“Let me see!” Chloe darts out of her seat and comes to stand beside me. She plucks the brochure from my hands and starts flipping pages. “They give all the students a laptop!”
“You have to pay for it,” I say.
“It’s included in the tuition,” my dad explains. “They have great science labs, and an excellent drama department —”
“Dance!” Chloe points to a photo of students at a ballet barre.
“I know — I was looking at that, too,” Annie says with a laugh. “I want to go!”
“But — I like my school,” I say.
Dad leans back in his chair. I drop my eyes to the uneaten cupcake on my dessert plate, but I can feel my father studying my face. I don’t want to say what is really on my mind, which is the $130 for my Spanish book.
I know my mom mentioned it to my dad. I overheard her telling him while they were on the phone. And she also told him about the dentist bill. They share the cost of all that stuff. But the difference is that my dad has tons of money. He took a new job a couple of years ago, and his salary — which had been pretty low as assistant district attorney — suddenly shot up. Then, about six months ago, his law firm made him a partner. That was when all the new furniture and home décor appeared.
So. I wasn’t sure what Mom would think of private school when she was worried about buying a textbook.
“This school goes through high school. If you go starting next year, you’ll be all set.” My dad leans his elbows on the table.
“It would be hard to leave your friends,” Annie says gently. “But education is more important, don’t you think?”
Annoyance pricks at me. Annie is nice, but she often just doesn’t get me. It’s not like it’s her fault. She really tries. Anyway, I’m irritated that she thinks I just don’t want to leave my friends, when there are really a lot of reasons I’m not sure about Islip.
“Why don’t you just think about it?” Dad suggests. “Look through the brochure, and maybe we’ll go check it out.”
Chloe has already wandered back to her seat, her nose still buried in the pages of the Islip brochure.
I don’t want to get into a big argument, or hear more reasons why I should want to go to one of “the best schools in the whole country.” So I say, “Sure, Dad.”
Kind of the way Meghan humored Omar.
And then — topic over — I eat my cupcake.
Like I said, my dad and my mom have this agreement: They split a lot of expenses when it comes to me and Chloe. Like back-to-school clothes, junk like that. Usually, my mom will just pay for the stuff with her credit card, and then my dad can reimburse her.
The problem is that sometimes my dad forgets.
Two months ago, he forgot to send a check to cover Chloe’s class trip. Mom freaked out a little bit because her credit card wanted her to pay a penalty, and it was, like, two hours on the phone for her to get everything fixed with them.
Not that she told me about it. But Gran’s apartment over the Tea Room is pretty small, and I overhear a lot. I figure out a lot, too.
My dad isn’t a bad guy, but sometimes he doesn’t take care of things. Especially money things. It might be because — for years — Mom wrote all the checks, had all the bills set up online. She made sure everything was paid. So Dad isn’t used to paying attention to that stuff.
But, also, I’m not sure he really realizes just how bad off we are. He knows that Mom lost her job, that she had to pay the mortgage on the house for a while after that, and that we moved in with Gran. But I don’t know if he’s thought about it.
I like to think that he hasn’t thought about it.
It’s better than thinking that he just doesn’t care.
“What makes these fish Swedish?” Meghan asks, pointing at the tub full of red gummy candy. “How can I tell if they’re truly from Sweden? Like, what if these fish are being misrepresented as Swedish, and they’re actually Norwegian? Do they have little fish passports?”
“It’s kind of the same thing as with French fries, I guess.” Luckily, I don’t have to worry about whether or not my fish are Swedish. When it comes to candy, I don’t usually go for the gummy varieties. I mean, I might buy a gummy worm to stick on a cupcake that’s covered in Oreo cookie crumbs, like a garden. But if I’m just buying candy to eat, I go chocolate all the way: malted milk balls, M&M’s, Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups — that whole food group. “Why don’t you get some gummy sharks, instead?”
“And cause a breakdown in international relations?” Meghan demands. “I don’t want to get reported to the United Nations!” She scoops a small school of limp fish into her plastic bag.
