Saving Red

  I brought her from home,

  and Pixel’s curled in her lap,

  his bushy tail thumping as she

  runs her fingers through his fur,

  it’s almost

  like having a sleepover

  with a regular person.

  Until it isn’t.

  Riding the Red Roller Coaster

  One minute she seems so normal—

  telling me all these funny stories

  about the pranks she

  and this guy named The Duke

  used to pull when they were my age.

  The next she’s wild-eyed and manic—

  telling me how much she loves her bed,

  calling down to the front desk

  to ask them if she can buy the mattress

  and the pillows and the bathtub!

  One minute she’s saying she’s not hungry.

  The next she’s dialing room service,

  waving me off when I try to keep her

  from ordering every single item

  on the kiddie menu.

  One minute she’s wishing me

  a Happy Hanukkah, thanking me

  for giving her this perfect night,

  telling me she hopes her little sisters

  grow up to be just like me.

  The next,

  she’s staring at the balcony,

  with eyes as big as pies,

  asking me if I see the cyclops

  who’s standing out there

  watching us.

  Pixel Hops Up onto Red’s Bed

  And rests his head on her knee,

  while I try to think

  of the most tactful way

  to answer her question.

  “No . . . ,” I say. “I don’t see the cyclops.

  All I see is . . . is the lights on the Ferris wheel.

  See them? Down there on the pier?

  Maybe they looked like a cyclops to you?”

  Red goes to the balcony

  and peers at the view.

  Then she lets out a breath.

  “Maybe . . . ,” she says.

  A minute later, room service arrives.

  She rushes over and grabs a fork.

  But then she hesitates and looks off into space,

  like she’s listening to something.

  She heaves a deep sigh and says,

  “No thanks. I better not. The Duke says

  the spaghetti and the chicken fingers and

  the hot dog are laced with royal rat poison.”

  The . . . Duke . . . ?

  I wait to see if she’s kidding.

  But she doesn’t nudge me

  or wink or anything.

  So I say, “What about the pizza?”

  “The Duke says the pizza’s okay.

  But that it’s not as good as Domino’s.”

  And then she does start laughing.

  So I do too.

  But a Little Chill Shoots Up My Spine

  Because it’s just dawned on me

  that this guy she calls “The Duke” isn’t real.

  He’s just a voice inside her head!

  And maybe

  I’m in way over

  mine . . .

  I mean,

  this girl is really sick.

  What if she runs amok or something?

  What if

  she flat-out loses it

  and tries to jump off the balcony?

  I can feel

  my stomach

  tying itself into knots.

  Maybe

  I should call the police . . .

  But what would I say?

  “This girl I’m with is crazy

  and she might do something bad

  any second now”?

  Suddenly a part of me

  wants to make up some excuse

  and just get the heck out of here.

  But then another part of me kicks in—

  the part that knows how I’d want Noah to be

  treated if he were in a situation like this.

  So I grit my teeth

  and serve us each

  a couple slices of pizza.

  A Second Later

  I get a text from Cristo.

  It’s a photo of a huge deli sandwich

  with these words underneath it:

  This would have been more delicious,

  if you were sitting next to me

  while I ate it.

  So I snap a picture

  of a greasy-looking chicken finger

  and write:

  This wouldn’t have been delicious

  under any circumstances.

  But I still wish you were here.

  He texts me right back.

  No photo this time.

  Just two xx’s.

  So I send two xx’s back to him.

  And then—I freak.

  Because . . . Oh my gosh . . .

  Did we just have our first kiss?!

  My Heart Does a Little Cartwheel

  “Girl,” Red says. “Your cheeks

  just turned pinker than bubble gum.

  Has Cristo been sexting you?”

  “No!” I say, turning even pinker.

  “Lemme see,” she says,

  plucking my phone from my hand.

  She scrolls through the texts

  and cries, “I knew you two

  were gonna be a thing!”

  “We’re not a thing,” I say.

  “But you will be soon,” she says.

  “Your auras are a perfect match.”

  “Our . . . auras?” I say.

  “You know,” she says. “Those colorful

  lights that surround a person’s body?”

  “Ohhh . . . ,” I say. “Those . . . ,”

  trying not to let it show on my face

  how nutty I think this sounds.

  “Your aura and Cristo’s

  are the exact same shade of gold,” she says.

  “That means you’re meant for each other.”

  And even though I know

  this is just part of her craziness,

  a little thrill runs through me.

  Yikes . . .

