Mom sighs. “We’ll see.” She cocks her head at me, her mysteriously shy third child, like she examines troublesome engines, to figure out what’s causing the weird malfunction.
Except Mom can’t fix me.
Chapter 6
Cotillion is held in a large auditorium at a middle school—not my middle school, but a different one about fifteen minutes north of us—that’s packed with boys and girls wearing suits and dresses. I’m wearing my favorite dressy navy pants and a royal-blue blouse. Mom says I look sophisticated. Dad’s father always made the girls wear dresses, but Dad changed things when he took over.
In the old days, Dad and my grandfather owned a big space in a shopping center full of industrial warehouses, in between a printer’s shop and an auto body place, that was pretty close to our house. I used to like to go there because some artists rented the smaller warehouses for their studios, and on hot days they’d have their big metal doors rolled up so you could see what they were working on. Once, a woodworker gave me a little wooden car. But that whole center got torn down to put up stores and some fancy apartments, and Dad could never find a new spot anywhere near our neighborhood.
So now Dad rents middle school auditoriums, which he has to schedule a year in advance. He tells me to sit on the girls’ side and then goes off to do his thing. Dad is really in his element. His dad, my grandpa Andrews, ran this business before he died. I don’t want to take it over and I doubt either of my brothers will want to, either, though Dad says it’s a community staple that should be kept going. He’s got boxes of thank-you letters from adults, saying that the skills they learned here helped them become successful.
Because Dad’s been doing this forever, you’d think he’d do the same thing over and over, but he always makes little tweaks. For example, when he was younger, he didn’t have to teach anyone about cell phone etiquette. (Which is to PUT IT AWAY WHILE YOU’RE WITH REAL PEOPLE.)
Obviously I’m the first kid to arrive, so I sit alone in a folding chair. Maybe I should help unfold chairs or something, but I’m afraid I’ll mess up. Say the wrong thing. Squish somebody’s finger in the chair hinge. I’m nervous the same way I was before I had to get my tonsils out three years ago and I googled the risks of anesthesia.
It’s a good thing I was too young to google when I got the ICD pacemaker. I was four, and I don’t remember any of it. Now the device sends the doctor reports, and I go in for a checkup once a year. I try not to think about it too much because it’ll set off an anxiety attack for sure, and that isn’t great for hearts. Anxiety can actually make the heart muscle beat irregularly in the first place. In fact, Dr. White says that some research points to anxiety as the thing that sets off a disease like mine.
But now I’m thinking about it, so I turn my attention to Dad and his assistants getting everything ready. Older teens volunteer for school community service hours, plus there are some parents who set out bowls of punch and Dixie Cups.
“Thanks for the help,” one of the older girls says sarcastically to me as she and another girl carry a batch of folding chairs across the auditorium. “I didn’t think Mr. Andrews would have a spoiled kid,” she whispers.
I sit on my hands, my chin on my chest. My head turns hot. Great. Now I’ve brought shame onto Dad as well as me. Because I’m quiet, sometimes people think I’m a snob. Zelia was the one who always told everyone, “Ava’s really cool. She’s just shy.”
But what am I supposed to say without Zelia here? Hey, I’m cool, I’m just shy. I don’t think so.
I want to cry. I pick at a hangnail instead.
Finally, the kids start coming in. Girls float into the auditorium wearing a variety of fancy dresses and boys come in wearing dress pants and shoes that look too big. Which they probably are. I know for a fact that a lot of these boys will grow like three inches before Cotillion is over in March, and their parents probably bought their shoes too big like my parents did with my brothers. By the end, the shoes will fit. The parents sit behind the kids on both sides and anywhere they can find a spot.
Nobody talks to me. A lot of these kids don’t go to my school, though some do. Three girls I know—at least, I know of them, but we’re not friends—sit down near me. Kiley, a super-popular redhead; Becca, who has shiny black hair; and Cherine, who has long, intricate braids.