We carry our bags of candy up to the register. The high school student behind the counter barely glances up from the graphic novel she’s reading as she pokes a button on the electronic scale and weighs our candy. I hand her a few badly crumpled bills, and she counts my change with one hand — she won’t let go of that graphic novel.
Meghan swings open the heavy oak door and stands aside to let me through. It’s a bright, clear day, and the moment I step outside, I let out a wild sneeze.
“Bless you,” says a familiar voice.
Omar is standing on the street corner, holding a leash that leads to a dog that looks like a Doberman that might have been owned by a Munchkin. It has short black fur, a long-snouted brown face, comically floppy ears, and comes up to Omar’s shin.
“Puppy!” Meghan says, leaning over to pet the dog.
“Actually, she’s a full-grown dog,” Omar explains. “She’s a miniature pinscher.”
“So — a little Doberman?” I ask, keeping my distance. To be honest, dogs scare me a bit.
“Well, she looks like it, right?” Omar says, smiling down at the dog. “But this breed is actually closer to a Jack Russell terrier than a Doberman.”
“Is this your dog?” Meghan asks.
“No — I volunteer at the animal shelter,” Omar explains. “This one needs to go out and get socialized.”
“She looks pretty social to me.” The dog wiggles happily beneath Meghan’s enthusiastic petting, then sits up daintily, eyeing her candy. “Sorry, doggie,” Meghan says. “These aren’t dog treats.”
Omar reaches into his pocket and holds out his hand. The dog nibbles the brown lump he offers, then prances around, hoping for more. Omar pats her on the head. “Maybe later,” he says. Then he stands up and turns to Meghan. “So — Meg — Marco told me you talked to Sunrise.”
“Yes! And she’s going to run for vice president! Isn’t that great?” Meghan holds out her bag of candy, offering some to Omar.
“What?” Omar’s head draws back in surprise, but he takes a red fish from the bag. “Thanks.”
“We’re a ticket! I’m running for president, and she’s running for veep!” She does a little jiggy dance, then bites the head off a gummy fish.
Omar looks at me.
“I don’t think Omar’s talking about the election,” I tell my friend.
“I thought you were going to talk to Sunrise about my tutoring idea,” Omar says.
“Oh!” Meghan stops mid-chew. “I forgot all about that!”
I put a hand over my face as Omar’s dark eyes smolder like hot coals.
Meghan squirms. “I kind of got sidetracked planning the election strategy —” She looks to me for help. “You know, we had to think about what to put on the posters and stuff….”
“Making it worse,” I mutter, shaking my head. Sometimes, Meghan doesn’t know when to stop talking.
“Meghan,” Omar says, “it’s been a whole week!”
“Well, I wasn’t even sure you were still going to care about it in a week,” Meghan admits.
“Of course I care!” The little dog pricks up her ears, then prances over Omar’s feet. He scratches behind her ears absently. “There are people who need help!”
I crunch into a malted milk ball.
“Okay, okay, Omar. I’ll mention it to Sunrise.”
> “How do I know you won’t forget again?” Omar demands.
“Oh, come on,” Meghan says. “Why are you making a huge deal out of this?”
Omar’s eyes narrow, and for a moment, I think I see a spark in them, as if the smoldering coals are about to catch fire. “Why are you acting like the election is a bigger deal than tutoring?”
“Because it is!” Meghan twists the neck of her plastic bag, as if she’s trying to strangle it. She looks at me. “Right, Hayley?”
“Um,” I say.
“Hayley, you’re with me on this one, right?” Omar demands.
Actually, I am. But I don’t really want to say so. Meghan is my good friend. “Uh — I think I’ll just be a Swedish fish on this one.” Omar looks confused, so I wave at Meghan’s candy. “Neutral. Like Sweden.”
“Isn’t that Switzerland?” Meghan asks.
“Who cares?” Omar demands. “The point is that you said you would do something and you didn’t do it! You’re more worried about your dumb election!”
