“You should come to an LGBT meeting sometime,” Sam said.
“But I’m not gay. Or lesbian, or bi, or transatlantic.”
Sam smirked. “I think you mean transgender.”
Melanie piped up. “It doesn’t matter. We open up meetings sometimes to kids with gay parents or siblings or friends, too, as a safe place to talk and ask questions.”
“Thanks.”
Then Phoebe said, “We need to talk about Stewart.”
And that was when I clued in. For Phoebe and Violet, at least, it was their loyalty to Stewart that had made them come sit with me. It was kind of a punch in the gut to realize that my sort-of-stepbrother—who’d only been at Borden for a few months—had better friends than me.
“We’re worried that Jared’s going to try to get revenge when Stewart comes back to school,” Phoebe said.
“So am I,” I admitted. “It took me a long time to figure out that he is not a nice person.”
“Yeah,” said Violet. “Longer than it should have.”
“He trips me in the hall all the time,” said Sam.
“He shouted ‘beached whale’ at me on a crowded bus one day,” said Larry. I shook my head in sympathy. Maybe I could find a nice way to lend him my copy of The South Beach Diet.
Everyone started to tell stories about how and when Jared had been a jerk to them. I even told them what he’d done to me on New Year’s Eve, minus the gorier details. It felt good to be able to talk about it.
“We all know this guy’s a creep. So why do we feel so powerless when there are so many of us, and only one of him?” Phoebe asked.
“Imagine if we could have protection squads,” Larry said. “Like some of the characters have on Game of Thrones.”
“That would be so cool,” said Sam wistfully.
Then the bell rang, and we all split up for afternoon classes.
But during math and home ec, my mind wandered.
Larry had given me an idea.
BEING HOME ALONE WAS getting tired very fast. Dad took Tuesday off to hang out with me, and also to visit the principal, but he had to go back to work on Wednesday. I knew he was worried about me. I didn’t think I should tell him that I felt better than I had all year (since we were only a week into the new year, this wasn’t all that hard). On the one hand, I knew I shouldn’t have done what I’d done. On the other hand, I was secretly proud of myself. Who knew I could be that fierce? And I couldn’t help feeling that my mom would have been secretly proud of me, too. After all, this was the woman who’d thrown rocks at a seven-year-old.
I also kept thinking, That creep got what was coming to him.
But I also knew that creep would try to get his revenge when I got back to school. I cannot tell a lie: That scared me, big-time.
Phoebe paid me a visit on Wednesday night. She’d brought me all my homework, which was really nice of her. We sat in the family room. She said the whole school was talking about what I’d done, and a lot of people were on my side; but she was scared for me, too.
“I’m so sorry about Schrödinger,” she said.
“I still go out looking for him every day. I’ve called the SPCA, vets…nothing.”
“You could still find him. How long has he been missing?”
“A week.”
“Oh.” We both knew: a week was a long time.
She was about to leave for her Mandarin lesson when I remembered I still hadn’t given her the brooch. “Wait here.” I ran upstairs and got the small gift-wrapped box.
“Merry Christmas,” I said when I got back to the family room.
She looked surprised. “I didn’t get anything for you.”
“That’s okay.”
Phoebe opened the box and lifted out the unicorn pin. “It’s great, Stewart. I love it.”
“A beautiful brooch for a beautiful girl.”
She blushed. “Smooth.” Then she held out the brooch. “You can pin it on me if you want.”
So I did. I was very careful to pin it well above her you-know-whats. But my fingers still touched her skin. Our faces were inches apart. Before I knew what was happening, she leaned in and gave me a quick kiss. “Thanks again.”
Then she was gone. And I sat there for a long time, trying to memorize the sensation of her lips on mine.
—
BY THURSDAY I WAS bored, and lonely. I’d finished my electric bike, and I took it out for a test spin when there was a break in the rain. It worked like a charm. But then the rain came back with a vengeance. And I felt Schrödinger’s absence in a profound way. I wanted to stay hopeful, but it was getting harder; I kept picturing him in the jaws of a coyote, or under the wheels of a car.