  I just Googled auras

  and it turns out they really exist.

  At least some people think they do.

  Totally sane people, even.

  And some people claim

  they can actually see auras . . .

  Is it possible that Red

  is one of those people?

  Is it possible that she’s right

  about Cristo and me?

  Is it

  possible?

  Multitasking

  Red and I are munching

  on Pringles and Skittles

  and playing with Silly Putty

  and using the knitting needles we bought

  at the drugstore to put up our hair

  while watching Miracle on 34th Street.

  When the movie’s over,

  Red turns to me with a totally straight face

  and asks me if I believe in Santa Claus.

  I nibble on my lower lip,

  and then, as kindly as I can,

  I tell her that I don’t.

  “Me neither,” she says with a shrug.

  “And the tooth fairy’s BS too.

  Do you believe in God, though?”

  “I’m . . . I’m not sure,” I say. “Maybe . . .

  He hasn’t exactly been very reliable in the

  answering-all-my-prayers department . . .”

  “Mine neither,” she says with a sad little laugh.

  “Do you believe in God?” I ask.

  “I used to,” she says. “But not anymore.”

  So I ask her why not, and she explains.

  She Tells Me That God Used to Visit Her

  Almost every day.

  She says they’d hang out in her room

  and have all these deep talks about stuf
f.

  She says he seemed so real to her.

  Like an actual person

  who was standing right there next to her.

  “God,” she says. “He was so hot.

  He had this swimmer’s body,

  long brown hair, big green aura.

  I had such a crush on him.

  But then I started taking

  a new medication.

  And a couple of weeks later

  God stopped showing up.

  Which is when I realized

  he’d just been a hallucination—

  no more real than any of my other ones.”

  “You must have really missed him,” I say.

  “Yeah,” she says. “I missed him so much

  I stopped taking my medication.

  But he never came back.”

  “It’s awful, isn’t it,” I say,

  “when someone you love disappears

  and never comes back?”

  “It sure is . . . ,” she says.

  She looks at me for a long moment.

  Then she adds,

  “It’s good to have a real friend.

  Like, as opposed to an imaginary one.

  You . . . you are real, aren’t you?”

  “Let me check,” I say.

  Then I pinch myself

  and shout, “Ouch!”

  Which Cracks Her Up

  So I start laughing too.

  And then we channel surf,

  till we land on

  Dancing with the Stars.

  She stands,

  pulls me up after her,

  and starts waltzing me

  around the room.

  I close my eyes

  for a few seconds

  and pretend it’s Cristo

  I’m waltzing with . . .

  Then she scoops up Pixel too,

  and the three of us waltz

  the goofiest, giggliest waltz,

  until we’re so dizzy

  that we

  have to

  flop down

  onto our beds . . .

  Then Red and I Are in That Awful Coffin

  Our arms wrapped around each other,

  singing this weird wailing duet,

  not even trying to escape,

  strangely resigned to our fate . . .

  And next thing I know—it’s morning.

  And I’m lying here

  bathed in my usual puddle

  of post-nightmare cold sweat.

  I dry my face

  on the sleeve of my pj’s,

  then roll over to see

  if Red’s awake yet.

  But—

  Oh no . . .

  No!

  Her bed is empty!

  I dash to the bathroom.

  But she’s not there either.

  I slide down

  onto the cold marble floor,

  pull my legs up to my chest,

  and try to breathe.

  But I can’t.

  I can’t breathe.

  Because

  Suddenly

  I’m flashing back

  to how I felt on the day

  Noah disappeared—

  like

  I’d

  fallen

  into

  a

  cold

  dark

  well

  and

  I

  was

  tumbling

  down

  and

  down

  and

  down,

  but

  never

  ever

  reaching

  the

  bottom . . .

  Then Pixel’s Beside Me

  Cocking his head at me.

  “She’s gone,” I tell him.

  “Red’s disappeared.

  Just like Noah.”

  Pixel rolls his eyes,

  then gives my sleeve a gentle tug

  and races into the bedroom.

  I scramble up to follow after him.

  When I round the corner,

  he’s standing by the sliding glass doors

  that open out onto

  the balcony.

  And right behind him is Red—

  curled up on the cement,

  wrapped in the comforter from her bed.

  Tears of relief sting my eyes.

  Suddenly, an ambulance howls past

  and Red sits up in a panic.

  But when she sees me,

  she seems to relax.

  “What are you doing out there?” I ask.

  “I missed sleeping under the stars,” she says.