I was in Scouts with them for a little while in elementary school. That’s one activity Mom had me do that Zelia didn’t. Every meeting, they talked over me even if I managed to raise my hand. And they didn’t talk to me then, either. Eventually I stopped wanting to go.
They’re the kind of girls who will probably grow up to be in Congress or the president or something. People like me—the quiet thinkers—never get to be the leaders. Even if we have good ideas, we can’t get anyone to listen.
They’re also the kind of people who don’t notice girls like me. Not because they’re mean, but because I’m sort of invisible to them. Like I’m a chair.
Maybe I could actually be a good spy.
As I’m considering changing my future career choice from writer to CIA agent, Dad—Mr. Andrews—goes into the middle of the room with his microphone and starts talking about all the useful stuff we’ll learn this year. “Manners are like a sink. You don’t notice how it functions until something goes wrong. Manners keep society flowing smoothly,” he says, and then gives the same lecture about courtesy that I’ve heard every day since I was born.
I think of all the times I’ve tried to do group stuff. The soccer games where I just stood there. The softball innings where I couldn’t bring myself to swing the bat in case I struck out (spoiler: not swinging gets you out, too). The ballet class where everyone else pliéd and I tucked myself into a corner, crying until Dad came to collect me.
Afterward, every single time, I wished and wished I could have done something. I wanted to kick the soccer ball into the goal net. I wanted to swing the bat like I did during practice. I wanted to plié like I did when I practiced alone in my room. I just froze every time.
Cotillion is no different.
When Dad tells the boys to get up and walk across the room to the girls, asking them to dance, I’m the last one to stand. “Don’t run,” he instructs the boys. “And don’t try to get to a specific girl. Ask the first one you see to dance. And, girls, don’t try to get a different boy to ask you instead.”
I fidget as the swarm of boys gets closer, like a slow wave heading toward a beach. They look like they’d rather be anywhere else on the planet than here, asking girls to dance. I recognize some of them from school.
I nudge myself to the side, trying to wait. If I hang back long enough, I’ll be a “leftover” girl because there are always more girls than boys signed up, so a few always have to sit out. That means I’ll only have to dance twice instead of three times.
A short boy with a runny nose gets to me, though. “Dance?” he says to my feet.
Thanks for the enthusiasm, I almost say, but instead I nod, and we awkwardly grab clammy hands as Dad uses one of the mom volunteers to teach us the box step. For me, it’s right foot back, left foot back and to the left. The lead, the boy, does the mirror image. I’ve danced this all my life with Dad or Luke or Hudson, so I end up kind of dragging this boy along. He looks possibly more miserable than I feel, which is really something. He also needs a tissue.
“Now you’re going to make conversation with your partner,” Dad says over the loudspeakers. “Small talk. Ask where they’re from, what they like to eat, what their favorite sports team is.”
The music starts. “Moon River,” a super-old version sung by some guy named Andy Williams. Dad is obsessed with this song. He says it’s perfect for teaching beginners. I say it’s kind of cheesy and have begged him a hundred times to get some new music, but Dad’s way too stubborn. I also know it’s exactly two minutes and forty-four seconds long. I can survive that long. Maybe.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
“Harold.”
&nbs
p; I can almost do this part in my sleep because Dad’s made me so many times. “Nice to meet you, Harold. I’m Ava.” I comb my mind for another standard question. “What’s your favorite sports team?”
“I don’t like sports,” he says.
I feel my spine melt into a slouch. Dad says you’re not supposed to be negative like that. He told me to say, “I’m not really into sports, but here’s what I really like.” Always offer something.
We dance-shuffle in a small circle for a while. We’ve both got sweaty palms. Harold lets go of my hand to wipe his own on his pants. Dad always says not to do that, but he hasn’t told this class yet.
I try to smile at him but my face feels like a creepy doll’s, all strange and fake, and he doesn’t smile back.
Finally the boy mumbles, “What school do you go to?”
