“Well,” she says. “It’s you and me getting Olympic medals.” She points at the page. “See? There’s me, getting the gold, and there’s you, getting the bronze.” She reaches over and pats my hand. “Don’t worry,” she says. “Better luck next time.”
“Thanks,” I say, resisting the urge to roll my eyes at her. I stare closely at the paper. “What are those things on my face?” There are little red dots on my cheeks, and pink and purple smudges all around my eyes.
“That’s your makeup,” Katie explains. She selects a blue crayon and adds a layer of eye shadow.
“I wear makeup to the Olympics?”
“Yes,” she says solemnly. “The Olympics are on national television. You know that, don’t you, Devon?”
“Yes, of course I know that,” I say. “But how come you’re not wearing makeup then?”
“Because I’m not old enough.” She puts her crayon back.
“That’s right,” my mom says from the stove. She’s frowning at a recipe that she’s printed off the internet. My mom’s new thing is watching the Food Network, then printing off her fave recipes to try. Rachael Ray is like her new best friend. “You’re not old enough to wear makeup, Katie.”
“But when I’m thirteen like Devon, I can wear it,” Katie reports.
“Not to school,” my mom says. She stirs whatever’s in the pot. “You can’t wear makeup to school until you’re sixteen.”
This is definitely not the way I want the conversation to go, with my mom listing things that aren’t age appropriate right before I’m about to ask her about the dance. I decide I need to seize control of the situation.
“But,” I say. “Katie, you will be able to wear makeup to other things. Like, for example, if you want to go to the mall with your friends.” Which my mom lets me do. All the time. “Or if you want to have fun at a sleepover.” Again, totally allowed. “Or if you want to go to a semiformal at school or something.” My mom’s nodding her head at the stove, but at the mention of the word “semiformal,” her forehead wrinkles up.
“Well, Katie,” she says. “You don’t need to be worried about going to any dances anytime soon. Those are only for big girls.”
“Right,” I agree. “Like when you’re my age.”
Katie jumps out of her chair. “Sometimes we do the chicken dance at school. And it goes like this. ‘With a little bit of this and a little bit of that and shake, shake, shake!’” She shakes around. “So I am old enough to go to dances.”
“No,” my mom says. “You’re not. Dances are for big girls.”
“I am a big girl!” Katie says. Uh-oh. I can sense a tantrum coming on. And when Katie has a tantrum, it’s not good for anyone. Especially my mom, because she will not be in a good, let-Devon-go-to-the-dance kind of mood.
“Katherine Delaney, you will not—” my mom starts.
But at that moment, the back door opens and my dad comes sliding into the kitchen, home from work. “Something smells good in here!” he says, sounding relieved. It actually does smell good in here. Like tomatoes and some kind of meat. I hope it’s goulash.
“What are you making?” I ask. My mom isn’t exactly the best cook.
“She’s making food that is hot, hot, hot on your tongue!” Katie reports. She’s sitting back at the table now, her tantrum forgotten for the moment.
“It’s not that hot,” my mom says. “It’s a chicken tikka masala, a traditional Indian dish.”
“I love chicken tikka masala,” my dad says, setting his briefcase down and giving my mom a kiss on the cheek. “We used to always order it from that little Indian place down the street from our first apartment, do you remember that?”
“Yes, and we ordered from there so much that they got to know our order before we’d even tell them.” My mom gets a dreamy look on her face. Ugh. I feel a little disgusted, because let’s face it, it’s kind of gross to see your parents being all in love with each other. Although I am happy they’re getting along.
My parents have been in counseling lately, in order to get through their “marital roadblocks and issues.” I definitely think this past summer of me and Katie being away worked out well. For them, anyway. I mean, there was that whole tricky business about me making up a whole fake life for myself.
The phone rings, and my dad gets to it first, before Katie can jump out of her chair. “Devon, it’s Luke,” he says, handing me the phone.
Ooh, yay! Maybe he’s calling to ask me to the dance! Or to tell me all about his note-passing with Bailey, and how it didn’t mean anything. My mom and dad give each other a look: one of those “There’s a boy calling our house for Devon and how do we feel about that?” kind of looks.
“Hi, Luke,” I say, stretching the phone cord as far as it will go, through the archway of the kitchen and into the living room. Honestly, there is no privacy in this house. The only cordless is upstairs in my parents’ room. I don’t even have a cell phone, like everyone else my age. My mom thinks it’s “not necessary.” Not necessary! Doesn’t she know that cell phones save lives all the time? What if I get kidnapped, and I need a cell to text to the police where I am, so they can come and save me? It happens, I saw it on an episode of Dateline.
“Hey,” Luke says, sounding cute and a little nervous. He always gets nervous when my dad answers the phone. I guess he doesn’t realize that if he should be afraid of anyone around here, it’s my mom.
“What’s up?” My stomach flips. Luke and I talk on the phone almost every night, but like the hand-holding-in-the-halls thing, I’m still not completely used to it.
“Not much,” he says. “Just got home from the first meeting of mock trial.”
“Oh,” I say. “Was it fun?”
