Saving Red

  And then

  it’s morning.

  And I wake up drenched in sweat,

  relief washing over me.

  But as soon as I’m fully conscious,

  that relief turns to dread.

  I don’t even take the time to check and see

  if there’s a new text from Cristo.

  I just throw on my clothes, grab Pixel,

  scrawl a note to my parents,

  hop onto my bike,

  and whiz off.

  Fifteen Minutes Later

  When we finally round the corner

  and head down Cristo’s alley,

  Pixel cocks his head

  and looks at me like,

  “Don’t worry, kiddo. She pinky swore.

  You don’t go back on a pinky swear.”

  But my fingers are tingling

  as I fumble the key into the lock,

  pull open the gate,

  and—

  There’s Red!

  Waving at me from the lounge chair,

  like a girl on one of those floats

  in the Rose Parade.

  “Don’t look so surprised to see me,” she says,

  as she strokes Sequoia’s head.

  “You don’t go back on a pinky swear.”

  Pixel raises

  an I-told-you-so eyebrow at me

  as I hurry over to hug her.

  Sequoia stretches luxuriously,

  then spies Pixel and streaks toward him.

  He takes off running.

  Except for the shadows

  under Red’s eyes,

  she looks beautiful—

  her hair

  in damp ringlets,

  like she’s just had a swim,

  her face

  all fresh-looking

  and rosy-cheeked.

  And the strangest thing of all?

  She doesn’t look even

  the slightest bit crazy.

  But Looks Can Be Deceiving

  “Girl,” Red says,

  “you shoulda been here last night.”

  “Why? What did I miss?”

  “Sequoia and I were abducted by aliens.”

  She says this with a totally straight face.

  “You . . . you were?” I ask weakly.

  (Because, I mean, what do you

  say to a person who tells you

  they’ve been abducted by aliens?)

  “Yeah,” Red says. “But they only drew

  a little tube of blood from each of us.

  Then they let us go.”

  “That must have been . . . uh . . . scary?”

  “It was,” she says. “But not half as scary

  as The Duke and Lana can be sometimes.”

  “How long have you . . .

  have you known those two?” I ask.

  Red smiles this strange little half smile.

  Then she bugs out

  her eyes at me and says,

  “You mean how long have I been bonkers?”

  I Can Feel My Cheeks Burning Up

  “Well . . . yeah,” I admit.

  “I guess that kind of is what I meant.”

  Red doesn’t seem offended, though.

  She just says, “I’m not sure when it started.

  I think it was around a year before my dad left us.

  But I’ve got schizoaffective disorder.

  Which is kind of like being bipolar

  with a little schizophrenia thrown in—

  paranoia, hallucinations, voices . . .”

  She pauses then, and tilts her head

  as though she’s listening to something.

  Or someone.

  “Are you . . . Are you hearing

  voices right now, Red?”

  “Just one,” she says.

  “Yours.”

  Then She Bursts Out Laughing

  So I do, too.

  But my thoughts are racing because, I mean,

  she seems so relaxed and open right now.

  Maybe if I play my cards right,

  I can get her to tell me

  what I need to know.

  “Were the kids at your school . . .

  Were they . . . Were they cool with it?

  With your being sick, I mean?”

  She looks at me like this is the dumbest

  question anyone has ever asked.

  “Yeah. If ‘cool’ means they froze me out.”

  Pixel’s been romping with Sequoia,

  but now he trots over to me

  and nudges his nose into my palm.

  I scratch him behind his left ear,

  and then, without even looking up at Red,

  I ask, “What school did you go to?”

  I try to ask this like I don’t really care.

  Like finding out the name of her school

  isn’t basically the whole key to everything . . .

  But she must sense what I’m up to,

  because she just shrugs

  and says, “I can’t tell you that.”

  “Why not?” I ask, as casual as anything.

  “Because if I told you,” she says,

  “I’d have to kill you.”

  We Share Another Laugh at This

  Though mine is forced—because

  Christmas Eve is only a week away now.

  But I tell myself there’ll be other chances.

  Then I change the subject and suggest that

  we have another get-something-for-nothing day.

  “Great idea!” Red says. “Let’s check Craigslist.”

  Pixel zips off to play with Sequoia,

  while Red and I scroll through

  the FREE STUFF posts.

  We take a pass

  on the “L’il Swimmers swim diapers”

  and on the “free gerbils —WITH cage!!!”