I can’t stand it. If I don’t say something interesting, both of us will implode. Last night, Dad and I were watching Masterpiece and imitating British accents, pretending we were going to see the queen. “I go to Blogwarts,” I blurt out, as if I’m talking to Dad and not a stranger. “My magic wasn’t good enough for Hogwarts.” Then I blush, mortified that I actually said it. Maybe he’ll laugh and play along like Dad would.
Harold looks at me like I’m a weirdo, probably because I suddenly, I don’t know, grew an English accent, and I flush all over again. “Is that a Harry Potter joke?”
“Yeah,” I say faintly. I’m such an idiot. Thankfully the dance ends and I return to my chair and put my head in my hands, turning away when the next song starts. I’m going to be a leftover this time if it kills me. Dad sees and I know he’s thinking about saying something, but he doesn’t. I’ll thank him later. Right now I sit here alone, waiting for the end.
Chapter 7
After all the kids leave, the other volunteers and Dad put the chairs away. I’m not looking forward to getting into Dad’s car. A lecture is brewing. I can sense it like Jīchan can sense rain coming in his arthritic knee.
At last, after we’re buckled and he’s pulled out of the parking lot, Dad clears his throat.
“I noticed you sat out most of the dances. I think we should talk about it.”
“Okay.” By “we” he means him. He needs to talk to me.
He begins. I already know exactly what he’ll say, so it’s easy to tune him out. Participate. You’re not allowed to just sit there. You have to learn how to do these things. If you don’t talk, people think you’re unfriendly, and I know that’s not what you want. I stare out the window at the lights whizzing around us. If I squint at the yellow lines, they look like one long one while we’re moving.
But then, before we even reach the freeway, Dad’s words sputter to a halt like a broken engine. He sighs. “Maybe I’m being too hard on you.”
Wait, what? I look at him. Dad looks . . . resigned. He gives me a tiny smile. “Remember what we talked about with Mr. Matt?”
Mr. Matt told Dad that lecturing me didn’t really work. He can’t Dad-talk me out of anxiety. Instead, Mr. Matt told him to let me lead. Be encouraging, not overbearing.
“I know it’s hard for you, Ava. Impossible, even. So if you want to stay home, I’ll understand.”
My stomach jumps, and it takes me a few moments to realize I’m not at all happy about this like I thought I’d be. I feel like I did when I got caught hiding Luke’s favorite teddy bear years ago. Ashamed.
Dad’s giving up on me?
This is not a Dad-like thing to do. Dad doesn’t always completely understand my anxiety, but he never gives up on me. He’s like Zelia in that way.
I always thought that if Dad decided not to lecture, I’d be relieved. I’m not. It makes me even more anxious, like the time my third-grade teacher gave up on making me do the multiplication tables because she thought I couldn’t do it, when I was really just scared of messing up.
Maybe I really will never be able to do what I want.
“But.” I wipe my clammy hands on my dress pants. “What about our deal? I do this and go visit Zelia?”
He shrugs. “The choice is yours. You can’t just go to Cotillion and not participate. But if you don’t go, then you won’t get to visit Zelia.” Dad puts on the turn signal for the freeway entrance. “You can think about it.” Then he accelerates to get up to the right speed, throwing me back a little in my seat.
Dad’s given me an out. But the out might be worse than the in. I chew on my fingernail, an old bad habit, and stop myself. Whatever I do to solve my problems, I think I’m going to have to do on my own.
Two days later, I wake up to a text from Cecily.
Anything happen in English?
No, I reply. She should have texted last night so she could do the homework, if we had any. I was waiting all evening for it. Then, because I’m feeling salty and I’m always saltier over text, I add, But if you really wanted to know, you should’ve asked yesterday.
Then I worry that sounds too mean, so I send a smiley face.
She doesn’t respond.
I chew my nail. Was I too sarcastic?
But then she sends a laughing face, and I realize it’s only been about a minute. Yeah, I know. I was totally being lazy. See you later.
I smile. See you.
During lunch, I go to the library and shelve books. A lot of people might think this is boring, but I like it. I like pushing the cart around to the different aisles. Most of all, it’s cool to see what other people are reading. I’ve found a lot of books I wouldn’t have known about as I was returning them to their proper spots. Today I’ve put aside three. I’m trying to limit myself.
