing mine. It sounds better now, more polished. Maybe she’ll like it.
Before I locate my backbone to fess up, she says, “When you were small, and I would ask you how your day went, you used to give me a play-by-play. Didn’t leave out a single detail. But now, all I get is aneverything’s fine? That’s not us, baby. At least, that’s not who I want us to be.” She sets her wineglass down. “Are you and Ten friends? How’s Rae? Who are you going to homecoming with?”
I slide my lower lip between my teeth. “Ten and I, we’re… I wouldn’t say friends, but sort of friendly? And I’m going with the girlsto homecoming. And Rae’s Rae. Sunny, happy, busy Rae. She’s totally into our school’s new quarterback, even though she swore she wouldn’t date another jock.”
I think of my friend’s senior bucket list and the item she will most definitely not be checking off considering Harrison’s become a constant in our conversations. And then I think of my own bucket list, of the only item on it.
I inhale a lungful of courage. “Mom—”
Our fire alarm blares, and she jerks up. Batting away the pale smoke, she grabs an oven mitt, yanks open the oven door, and pulls the chicken out while I crack open the windows.
It takes a couple of minutes for the smoke to clear and the strident beeping to stop. And then Mom’s on the phone with the fire department, explaining that they needn’t pay us a visit, and then she’s scouring the fridge for something else to make us.
I glare at the charred bird, thinking that its timing really sucked. If it could only have waited an extra minute before burning up…
I drop it into the trash can under the sink as though it had intentionally wronged me, but my cowardice is in no way the chicken’s fault.
I’m the chicken in the story.
I scrunch up my nose, a bit appalled that I’m comparing myself to a bird.
After dinner, I check my phone. Ten hasn’t answered, but he’s read my apology—there’s a little check mark next to the chat bubble. I take it he’s still mad. At least I had enough courage to reach out to him.
If only I’d had enough courage to reach out to Mom…
17
The Invisible Stone and the Inflatable Sword
On Tuesday, I only see Ten during lunch period. I watch him from across the cafeteria, but don’t speak to him. Not even the colorful grass skirts and the Hawaiian-print shirts brighten Tropical Tuesday.
On Wednesday, I ready myself to face him during afternoon art class. Not that we usually sit together. Usually we sit on opposite sides of the classroom. Today, Miss Bank has us work on projects in twosomes, which screws up the seating arrangement. I try to pair up with Laney, but Brad swoops in and asks her. I’m not sure who’s more startled by his proposition: me or her.
She accepts Brad’s invitation, then apologizes to me. They move across the room, heads bent together in conversation.
“Did everyone find a partner?” Miss Bank asks.
I turn to ask Ron, a quiet overachiever, but someone beats me to him. I swivel around and come nose-to-chest with someone. Readjusting the Minnie Mouse headband I wore for Walt Disney Wednesday, I tip my face up.