  We nix

  the “used peanut oil”

  and the “like new airtight turkey bags.”

  Then finally, after hundreds of other equally

  weird listings, we reach the very last post:

  “free haircuts at Vidal Sassoon Academy.”

  Red and I grin at each other.

  “Thanks!” we cry in unison.

  “We better!”

  But When I Call Out to Pixel

  And tell him it’s time for him to hop into

  the bike basket, he doesn’t hear me—he’s too

  busy being chased around the yard by Sequoia.

  His eyes are gleaming and his tail is wagging

  and I swear to God, if dogs could laugh,

  he’d be giggling hysterically right now.

  I call out to him again.

  He glances over at me and seems to sigh.

  Then he slows down and lets Sequoia catch him.

  They tumble together in the grass for a minute.

  Then he untangles himself and trots over to me,

  glancing back wistfully over his shoulder.

  “Those two were having such

  an amazing time together,” Red says.

  “Seems a shame he has to leave . . . ,” I say.

  “Then why don’t you let him stay?” Red says.

  “I don’t know if that’s a good idea . . . ,” I say.

  “He’s not used to being separated from me.”

  Red gives me a look.

  Then she says,

  “Are you worried about him?

  Or about you?”

  I Look Down at My High-Tops

  “Maybe . . . maybe a little bit of each?” I admit.

  “Well, never fear!” she says. “I’ll take care of you,

  and The Duke will take care of Pixel!”

  “Besides,” she adds, “Lana says she saw

  eleven mockingbirds this morning.

  She says that’s an excellent sign!”

  I pick at a hangnail, still not sure.

  “I know it’s a little scary,” she says,

  ?
??but you’ll do fine without him.

  Besides, Pixel’s been

  working his doggy butt off.

  I bet he’d love a little vacation.”

  I’ve never thought about it like that before.

  Suddenly I’m swimming in a sea of guilt.

  I’ve been so freaking selfish . . .

  Pixel wags his tail at me

  as if to say, “I don’t need a vacation.”

  But I swallow hard and say, “Yes you do!”

  He cocks his head at me like, “Are you sure?”

  But I just reach down and give him

  a quick squeeze good-bye.

  He gives me a sweet little thank-you lick.

  Then he dashes off again,

  Sequoia tailing him like a squad car.

  A Half Hour Later

  When the student stylist approaches Red

  with a pair of glinting scissors in his hand,

  she flinches

  and sucks in a sharp breath.

  The Duke and Lana

  must be talking to her.

  I’ve spent so much time with Red

  that I’m starting to feel like I can predict

  exactly what they’ll say

  in any given situation.

  And right now,

  The Duke is asking,

  “How do you know that twit isn’t going to

  drive those scissors right into your royal heart?”

  And Lana’s warning, “The omens are bad.

  The signs are not favorable! Beware! Beware!”

  “Shut up,” I hiss at the two of them

  under my breath.

  And then I clamp my hand

  over my mouth.

  Because oh my God—

  did I just talk to the voices

  inside Red’s head?

  Two Hours Later

  When we leave the salon,

  Red looks like

  she stepped right out

  of the pages of Vogue—

  her ringlets smoothed

  into shimmering, rolling waves,

  her bangs cut at an impossibly

  chic angle.

  And me?

  My boring wisps of dirty brown straw

  (which usually wisp boringly

  around my face)

  are two inches shorter

  and three shades lighter

  and not even remotely wispy.

  Or boring. Or straw-like!

  I snap a selfie and send it to Cristo

  with the caption: The new me!

  He texts back: I like the new you.

  But I also liked the old you.

  I like all the yous.

  When We Get Back to Cristo’s

  We find Pixel and Sequoia

  fast asleep on the lounge chair,

  wrapped around each other like they’re

  the costars of a viral video.

  I snap a picture of them

  and text it to Cristo.

  He texts back a selfie of himself,

  snuggling with his stuffed Yankee bear.

  My heart melts faster

  than chocolate on a s’more.

  Don’t go anywhere, I text him.

  I’m gonna call you in a minute.

  I give Red an enormous hug

  and make her pinky swear a zillion times

  that she’ll still be here

  when I come back in the morning.

  Then I pop Pixel into his basket,

  switch on the headlight, put in my earbuds,

  guide my bicycle out through the gate,

  and dial Cristo’s number.