“Look, Omar, I’m not going to drop everything just to do what you want,” Meghan shoots back.
“Isn’t that what a president is supposed to do?” Omar demands. “Stuff to help the class?”
“Okay — I’ll take care of it when I’m class president.”
“And maybe you won’t,” Omar says. “Maybe I should run for president, so I can make sure things happen.”
“Oh, please.” Meghan looks at him over the top of her glasses. “Are you serious? You’ve never organized anything more complicated than a prank.”
Omar presses his lips together and gives Meghan the kind of look that could melt plastic. “You don’t know as much about me as you think you do,” he says.
“I know as much as I need to,” Meghan snaps. “Look, I’ll help you, Omar, okay? Just let me get through the election first. We can start the program next year.”
“That’s too late,” Omar says.
“What’s the rush?” Meghan demands.
But Omar just shakes his head. The little pinscher has spotted a Great Dane lumbering down the street a few stores away and is straining at the leash. “Forget it,” Omar says. “I’ll see you around, Hayley.” He lets the little dog lead him off.
Meghan bites her lip and sucks through her teeth as she watches him go. “Why didn’t you back me up?”
“You could’ve at least mentioned the idea to Sunrise,” I say. “I thought you were going to.”
Meghan sighs. She holds up her candy, letting the bag spin, loosening the stranglehold on the neck. “I should have,” she admits. “You’re right.”
“So — are you going to apologize to Omar?” I ask her.
“What? No way! That guy —” She rolls her eyes, not bothering to finish the thought.
The light changes, and we start across the street. “It should be an interesting election,” I say.
“What do you mean?”
“If Omar runs for president,” I explain.
Meghan stumbles a little as we step up onto the curb. “He was just kidding about that,” she says.
“He was?” He sounded serious to me.
“Omar couldn’t run for the bus, much less for president.” Meghan’s long green skirt swishes around her legs as she storms up the sidewalk.
“I hope you’re right,” I tell her. Omar’s a pretty popular guy, I think. It could be a tight race.
“Of course I’m right,” Meghan insists. “That guy.” And she chomps down on another fish. Have you ever seen someone chew angrily? I imagine that poor candy fish is getting seriously mangled.
I sigh. Well, anyway, I hope Meghan isn’t giving up on the tutoring thing. It really is a good idea.
But I know better than to say so.
The café is bubbling with activity as I thumb through my new-to-me cookbook and crunch on malted milk balls. I’m thinking that a malted milk ball cupcake might be cool, but there are a few ideas in the book I want to try first. Meghan definitely picked a good one.
“Getting some ideas?” Artie places a mug of cocoa on the table across from me and then sits down. Just like that. As if it was something she does every day.
“Uh, yeah,” I say, clearing space for her. I’ve been making some notes, and my papers are covering most of the small wooden tabletop. All the larger tables are taken.
“Don’t worry about it,” Artie says. “I’m used to dealing with your papers.”
“I’m not as bad as I used to be.” In my old house, in my old room, my desk was a total disaster. Open books, pages torn from magazines, tubes of glitter glue that I’d left open until they solidified, orange peels — you could find almost anything on my desk. As long as you weren’t looking for my homework. Artie always thought it was funny, because I’m generally a pretty neat person. The rest of my room was usually tidy. “I share a room with Chloe now, so I can’t be a slob.”
“How’s your messenger bag?” Artie asks with a knowing smile.
“Let’s not talk about it.” She has me, as usual — my bag is a disaster.
“Remember that time I found a six-month-old baloney sandwich in your desk?”
“That never happened,” I insist.
Artie laughs. It did happen, and she knows it. The really gross part was that some creature had eaten part of the sandwich by the time she found it.
I tap a pile of papers on the table, straightening them.
“What’s this?” Artie asks, reaching for the brochure that has just been revealed under my papers. “Islip Academy?” She opens the glossy pages and starts flipping through them. “Wow, fancy.”
“It is, kind of,” I admit.
