“How could I forget you?” His deep dimples show in his cheeks.
“I’m Izzy.” Izzy wraps her arms around his waist and gives him a hug.
Moses smiles.
But I can’t smile. I can’t even look at him. All I can think about is how I don’t want Moses to see where I live.
“Hey, Liam, glad to see you. It’s boring at my aunt’s place—a bunch of ladies talking about porcelain nails and hair extensions.”
“Where does your aunt live?” I ask.
“Four blocks up, at Miranda.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see that our apartment building’s driveway is loaded with furniture and boxes.
Moses sees it too. “Somebody must be moving.”
“Liam!” Dakota’s voice is small. Not the way she usually shouts for the entire world to hear. She grabs my hand.
It dawns on me slowly like I’m in a video game or somebody else’s movie. Our scuffed plastic chairs. Our wobbly, cockeyed side table. Our plastic bins with Dakota’s scribbling on the back; Dakota and Izzy’s pink lamp; Pink Kitty tossed on the ground and Roger Federer bent in two.
My throat closes up. My heart stops beating.
Izzy chatters about her chicken tenders.
But all I can think of is Moses. Why does he have to be here?
My eyes are fixed on cardboard Roger like I still can’t get it in my head what is actually happening.
And then I know what I’ll do. I’ll just keep going—pretend I live somewhere else. I’ll take off, say I’m practicing my sprints, like Mr. Gupta told us to do.
But then in a flash I see myself trying to explain to Mom how I left Dakota and Izzy on the street with all our stuff. How I was too embarrassed to stand up for them and for myself.
“You take Cupcake.” I hand Cupcake’s leash to Dakota and race to the driveway. From his porch, Mr. Torpse is directing a hulking teenager in tight red jeans with a copy of Romeo and Juliet in his back pocket.
“Hey, Gramps. Got a friend going to be here in a few minutes to help us with the beds and bureaus,” the teenager tells Mr. Torpse.
“What’s going on, Mr. Torpse, sir?” I ask, my voice wobbling.
He turns to me, his bony gray chin stuck in the air. “Your mother has broken the lease agreement.”
“She’s what?”
He taps his cane on the porch. “Item number twenty-three. No pets.”
“But you knew we had a dog,” I say.
“Yes, but I didn’t know you had a cat.”
“We don’t have a cat.”
“I saw the kitty-litter box.”
“That was for the dog.”
His squinty eyes get squintier. “That is a lie, young man.”
“No.”
“In any case, your dog is ruining the carpets.”
“Not anymore. The vet gave her new pills.”
“A little late for that.”
“My mom will pay for the carpets,” I say, my heart beating so loudly in my head I can barely hear anything else.
“No telling what other damage that dog and your cat have caused.” Torpse turns to Moses. “You look like a nice young man. Are your parents interested in a rental? Got a ground-floor unit, number 2B, available as of today.”
“No, sir,” Moses mumbles.
“You do not have number 2B available,” Dakota says. “That’s ours.”
“Not anymore, young lady.” Torpse cracks his cane on the porch railing.
Moses looks at me. He takes in the situation. “Tell him my mom is an attorney. Tell him you’ll sue,” Moses says under his breath.
Now Dodge appears by my side. Dodge, who never says anything, opens his mouth. “That apartment is dangerous, sir,” he tells Mr. Torpse.
“The stairs are rotted and too steep.” I pick up where Dodge left off. “The toilet won’t flush unless you take the lid off and attach the chain to the lever every time.” I’m on a roll now. “The hinges have broken off the cupboard doors. The refrigerator door fell off on Dakota’s foot. The outside lights don’t work. We trip on the stairs at night.”
Torpse looks away. “That’s not your concern anymore. You no longer live here.”
Moses nods to me.
“Our attorney thinks it is,” I say.
“Your attorney? Well, I’m entirely within my legal rights. I had to call the police just the other day because that one”—he shakes his cane at Dakota—“tried to blow up my stairwell. And that dog there”—he waves wildly in Cupcake’s direction—“can’t hold her liquids. Spots all over my carpet. And this one here”—he points at Izzy—“sings at all hours. I won’t have it.” He bangs his cane on a rolled-up yoga mat.
“Yeah, and two of the burners don’t turn on.” Dakota’s hands are on her hips. “My dad says you’re supposed to fix things.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see a lady in a bright blue dress and high heels huffing up the hill toward us.
“What’s his name?” Moses whispers.
“Mr. Torpse,” I hiss.
“My mother is the Roses’ attorney, Mr. Torpse,” Moses says. “Maybe we should call her.”
“This is my attorney, Mrs. Ortega.” He points his cane at the lady in the blue dress. “And she is already here.”
