“Alzheimer’s.”
She smiled. “That is correct.”
Over the ensuing hubbub, I added, “And it’s fromThe Notebook.”
“Also correct. With the bonus point”—she paused to glance at the scorekeeper—“Let’s Get Lit takes the win.”
Alex squeezed my shoulders. When I spun to face him, he held up both hands for a double high-five, linking his fingers with mine when I would have let go.
“Nice job, Merrily,” he whispered, eyes never leaving mine.
Jasper whooped loudly, and someone called my name—the real one.
“I think they want to carry you around the room.” Alex slowly slipped his hands from mine before nudging me toward my family.
“Wonderful,” said Dad.
“We’re so proud,” added Mom.
As they accepted grudging congratulations from the other team captains, Neill thrust himself into the fray. “Lucky for you they asked something only a teenage girl would know.”
Jasper shoved in front of him. “Don’t get your panties in a twist. Mary just saved your bacon.”
“Nice work, Mare-Bear,” said Van. At her side, Phoebe offered a smile I couldn’t quite return. “Mary’s the baby of the family,” Van explained with a poignant sigh. “They grow up so fast.”
“Actually, I’m thesecondyoungest,” I corrected. “And sixteen isn’t a baby.”
Van frowned at me. “You’re not sixteen.”
“Almost,” said Addie, who had come up behind me. “Her birthday’s next Saturday.”
Bo sketched a check mark in the air. “Marked that date on my calendar a long time ago.”
“You should come for dinner,” Van said to Phoebe, as though the rest of us were a convenient backdrop to their flirtation.
“Will there be cake?” Phoebe asked, eyelashes fluttering as she pretended to mull it over.
From anyone else, it would have been charming, but I refused to be swayed. “Sometimes I ask for pie.”
“You do not,” Van argued. “You’ve never once asked for pie for your birthday.”
“I could change my mind.”
“Pie is also good,” Phoebe murmured.
Neill grinned obsequiously at her. “I like it both ways, too. Maybe I’ll stop by.” He winked at me before mouthing the wordsyou’re welcome.
Dear Diary,
I can’t remember the last time I was this excited about my birthday. Not the presents, or even turning sixteen. I just keep imagining the party, and having this perfect, candlelit evening with my friends and family to celebrate all the changes in my life over the last year. A very civilized, elegant affair that says to the world, “See? She’s becoming such a refined young lady.”
M.P.M.
Chapter 22
The rule of birthdaysin the Porter-Malcolm household was that for twenty-four hours, you got to choose all your favorite things, and no one was allowed to complain. In practice, this applied mostly to food. Picking a menu without editorial comments from six other people was a luxury—as I’d explained to my friends when asking them to join us for dinner.
Though I had yet to forgive Van for inviting her illicit girlfriend to my party without so much as a by-your-leave, my general mood was upbeat. The changes in my life since last year felt satisfyingly dramatic: a milestone worthy of celebration. Plus my grades were good, my skin reasonably unblemished (knock on wood), and I had real friends—the kind who seemed genuinely excited for me, instead of complaining that I was too hard to buy for because I only liked books, and since I’d read everything they had no choice but to forgo the giving of presents altogether, as Anjuli had done last year.