“It was awesome,” he says. Which I find hard to believe. In mock trial, kids get dressed up like judges and then reenact trials. I think. Or maybe they act out new, fake trials? Do they make them up? Who writes them? And why would you want to act out a trial?
“That’s great,” I say.
“Yeah, I’m going to be super busy with it,” he says. “But it’s good, you know? Now that soccer’s over, I’m going to need something to occupy my time.”
“Right,” I say, wondering why he wouldn’t want to occupy his time with me.
“So, listen,” he says. “I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”
“Oh, really?” I say innocently. “What about?”
Beep. The call waiting beeps on the other line. I check the caller ID, since my parents get super annoyed if I don’t answer call waiting beeps when I’m on the phone. They’re afraid they’re going to miss important calls. Which is ridiculous, because if there was an important call that couldn’t get through to the house phone, whoever it was could just call their cells. Unlike if the call is for me, because, hello, I don’t have a cell. Beep. It’s Lexi. I decide to call her back in a few minutes, when I can tell her the details of Luke asking me to the dance. Quietly of course, so that my parents don’t overhear until I have a chance to ask them.
“Is that your call waiting?” Luke asks.
“No,” I say. “Why?”
“Because it sounds like it’s your call waiting. Your voice keeps cutting out.”
Beep. Call waiting beeps again. I check the ID. Dr. Lucy Meyerson. My mom and dad’s counselor. Crap, crap, crap. “Luke, can you hold on for one second?” I ask sweetly.
“Hello?” I answer the other line.
“Yes, hello, this is Dr. Meyerson’s office calling to confirm the appointment for John and Marcia Delaney tomorrow at five o’clock?”
“Yes,” I say, making a mental note to remind my parents at dinner. “They’ll be there.”
“And to whom am I speaking to, please?” the secretary asks, kind of snotty.
“Um, this is their daughter, Devon, and I would be happy to pass that message right along.” I infuse my voice with the right amount of responsibility, and maybe a little bit of sadness. I mean, my parents are basically fine, but she does
n’t need to know that. Maybe she’ll be a little nicer to me if she thinks I’m very worried about them.
“Yes, well, I’d like to speak with your mommy or daddy. Are they available?”
Mommy or Daddy? Does she know I’m thirteen and on the other line with my maybe possibly very first dance date ever? “Well, they’re not really available, per se,” I tell her. Which is true. My mom is making dinner, and my dad is . . . um, helping her. Plus the phone isn’t technically available, since I’m on the other line. “But like I said, I will be sure to give them the message.” I look around for a piece of paper and a pen, but I don’t see one. I hold the receiver up to the sweater I’m wearing and scratch my sleeve. “See? Writing it down.”
“Thank you very much, Miss Delaney,” she says, “but—”
“Please, call me Devon.”
“Uh, Devon. But unfortunately I have a note here that says messages are not to be left with the children.”
“Oh,” I tell her. “They probably meant my little sister, Katie. She’s five, and horrible with messages. One time it took her two days to tell me my friend Mel called.”
“Well, it doesn’t just say Katie,” she says. “It says here that—”
“Okay, fine,” I say. “Just hold on one second.” It’s obvious that I’m going to have to tell Luke to hold on, give the phone to my mom, and have her talk to this crazy woman.
I push the button to click over. “Luke? Can you hold on for like one more sec? It’s for my mom, but it’ll be quick.”
“Sorry,” the same annoying secretary says. “It’s still me.”
Must not have pushed the button all the way. I try again. “Luke?”
“Nope.” Again.
“Hello, Luke?”
“No, still me. Maybe he hung up?” she offers helpfully.
Ugh.
I call my dad to the phone, since my mom is now at the stove, peering into the pot and saying, “I’m not sure it’s supposed to be this color.”
“It’s okay, Mommy,” Katie says, patting her arm. “I wanted pizza anyway.”
I come back into the kitchen and plop back down in front of my homework. Why would Luke hang up right before he was about to ask me to the dance? Did he have another call, too? Did his mom call him to dinner? Did he get so nervous that he needed some more time to collect his thoughts?
“Try this,” my mom says, holding a bowl out to me. In the bottom is a small spoonful of what looks like red slime, over a hard bump. “What’s that bumpy thing?” I ask.
“Chicken,” she says. She pulls a paper towel off the roll and uses it to wipe a small spot of tomato sauce off her forehead.
“I want to try it, I want to try it!” Katie sings, dancing around.
“Okay,” I say. She grabs two forks from the drawer, and I use one of them to cut the piece of chicken in half. Katie spears one, and I spear the other. “Blow on it first,” I tell her. “So that it’s not too hot.” Katie blows on her chicken obediently.
“Now keep in mind that it’s going to be over rice,” my mom says, as if that will change the entire taste of what I’m about to put in my mouth. She gives the box of Minute rice that’s sitting on the counter a shake. She looks nervous.
“This isn’t going to give me food poisoning or anything, is it?” I ask.
“Devon! No, it’s not going to give you food poisoning!”
“This is poison?” Katie looks worried.