When I saw Phil arrive home, I dashed out the patio doors to his place, dying for some company. The awful word had been painted over in white, but we still had to buy the light brown paint that matched the rest of the house and finish the job.
“Hey, Stewart,” he said when he saw me. “How are you holding up?” He knew about my suspension.
“I’m okay,” I said. “How are you holding up?”
He sighed. “About the same. I think I’m doing better than Michael. He keeps threatening to go over to that boy’s house and tear a strip off him.”
“I don’t think that would be a good idea.”
He smiled, but he looked really tired. “You and me both. Hey, I had your posters copied.” He opened his briefcase and handed me a stack of eight-by-ten papers. MISSING, they pronounced at the top. Most of the room was taken up by a color photo of Schrödinger. Our phone number appeared below. “Want to go out and plaster them all over the neighborhood?”
“Sure,” I said, just as someone knocked at the door.
Ashley.
Even though she’d been really nice to me all week, I still felt a lot of residual anger toward her. I didn’t make eye contact when Phil let her in. “Hi, sweetheart.”
“Hi, Dad. Um. Is Michael here?”
“He’s coming over later. Why?”
“I wanted to talk to him about something.”
Phil looked surprised. “Oh. Well, I’m sure he’ll be happy to talk to you. I can call you when he gets here.”
“Okay,” she said. I waited for her to leave.
“Stewart and I were just about to put up these posters,” Phil said.
“Can I help?” she asked.
I really didn’t want her along. But Phil said, “Sure.”
So the three of us bundled up against the cold and the wet and headed out. I walked ahead, calling Schrödinger’s name as we walked down streets and alleys, putting up posters. At one point, I looked back and was shocked to see Ashley grab her dad’s hand. Phil looked shocked, too. But he held on tight.
We turned down another laneway, one I hadn’t visited in a couple of days. It was about five blocks from our house. I called Schrödinger’s name again.
Suddenly, Ashley said, “Shhh!”
We stopped.
That was when we heard it: a faint meow, coming from an old, run-down garage.
—
I RAN THROUGH THE gate and pounded on the back door of the house. A guy with a lot of tattoos answered, and at first I was a little scared, but then I saw his pretty redheaded wife in the background and she was carrying a baby, so I relaxed.
“I think my cat is stuck in your garage,” I blurted. “I can hear meowing, and he’s been gone a long time, a whole week—”
“Okay. It’s okay,” he said in a calm voice. “Let’s go have a look. I just need to get the keys. Amanda, where are the keys to the garage?” he asked the redhead.
“They’re in my purse.” He found the keys. Then all of us, even the baby, went back to the garage. The man with the tattoos unlocked the door and lifted it.
It was dark inside. “I’m sorry, the light’s busted,” he said.
But in the darkness, I saw two big green eyes peering out at me. “Schrödinger!”
He was wedged between a rusty old car and a st
ack of lumber. He did not look happy. I ran to him and gently lifted him up. He was so thin. I held him close. Tears filled my eyes, and pretty soon I was bawling. “You’re alive! Schrödinger, you’re alive!”
—
THE MAN WITH THE TATTOOS—whose name, we discovered, was Cosmo—gave us a cardboard box so we could safely carry Schrödinger home. His wife placed an old towel in the bottom. We thanked them and said we’d see them around the neighborhood. Ashley said if they ever needed a babysitter they could call us. Then, with Schrödinger carefully placed in the box, we walked home.
Ashley was crying, too. “Scooby-Doo, we’ve missed you so much!” she wailed into one of the airholes I’d punched into the box.
Some things never change, I thought. But I didn’t bother correcting her, because I was still crying, too.
WE HAD A BIG steak dinner to celebrate Shoelace’s return. Dad and Michael joined us. Dad brought his famous Caesar salad, and I ate a whole bunch of it ’cause now that Jared and I are finished, I don’t have to worry about garlic breath. As part of our now-nightly ritual, we did “Truly thankful,” which didn’t seem as barfy as usual because I really was truly thankful that Stewart’s cat was home.