  “And besides, there were a coupla things

  I had to discuss with Lana . . .”

  “Who’s Lana?” I ask.

  “Oh . . . ,” Red says with a nervous little giggle.

  “She’s . . . she’s a friend of The Duke’s.

  I thought I introduced you guys.”

  Then she whisks past me

  into the bathroom,

  pours the last of the bubble bath into the tub,

  and turns the water on full blast.

  Oh, man . . . Red hears two voices?

  While Red’s in the Tub

  I slip out onto the balcony.

  The ocean’s almost turquoise today,

  dotted with diamonds of light.

  I snap a photo and text it to Cristo

  with these words: Operation Red in

  full swing. Subject is in tub. I am on

  balcony. Here’s my view.

  What are YOU looking at right now?

  He texts me back a second later:

  I’m looking at the view

  from your balcony! ☺

  And I text back: Hahahahaha!

  Then a second later

  he sends me a picture

  of the view from the top

  of the Empire State Building.

  It’s beautiful! I type.

  I wish I were up there with you . . .

  Yuck! Way too mushy! So I delete all that

  and just write: It’s pretty!

  And he replies: Yeah. But not as

  pretty as you. FaceTime me?

  So I wait till I’m through blushing.

  And then—

  I do.

  It Turns Out

  That when you FaceTime

  a boy who you’ve only

  just met,

  who you only spent

  six hours with

  before he had to jet,

  and

  that boy’s face

  pops onto your phone,

  you’re

  suddenly thrilled

  right down to the bone.

  And when you

  see his curls

  and those soulful brown eyes,

  you feel

  like you’re made

  of a handful of sighs,

  your knees so wobbled

  you can’t even

  walk.

  And for

  just a few seconds,

  you forget how to talk . . .

  But Then Cristo Asks Me

  To tell him how Operation Red’s going.

  So I snap out of my stupor

  and say:

  “Well, the good news is

  she smells great now.

  And I think she’s starting to trust me.

  The bad news is she’s even sicker than

  I realized—she hears voices.

  She calls them ‘The Duke’ and ‘Lana.’”

  Cristo furrows his brows and asks,

  “Do you think maybe you should try

  to check her into a hospital?”

  “No. She doesn’t need to be hospitalized

  unless she’s a danger to herself

  or to someone else.”

  “Wow,” he says. “You sound like an expert.

  How do you know about all that stuff?”
br />   But, of course, I can’t tell him how.

  So I just say, “I . . . I Googled it.”

  And he says, “Well, good job, Agent Molly!”

  Then he grins at me.

  And he looks even cuter when he does that!

  I mean, if such a thing

  is even possible.

  Suddenly I Hear Red Shouting

  “Holy Moly! Come quick!”

  So I say a hurried good-bye to Cristo

  and dash into the bathroom.

  There she is—standing in the tub,

  modeling a frothy ball gown for me,

  made completely out of bubbles.

  “That’s amazing!” I say,

  as I start snapping pictures of her

  posing like she’s Cinderella.

  And when I show them to her,

  her smile’s so bright

  it practically gives me sunspots.

  Here’s my chance! I think to myself.

  “Want me to text these to anyone for you?”

  I ask, as casual as anything.

  She shakes her head no.

  “But I bet your mom would love these,” I say.

  “Why don’t you give me her cell number?”

  Red shoots me a sharp look.

  “No thanks. I better not.”

  “Would email be better? Or Facebook?”

  She scowls at me

  and plops down into the water,

  obliterating her foamy gown.

  “No thanks,”

  she says more firmly.

  “I better not.”

  At Noon

  The front desk calls up to the room,

  to remind us that checkout time

  was an hour ago.

  So we head out of the hotel

  and let Pixel lead us across Ocean Avenue

  into Palisades Park to pee on some palms.

  Then Red decides

  she wants to get a few things

  from her hidden stroller on the bluff.

  We’ve only been walking a few minutes,

  when up ahead we see the statue

  of Saint Monica.

  Red runs toward it,

  shouting back over her shoulder at me,

  “Race you to the top!”

  And then—

  she’s scaling right up the side of it,

  like some kind of manic monkey.

  “Get down from there!” I shout,

  as I sprint over and manage to catch hold

  of her ankle just before she climbs out of reach.

  “Let go of me!” she cries, trying to shake me off.

  “No!” I shout. “This thing’s twenty feet tall!

  You’ll hurt yourself!”

  Suddenly Pixel’s here, barking up at her