Mrs. Ortega rolls her eyes. “Really, Dad?”
“My father says that there is a, uh”—what is it Dad’s always saying?—“lia…liability problem because you don’t fix anything,” I say.
Mrs. Ortega looks around at our stuff. “Dad, you know I can’t represent you. What is this all about?”
“I’m evicting the Roses. The carpet is ruined.”
“You got a security deposit. When they move out you can use it for new carpets,” Torpse’s daughter says.
“They have a cat and a dog that relieves himself on my carpets. They nearly blew up my stairwell.” Mr. Torpse’s face is bright red.
“Why are you stirring up trouble? They’re just kids, Dad. We had a dog when we were kids. Don’t you remember Tammy?”
“You don’t live here. You don’t know,” Torpse tells her.
Mrs. Ortega stares at Izzy. “Isn’t that the little girl who found my scarf? It is! This is a nice family, Dad.”
“I have to protect my investments,” Torpse announces.
“I have had it up to here”—Mrs. Ortega puts her hand to her forehead—“with you and your investments. Marco, honey”—she motions to the big teenager in the red jeans—“put their belongings back. And, Dad, you need to apologize to this family right here, right now.”
Mr. Torpse stamps his feet. “Marco, you do what I say. I’m paying you.”
“I don’t know, Gramps. She’s my mother.” Marco moves his thumb in the direction of Mrs. Ortega. He picks up our lamp and heads down the stairs.
“Come on, Dad,” Mrs. Ortega says. “Apologize. We’re all waiting.”
Mr. Torpse’s lips are clamped closed.
“I know how you feel,” Dakota tells him. “I never want to apologize either. But Mom says you got to do it, even if you don’t mean it.”
Mrs. Ortega is staring hard at Torpse. “What is the name of that yoga teacher you like so much? Misty. What if I were to tell Misty that you evicted this nice family because they had a dog.”
“They have a dog and they like to sing and—” He looks over at us.
“Do extra credit,” Dakota finishes for him.
Mrs. Ortega’s hands fly to her hips. “Extra credit. How could you have a problem with that, Dad? I expect you to say you’re sorry, or believe me, Misty is going to hear about this.”
Mr. Torpse huffs and puffs. His face is so screwed up it looks like a sponge after it’s been twisted to get the water out. He stares hard at his daughter. “I may have made an err
or. But I may not have.”
Mrs. Ortega crosses her arms. “No, Dad. No. Do they pay their rent on time?”
“Always,” he mumbles.
“Well, then this is their home and I expect you to apologize right now. I’m not about to make you apple crumble if you act like this.”
Mr. Torpse scowls.
“Sometimes I apologize and then I mean it later,” Dakota offers. “But your people are your people, Mr. Torpse. They are more important than anyone else.”
Torpse sighs, the air bursting out of him. “I’m sorry, Roses,” he mutters.
“I’m sorry too.” Mrs. Ortega’s lively dark eyes fix on us. “Please forgive my father. I don’t know what has gotten into him lately. My son will put everything back just as it was. And”—she lowers her voice—“I will work on getting Dad to spring for the repairs.”
Mr. Torpse’s head jerks up. “What? What did you say?”
“Nothing, Dad.” Mrs. Ortega winks at us.
Mr. Torpse’s shoulders slide down. But he doesn’t say a word as Marco, Mrs. Ortega, Dodge, Moses, Dakota, Izzy, and I carry everything back down. Luckily, none of the really heavy furniture, like our dressers or beds, was moved yet.
Moses sets my Xbox on my bed. “I liked that liability bit,” he says.
I still can’t look him straight in the eye. This is the worst thing that has ever happened to me. But I am aching with relief that we are back inside. This stupid apartment looks like the most incredible place in the entire world right now, because it’s our home.
I take a deep breath and keep myself together. “Hey, is your mom really an attorney?”
“She’s a software engineer. Works at Google. Both my parents do. They’re total nerds.”
“One hundred percent?” Dakota calls from the hall.
He nods. “Yep. Hey, you know what? This is way better than sitting around at my aunt’s. Can I come over again?” His eyes are guarded.
“Sure,” I say.
He smiles at me and then at Dodge. “I didn’t know if you guys…You always do everything, you know, together.”
I stare at him.
Moses is the new guy. He was trying to make friends. All this time I’ve been worried about what he thinks of me. And he’s been worried about what I think of him. How could I have gotten that so wrong?
* * *
When Mom gets home from work, she asks, “How did everything go today?”
I can see Dakota take a big breath, ready to tell the whole story. I shake my head and she slaps her hand over her mouth.
My mom looks at her, then at me.