After dinner, I took Michael up to my room and told him about my idea. He said he’d be more than happy to help, and he gave me a hug. “That’s a bold and inspiring plan, Ashley.”
Then Mom came in and I told her, too, and she actually started to cry. She put her arms around me and held me tight. “I’m so proud of you.”
!!!
My heart started beating really fast, because if I am one hundred percent totally honest, people don’t say stuff like that to me very often.
I stayed up super-late, drawing my ideas on the sketch pad Dad had gotten me for Christmas. At lunchtime, I found Claudia, Violet, Phoebe, Melanie, Larry, Sam, and Jeff in the cafeteria, and told them what I was thinking.
“It was Larry who gave me the idea. I started thinking, why not? Why couldn’t we have protection squads?”
“Protection squads?” Claudia repeated as she blew a bubble with her gum. She sounded skeptical.
“Think about it. If we can get enough people interested, we can all do different shifts.”
They looked at each other. Phoebe spoke first. “It’s not a bad idea. We could take turns walking with Stewart to classes, and to his house after school.”
“No reason why we should just do it for Stewart,” Sam said. “We could do it for other kids, too.”
“I bet I can get the Mathletes involved,” Phoebe said.
“I can work on the Drama Club,” Jeff added.
“Ditto the Dungeons and Dragons Club,” said Larry. I didn’t point out that I was pretty sure he was the sole member, since it was the thought that counted.
“Bet I can get some of the volleyball team to help out, too,” said Claudia, less skeptical.
“Once I have all the names, I can draw up a schedule,” said Melanie. “I’m good at scheduling.”
“And of course,” I said, “we have to stand out. Which is why I took the liberty of designing our outfits.” I took out my sketch pad, flipped it open, and placed it on the table. They gathered around for a good look.
“Wow,” said Jeff. “Your sketches are great.”
I wanted to kiss him.
“I like the shirts,” Violet said. “You think we could get those colors?”
“I know we can.”
“What’s with the funny hats?” asked Larry.
“They’re called berets,” I explained. “They’re French.”
“So…why do we have to wear French hats?” asked Sam.
“To stand out!” I replied, feeling a bit exasperated. “There’s no reason why we can’t protect Stewart and look stylish at the same time.”
LIFE HAS RETURNED TO almost normal.
The hole in the foyer has been fixed. The carpets have been professionally cleaned. Phil’s house has been painted a whole new color, a very attractive royal blue. Best of all, Dad and Caroline seem back on an even keel again; I don’t hear them arguing anymore about what happened on New Year’s, or about dishes or socks. And Schrödinger is completely recovered; in fact, Ashley says I’d better put him on a diet because he’s getting fat.
Also, we’ve hung Mom’s painting of the bowl of fruit over the fireplace in the living room. Everyone likes it. Even Ashley. And it makes me happy that we can all see one more reminder of the amazing person my mom was.
Now I think of my new family not as a quadrangle, but as an octagon.
I have concluded that Mom belongs there along with everyone else, because her memory—and her molecules—live on.
—
I’VE BEEN BACK AT Borden for a month. Dad walked with me on my first day after the suspension ended. We went to Mr. Stellar’s office and handed in my mascot outfit. Mr. Stellar told me I was the most enthusiastic mascot the team had ever had, and he was sorry to lose me. But after what had happened, he had no choice.
Then we went to the counselor’s office. A lot of kids stared at me as we walked down the corridor. A surprising number of them high-fived me.
Sylvia managed to get me into a different phys ed class for the rest of the year so I wouldn’t have to face Jared in the change room. It was a start. Then Dad dropped me at my first class. “Call me anytime if you need me.” He was worried. I couldn’t blame him; I was worried, too.
A couple of kids in my class were wearing matching blue scoop-neck T-shirts and purple berets, but I didn’t think much of it. When the bell rang, I walked into the hallway. The blue shirts followed me. A few kids in purple shirts and blue berets—including Phoebe, Violet, and Walter from Mathletes—joined them. And then, the biggest shock of all: Ashley appeared, wearing one of the blue T-shirts and a purple beret. They flanked me and walked me to my next class. “What is this?” I asked.
