Chapter One
The Cat’s Out of the Box
I’ve counted my birthday savings three times, and at this rate, I don’t think I’ll ever have enough money to clone myself. I guess it doesn’t help that cloning people isn’t really a thing yet. Trust me, if it was, my mom would’ve already taken me in to make an identical model. One for her. One for Dad. Easy-peasy lemon squeezy.
But since there can only be one Sweet Pea, my parents have decided that the next best way to deal with their divorce is to have two houses. Two completely separate houses on the same street that look just about as identical as two different houses could. Similar paint and rugs and even furniture. Mom gets the original, and Dad gets thedupe, which makes sense since the old house belonged to Nana—Mom’s mom—before she died.
I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about which of my things to take to Dad’s house, but I’m what Mrs. Young calls a “visual learner,” so this morning Oscar Rivera, my best (and only) friend, and I took an old roll of Dad’s blue painter’s tape and split my room in two. It reminds me of the blue line down the middle of the gym that Coach Jeffers uses for dodgeball, which, if you ask me, is even crueler than the section on rope climbing we did last fall. Not only do your classmates have a popularity death match picking teams, but then they get to peg you with rubber balls too. Hopefully packing up my room won’t be quite as traumatic.
“What’s your mom gonna say when she comes home and finds your room like this?” Oscar asks, his shiny black hair swirled into a perfect mold, using his latest discovery from the drugstore: pomade, a sticky hair product that comes in a glass jar and Oscar swears is a miracle.
I shrug as I take a second to process the damage. My room looks like someone came in with a giant eraser and just wiped away half of the whole place, leaving the other side in its usual state of perfectly organized mess—unmade bed, mismatching socks stuffed under the bed, and stacks of old homework and newspaper clippings piled up on my nightstand. “I won’t be home to find out. It’s Dad’s night.”
Since there are only seven days in a week, every other week Mom and Dad take turns with who gets me for three nights and who gets four nights. Mom says it’s “imperative” that neither of them is perceived as the “dominant parent,” but if you ask me, all you have to do to figure out which of my parents is in charge is ask yourself who’s making the rules to begin with. If you guessed Mom—ding, ding, ding!—you’re right.
I split the books by alphabetical order. Mom’s house getsAthroughMand Dad’s house gets the rest. The division of all my other belongings was much slower and more snooze-worthy. But as Oscar constantly reminds me, if I ever need anything, I’ll be two houses down the street, separated only by Miss Flora Mae’s hulking two-story house.
“At least you didn’t cut your sheets in half,” he says and reaches down for a box withSWEET PEA’S DESK STUFFscrawled across the side.
“Lift with your knees!” I say, mimicking what I’ve heard Mr. McMullan shout at his employees from behind his desk at Love’s Hardware.
“I wasn’t built for grunt work,” says Oscar as he heads for the door. “You got the last box?”
“Yup. See you over there.”
I squat down to tape the flaps of the final box shut before standing, doing my best to lift with my knees. Whatdoes that even mean anyway? And why did I cram so much stuff in this box?
But then, just as I steady myself, a growling meow vibrates from inside the box.
“Holy crud!” I snap and drop it on the rug. Another meow, this one a little softer. “Oh, Cheese! I’m so sorry.” I rip the tape from the box. “Cheese, you gotta forgive me, buddy.”
Cheese is my fifteen-pound orange tabby. No wonder the thing was heavier than I expected! He leaps from the box full of random desk clutter and saunters out of my bedroom, his tail slapping the door frame.
“Cheese!” I call once more. “I wasn’t paying attention. I’m sorry.” What can I say? The cat can hold a grudge. Like kitty, like owner.
I tap my index finger to the side of my head, hoping I’ll remember to give him a few extra treats tonight to make up for my rude behavior. Cheese was our big family Christmas present when I was six years old. I was given the honor of choosing his name and decided to call him Cheese, because he... looked like cheese? I don’t know. I was six, okay? In hindsight, I should have named him after my favorite cheese: Havarti.
With a sigh, I give up on the tape and fold the flaps of the box over before taking one last glimpse at my room. Crisp white trim with peach wallpaper and newspaperand magazine clippings pinned randomly all over every surface. A fewMiss Flora Mae I?advice column classics, neat pictures of places I can’t even believe exist from Dad’sNational Geographicsubscription, and a few strips from the comics section of theValentine Gazette. I still remember painting the trim with Mom and Dad and the way Mom squealed when Dad ran a wet paintbrush down her back.
I think I sort of get what adults mean when they say, “If these walls could talk.” Let’s be real, though. The thought of talking walls spooks me out big-time.
As I step backward out the front door of the house, the screen door creaks as it shuts behind me. “Goodbye, home,” I whisper mournfully.
“A tad dramatic, don’t you think?” calls Oscar.
I whirl around.
“Just wanted to make sure you didn’t need any more help.” He stands on the sidewalk. “Didn’t mean to interrupt your big moment.”
I huff, blowing my thick black bangs into the air. “I wasn’t having a moment.” I look back at the house—a redbrick one-story with white trim and a bright-blue door (Mom’s addition)—only slightly different from every other house on the block except Miss Flora Mae’s. “Okay, maybe I was.”
“And the Academy Award goes to... Sweet Pea DiMarco!”
I look off into the distance. “I’d like to thank the little people—and by little people, I mean my best friend, Oscar. My Academy Award is the most exciting thing to ever happen to him, so let’s have a moment of silence for how sad that is.”
“Har, har,” he says. “You know I’m the talent in this relationship.”
I laugh. “If you’re the talent, I’m the brains.”