“Good,” I jump in. “Cupcake has new medicine. The new vet doesn’t think she’s going to pee in the house anymore.”
Mom’s mouth drops open. “Really?”
“Yup.” I nod, and then Dakota and Izzy nod. Izzy’s smile stretches big as our whole street.
“Everything go okay with Dad?” Mom asks.
“He a nerd or a Greek. We wait and see,” Izzy tells her.
My mother laughs.
Then she brushes the dog hair off her pants. “I better go up and talk to Mr. Torpse.”
“We did that already, Mom,” Dakota says.
Mom’s eyes waver.
“Dakota’s right. All taken care of.” I wipe my hands one against the other.
She squints at me, then surveys the living room. “Did you move things around in here?”
Dakota, Izzy, and I look at each other.
“A little,” I admit.
“And Torpse might do our repairs,” Dakota says. “His daughter said so. She likes Izzy.”
Mom’s eyebrows rise.
“Might,” I say. “You know, maybe.”
Mom nods. “For a minute there, I was thinking we were living in an alternate universe.”
“What’s that?” Dakota asks.
“It’s a place like our universe only slightly different,” Mom says.
“I bet they have hover umbrellas there,” Dakota says.
“I bet they do,” Mom agrees. “Did I tell you what a gobsmacking idea that is, Dakota Rose?”
Dakota smiles. “You can tell me again.”
Mom laughs. “I can’t wait to see what you’ll do when you grow into yourself.”
“Did you hear that?” Dakota trumpets.
“You do have good ideas, Dakota,” I say.
Dakota smiles big as the moon.
“Know what I was thinking, Liam?” Dakota asks. “You know how you’re always saying one-third nerd is the right amount?”
“Yeah.”
“You, Izzy, and me—our family is one-third nerd.”
“You’re the nerd?”
Dakota nods. “Yeah, and you’re the sports guy and Izzy’s the friend-getter.”
I waggle my head. “You’re kinda right about that, but your percentages are off. I’m one-third nerd, so all together it’s more like four-ninths nerd.”
“Don’t be so technical,” she says.
I cough, practically choking on my own spit. “Wow, Dakota. Maybe there’s hope for you yet.”
Mom sits down at the table. Cupcake makes a beeline for her. Mom massages Cupcake’s ear. “I’d say we had a good day,” she says. Then she notices Roger Federer bent over. “Uh-oh. What happened to Roger?”
“He sweated a little today,” I admit.
“I see that. Well, it’s about time.” Mom opens the box of pizza she brought home from work.
I unfold Roger, get out the Scotch tape, and tape the part where he got torn. “I’m gonna put him back.” I carry him to my room and set him up just like before.
“Good,” Mom calls, setting a bowl of carrots on the table. “I’d miss him if he were gone.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Me too.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I would like to thank Martha Hogan, Julie Durbin, Kristi DeBisschop, Nico DeBisschop, Maddy DeBisschop, Karen Herz, Griffin Herz, and the Down Syndrome Center of the Bay Area for helping me to understand more about Down syndrome.
A special thanks to Églantine Ceulemans for capturing the spirit of Liam, Dakota, and Izzy with her deft hand and sly humor. And to Leslie Mechanic, who found the perfect illustrator for this book.
Thank you to Sylvia Al-Mateen, Elizabeth Harding, and Sarah Gerton for insightful comments on the manuscript. And to Alison Kolani, Colleen Fellingham, and Janet Fletcher, my copyediting team, who keep me from making a fool of myself. And the biggest thanks of all go to my ace editorial team: Wendy Lamb and Dana Carey. It is astonishing how much better my books become under their care.
P.S. I would also like to thank my dog, Sasha, for having all the problems that Cupcake did. Can I write off her vet bills now? Just wondering.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Hi, I’m Gennifer’s dog, Sasha. Gennifer says she’s written fifteen books for kids, but how many are for dogs? Lately, I’ve decided to take matters into my own paws. I am recommending these changes to Gennifer’s previous books: Al Capone Dog Does My Shirts, Al Capone Dog Does My Homework, Al Capone Throws Me a Curve His Dog a Stick, and my personal favorite, Chasing Secrets Cats. Send your fan mail directly to me. Bones of any kind are also welcome.
ABOUT THE ILLUSTRATOR
Églantine Ceulemans was born in Belgium, where she spent her childhood drawing silly characters and funny pets. She attended the Emile Cohl art school in Lyon, France, transforming her passion for illustration into a career. She loves combining humor and sensitivity in her illustrations to inspire both children and their parents. She lives in Paris. Visit her online at eglantineceulemans.com, on Twitter at @lelephantine, or on Instagram at @eglantineceulemans.
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One-Third Nerd Page 11