  When You’re Riding Your Bike

  While talking to a boy you like,

  and there’s a smile of silvery moon

  shining down on you

  (the same smile of silvery moon

  that’s shining down on him,

  three thousand miles away!),

  it feels like

  the street’s turning to silk

  beneath your wheels . . .

  When you’re riding your bike

  while talking to a boy you like,

  the lampposts glow like candles

  and it seems as if

  every car that cruises past

  is full of cupids—

  all of them smiling

  and waving at you,

  blowing cupid kisses . . .

  When you’re riding your bike

  while talking to a boy you like,

  the sound of that boy’s voice

  vibrating against your ear

  feels almost like the brush

  of his lips might feel . . .

  And if someone were to tell you

  that that boy was about to drop off

  the face of the earth

  you would

  have thought

  they were . . .

  well—crazy.

  But an Hour Later

  When you text him

  to say good night,

  he doesn’t

  text you back.

  You shrug it off—telling yourself

  that you forgot the time zones.

  That it’s much later in New York.

  That he’s probably just asleep.

  But when you text him

  the next day,

  and then you text him

  again,

  and then you call him

  and call him,

  and he doesn’t respond

  and doesn’t respond

  and doesn’t respond

  to any of it,

  you feel like

  you’re being swallowed up

  by a sinkhole

  of suck.

  For the Last Couple of Days

  I’ve been wandering

  around Santa Monica with Red,

  looking for ways to get something for nothing,

  feeling as stunned as a bird

  that’s just smashed into

  a pane of glass.

  Time’s running out

  for me to accomplish

  my mission.

  But the truth is,

  it’s been hard for me to think

  about that . . .

  Instead, I’ve been rereading

  all of Cristo’s texts,

  and all the ones I sent him, too—

  double-checking them

  to make sure I didn’t come across

  as seeming too desperate.

  And I’ve been going over and over

  that final conversation I had with him,

  trying to figure out if I said something wrong—

  dissecting every syllable I uttered,

  and every syllable he uttered,

  searching in vain for even the slightest hint

  that he was getting ready to dump me.

  I Don’t Get It, God

  Why did you create Cristo and then go

  out of your way to make sure that I got on

  that Ferris wheel right when I did,

  if you knew all along

  that he was nothing but

  a no-good heartless jerk?

  I mean seriously—

  if you really want people

  to believe that you’re up there,

  you know,

  like watching over all of us

  or whatever,

  you gotta

  do a better

  freaking job.

  When I Tell Red What’s Going On

  She says maybe there’s a logical

  explanation for Cristo’s sudden silence

  and maybe there isn’t.

  But she says a girl’s gotta do

  whatever it takes to hang on

  to her dignity and her self-respect.

  And I know

  in my heart

  that she’s right.

  So I leave Cristo one final voice mail

  telling him I don’t know

  what the he
ck is going on with him,

  but that unless

  we hear otherwise,

  Red will keep feeding his cat,

  and that it wouldn’t be fair

  for him to throw her out just because

  his feelings for me have changed.

  Then

  I stop trying

  to contact him.

  I stop

  texting him.

  And calling him.

  But

  I can’t stop

  thinking about him.

  There’s Only Five Days Left Till Christmas Eve

  And I know I shouldn’t be

  wasting any more time on Cristo.

  I should be putting all my energy

  into finding out where Red’s family lives.

  But it’s hard to stay focused

  when my emotions are bouncing around

  like one of those shiny metal balls

  in a pinball machine—

  ricocheting from hating Cristo

  to worrying about him

  to hating him

  to missing him to pieces

  to hating him

  to not understanding him

  to wishing

  I never met him

  and then back again

  to missing him to pieces.

  I’ve Been Trying My Best

  Not to let Red see

  the full extent of my misery.

  But apparently my murky gray aura

  has given me away.

  She’s been incredibly sweet to me,

  telling me she’s sure

  that this silence of Cristo’s

  is just a temporary thing.

  Telling me his feelings for me

  haven’t changed.

  That she feels it in her bones.

  Especially in her ribs.

  She says Lana told her

  that she consulted the oracle

  and that all signs point

  to a positive outcome.

  She says even The Duke thinks

  there’s nothing to worry about.

  She promises me again and again

  that Cristo will call soon.

  I just wish I could believe her.

  Finally

  After seventy-two excruciating hours

  of not hearing from Cristo,

  I decide that it’s time to move on.

  I mean, what kind of a guy just cuts you

  off like that without an explanation?

  The terrible kind, that’s what!

  The reality is

  I only went on one measly date