“Think of us as your sort-of bodyguards,” said Ashley.
To say I was surprised would be an understatement.
“I hate this stupid hat,” muttered Walter, and he yanked it from his head.
“I second that,” said Phoebe, taking hers off, too.
“I third it!” said Violet, and she flung her beret like a Frisbee into a nearby garbage can. The others did the same.
“But it’s part of the ensemble!” Ashley protested, plucking the berets out of the trash.
“Ensemble for what?” I asked.
She explained that the Friday before I returned to school, she, Phoebe, Violet, and some others had managed to get close to twenty kids signed up for their new “protection squad” program. It wasn’t as many as they’d hoped for, but it was a start. Over the weekend, Michael helped her source the T-shirts, and they’d got them dirt cheap. Then Ashley and Jeff went on a sewing binge all weekend in Phil’s laneway house, creating the berets, which hardly anyone, it rapidly became clear, would wear.
By the end of my first week back, almost forty kids were signed up. They didn’t just protect me; they escorted any student who felt uneasy about Jared, or about anyone else.
I’ve seen Jared dozens of times now. He doesn’t seem nearly as scary, or cocky. Is this because of the protection squads? Maybe a little. He knows a lot of people—not just the squads, but the principal and the teachers, too—are keeping an eye on him. And it hasn’t hurt that a tenth-grade rugby player named Darren has taken quite an interest in Ashley. He seems like a real step up from Jared: he’s a genuinely nice guy who also happens to be built like a Mack truck. He was intrigued when he saw all these people walking around in purple and blue. Ashley told him what it was about, and he signed up. He also got a bunch of his teammates to sign up, so by the end of the second week, the protection squad’s numbers soared to over fifty. I heard through the grapevine that Darren also took Jared aside one day and told him that if he so much as touches me or anyone else, the entire rugby team will be after him. So, while I would never say this to Ashley, Darren’s threat might have had a bigger e
ffect on Jared than a bunch of kids in purple and blue.
Still, I can’t believe Ashley managed to put some of the power back into the hands of the little people. That Ashley wound up being a force for change. I told her another one of my favorite Einstein quotes: “The world is a dangerous place to live, not because of the people who are evil, but because of the people who don’t do anything about it.”
She just looked at me and said, “How that man went out in public with that hair is beyond me.”
But she’s proud of what she’s done. Being Ashley, when I call the T-shirts blue and purple, she corrects me. “Indigo and aubergine.”
I can tell she still misses Lauren. But I’m pretty sure that friendship is over. One day Lauren was in tears at her locker, and I saw Ashley try to talk to her, but Lauren just told her to eff off.
Except she didn’t say “eff.”
—
EVERY NOW AND THEN, Ashley and I have moments where we genuinely connect. Like recently, I helped her come up with a structure for the new essay she had to write on To Kill a Mockingbird. After she’d finally finished reading the book, I rented the movie for us one night. Her comment? “Gregory Peck is super-handsome!” Then she turned her gaze from the screen to me. “Hmm. Interesting,” she said. “Gregory has sticky-outy ears, too. Just like you.”
“So?” I asked.
“So there’s hope for you yet.”
And at the end of my first week back to school, she actually asked for my input on finding a good name for the squads, because she wanted to get it printed on the T-shirts. We both agreed Protection Squad sounded too negative, and so was Anti-anything.
So I suggested a name and, miracle of miracles, Ashley liked it.
That’s what’s printed on all the T-shirts now.
WE ARE ALL MADE OF MOLECULES.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I want to thank my early readers for taking the time to slog through previous drafts of this manuscript: Hilary McMahon, and Göran Fernlund, your thoughtful, insightful notes made this novel infinitely better. A special shout-out to Julian Miller, a member of my target audience, who gave me shockingly astute notes; he is a future top-notch editor.