Today I’ve got a Chicken Soup for the Soul, hoping to be inspired. A Ten Things All Successful Students Do. And a new fantasy series.
I put away a couple of books, wondering what Zelia’s doing right now. If she were here, obviously I wouldn’t be in the library. We’d be out in the lunch arbor, me listening as Zelia told a story, the other kids laughing until milk and juice came running out of their noses. I’d be so proud to be her friend. I’d be included.
Suddenly Cecily pops out from behind the stacks. “Hi, Ava!”
“Sheesh.” I grab my chest. Luckily my heart’s okay at being surprised. “You scared me!”
“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry.” She touches my arm. “Zelia told me about your thing.” She gestures at my torso.
“I’m fine.” I wave her off, embarrassed. She stops in front of me, her Alexander “Cat”-milton shirt taking up my whole view. It has a cartoon cat posing in 1700s clothes. “I like your shirt,” I say, mostly to change the subject. I bet everyone tells her that. I should have thought of something more clever.
“Thanks! I actually have a question for you.” She leans on the cart and puts her face in front of mine and blinks her clear green eyes. “Are you at all interested in improv?”
My heart thuds extra hard. “Improv?” I whisper, as if Cecily just walked up and asked me to commit a crime with her. “Me? No.” I pick up a Percy Jackson from the shelf. This is the wrong section for it. I put it back on the cart for now and start wheeling to the fiction section.
“Listen.” Cecily trots after me. “You probably think you’re too quiet to do it, but when I heard your story, I knew you’d be good. It sounded just like you were talking in character.”
I make a face.
“And it’s fun. I promise!” She gets in front of me again. “Didn’t you play pretend when you were little? Like with action figures and stuffed animals?”
I flash back to playing with Zelia, and a warm feeling surges over me. “Sure.”
“It’s exactly like that. We just play.”
She makes it sound so easy, but I’ve seen it. I know it’s not. The performers get suggestions from the audience, then act out scenes or games based on that. So they might ask the audience for “favorite dessert” and get “cupcake,” and then there will be a scene about two best friends who are having a birthday party where an alien might show up. I never get how t
hey do it. How can people make up all that stuff on the spot? I mean, I can if I’m writing. But not while talking. That’s a hundred percent different.
I shake my head. “That’s not my thing.” The stage is Zelia’s thing. I’m the friend clapping for her.
“Besides, we only have five people. So Miss Gwen—that’s our coach—”
“I know who Miss Gwen is.” She was Zelia’s coach, too.
“Someone dropped out. Miss Gwen told us to find at least one more person or she’ll have to cancel the class. They have a six-person minimum.” Cecily leans on the bookshelf.
I shelve the Percy Jackson. “You should ask somebody else.”
“Please. Just one class.” Cecily bats her eyes at me.
There’s zero chance I’m getting up in front of strangers and making up things out loud. I actually have a better probability of growing wings myself.
I try to remember what Dad told me to do in this social situation—if I don’t want to do something, I should refuse instead of pretending I want to and then flaking later, which is a million times ruder. Should I say that my family is against improv? That won’t fly. “Um, thank you for the invitation, thank you for thinking of me, but I’m not sure that’s for me, I mean I really need to ask my parents because I saw that it does cost some money.” I spit this out in one breath, horrified with myself. Why didn’t I refuse? And why did I talk so much?
That’s a problem I have. When I can finally get my mouth going, sometimes it goes too much. Like a dam bursting and causing a flood that wipes out an entire village.
But Cecily nods as if she didn’t notice my verbal brain fart. “Well, just come on Saturday if they say yes.”
I nod. They’re going to say no. Even if I only ask them in my imagination.
Cecily jerks her head toward a table. “I’m going to finish my homework. I’ll see you in English.”
“See you.” I nod at her, then begin pushing the cart back toward the front desk. “No way am I doing that,” I mutter.
Five Things About Ava Andrews Page 3