“Whoa — they have a sailing team?” Artie’s right eyebrow lifts into a delicate arch. I have always envied her ability to do that. “And fencing!”
“Yeah. Did you see the labs?” I point out the picture of the gleaming black granite lab tables and all the chrome equipment. “They even have an observatory.”
“No way.”
“It’s a small one.”
“But still!” Artie’s hazel eyes are glued to the brochure, where there is an image of a girl photographing a butterfly in a colorful garden. Below is the caption, Summer enrichment photography class in the Shakespeare garden. “Marco would kill to take a class like that,” Artie says.
“Yeah.”
Artie looks up, and our eyes meet for a moment. Part of the reason Artie and I stopped being friends is because she had a crush on Marco … and she found out that he had kissed me. We have both had crushes since then — both on Devon McAllister. But Devon turned out to be a jerk. I never think about him anymore, and I don’t think that Artie does, either. But I wonder now if she still has a crush on Marco. Has it evaporated, disappearing into the air like steam? Or does it still linger, like a scar that remains even after the wound has healed?
Artie’s eyes drop back to the page. “You should tell him about the class.”
“Maybe I will,” I tell her. And, by the way, Marco asked me to the Spring Fling Barbecue. I want to say it, but I can’t make it come out. It seems … dangerous. Even though I feel like I should tell her.
I pick up the brochure and drop it into my messy, messy bag.
“So — what are you doing with an Islip brochure, anyway?” Artie takes a sip of cocoa. She’s the only person in the world who can do that and not get a chocolate mustache.
“My dad wants me to think about Islip.”
“Think about going there, you mean?”
“Yeah.” I squeeze my shoulders to my ears and drop them.
Artie takes a long sip of cocoa and looks out across the café. “That would be too bad,” she says, half to herself. Then she looks back at me.
“I know,” I admit. I run my finger along the smooth, lacquered edge of the table, wondering if she means that it would be too bad … now that we’re not fighting anymore.
“What are you doing Saturday?” Artie asks suddenly.
?
??No plans.”
“Game Night?” she suggests. Surprise makes me choke, and Artie backs off immediately. “Oh, well, if you don’t want to —”
“No,” I say quickly. Game Night was something we used to do with Marco. All three of us would get together and watch a movie and/or play a game. For years, we spent our Saturday nights hanging out in my family’s basement. But then I moved, and everything got weird. Still — Game Night is something I miss. “I’d love to hang out on Saturday,” I say.
“Okay,” Artie says.
And even though she’s drinking from her mug of cocoa, I can tell she’s smiling.
There’s a tap on the window, and we both look up. Omar is outside with the little dog he was walking the other day, and he’s gesturing wildly.
Artie takes a cool sip from her mug. “What’s Omar flapping about?”
“I think he wants to talk to me. I’ll be back in a minute.” My chair squeaks as I push away from the table. “Hey, Omar — what’s up?” I ask as I step out onto the street. I fold my arms across my chest and shiver a little. The sun has disappeared behind a pale gray blanket of clouds, and the air is damp and cold.
The dog sits at attention at Omar’s feet and gazes up at me, as if she might have something to say. “Listen, Hayley, I’m sorry,” Omar says. “I shouldn’t have tried to drag you into that argument with Meghan.”
“It’s okay,” I tell him. To tell the truth, I’d almost completely forgotten about it. But Omar winces, as if the memory is still poking at him.
“It’s just — Jamil is having a lot of trouble in math,” Omar admits. “I’m worried he might flunk if he doesn’t get his act together.”
“He doesn’t care about school much,” I say.
“Right. He’s definitely smart, but —” Omar shakes his head. “Things are pretty rough at home, too. His dad is really hard on him.” He stops and looks at me, as if he wants to make sure I’m understanding.
I don’t really know what to say, so I just nod.
“He’s a clown, but that’s not all he is,” Omar says.
“And that’s why you care so much about the tutoring,” I say. “But why not just get a tutor for Jamil?”