“No,” I say. “It’s fine. Ready?” She nods. “One, two, three!” We both pop the food into our mouths at the same time and chew. It tastes exactly like it looks— like rubbery chicken in tomato sauce, but with some sort of weird spices.
“Well,” I say, after I swallow. “It’s not bad exactly.” My mom’s face falls. “But I’m sure it will be better after the rice.”
“Excuse me, please,” Katie says, her mouth full. And then she leans over the bowl and spits her chicken back in. “But I don’t really like that, thank you very much.”
“What don’t you like, Katie-bug?” my dad asks, returning the phone to its cradle.
“Did anyone call for me?” I ask hopefully, thinking maybe Luke called back. But my dad shakes his head.
“The Indian is a disaster,” my mom says. She laughs and grabs the pizza menu out of the drawer by the fridge.
“Ooh, I want extra cheese on mine,” I say. Delish. “Me too,” Katie says, just to copy me. “John?” my mom asks. “What do you want on your pizza?”
“So we’re just going to throw this out?” my dad asks, looking at the big pot of disgustingness that’s on the stove. “After we spent all that money on Indian spices?”
My mom tightens her mouth into a hard line. “Well,” she says. “Do you want to try to make the tikka masala?” She unties her apron and holds it out to my dad. “The girls and I will just go and watch a movie, and you can call us when it’s ready.”
“Mommy,” Katie says, wagging her finger. “You’re using harsh tones.”
Harsh tones are something my mom and dad are working with their therapist on. Basically it means that when you get upset, you have to do your best not to express your dismay in harsh tones. You just convey how you feel with words. I think it’s all well and good for my parents to be working on their harsh tones, but Katie is like the Harsh Tones Police.
“I’m sorry,” my dad says. “I wasn’t trying to imply that I was mad about the dinner. Of course we can order pizza.”
“And I’m sorry if I got defensive,” my mom says. “I just was disappointed that the dinner didn’t turn out right, and it felt like you were criticizing me.”
Katie claps her hands. “No harsh tones! No harsh tones!” she sings, dancing around the kitchen.
The phone rings. Yay! Must be Luke, calling me back. “I’ll get it!” I cry, rushing over to the receiver to check the caller ID. Oh. Lexi. Again.
“Hey, Lex,” I say. “I can’t talk long, we’re about to eat dinner.”
“Okay,” she says, sounding nervous. Lexi never sounds nervous. Ever. Even a few weeks ago, when she and Kim Cavalli, the most popular girl in seventh grade, got into a fight over this guy Matt Connors. Lexi didn’t even care when it almost came to blows in the hallway at school. She was the picture of calm. Okay, maybe not the picture of calm, but she was pretty calm for the situation.
“What’s up?”
“Well,” she says. “I don’t mean to upset you or anything, especially because of that whole thing in science today.”
“What whole thing in science?”
“The thing about Bailey Barelli, and how she’s the bane of your existence.”
“Oh, that,” I say. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see my mom ordering the pizza from her cell phone. “That was just a temporary bout of insanity. In fact, I’m totally over it. I’m sure it was nothing. Besides, Luke called me when he got home from mock trial, and he was totally about to ask me to the dance.” I lower my voice when I say that last part, just in case.
“He was?” Lexi squeals. “Ohmigod, that is amazing! We can all go together, just like I said! We can probably get my mom to bring us in the Hummer!” Lexi’s mom bought a Hummer last week. It’s this huge car that pretty much looks ridiculous, but I guess Mrs. Cortland must have really wanted it, because they’re super expensive. My mom says Lexi’s mom must not care too much about the environment, since those cars are horrible on gas. “That does sound fun,” I say, starting to get excited. “I just have to ask my parents first.” I look into the kitchen, wondering if now’s the time. Maybe I should wait until they’re all full of pizza and in a carb coma.
“Oh, I’m so glad he’s going to ask you,” Lexi says. She lowers her voice. “Actually, Devi, I was worried about telling you this, but now that I know it’s okay, I’ll tell you.”
“What?” I ask.
“Wellll,” she says. “I just got off the phone with Jared, and he just got off the phone with Luke.”
“Wait, Jared just got off the phone with Luke
?”
“Yeah, and then he called me. Jared, not Luke.” My head is spinning, trying to keep track of all the calls. This would be so much easier if I could just text like a normal person. “Anyway,” Lexi goes on. “Jared said that Luke had a really fun time at mock trial.”
“I know,” I say. “He told me.” Who cares that Luke had a fun time at mock trial? The more important thing here is that Luke obviously hung up on me and then called Jared. How rude! He should have called me back immediately. Oh, wait. That’s not right. Because Lexi was beeping in while I was on the phone with Luke. I relax. But then I realize that means that Luke must have called Jared before he called me. Hmm. I’m not sure which is worse.
“Wellll,” Lexi says again.
“Lexi,” I instruct. “Spit it out.” Honestly, the girl is killing me.
“Bailey Barelli is in mock trial.”
“Oh. Well. Whatever. I mean, I can’t stop her from signing up for some extracurricular activity. Besides, I told you, I’m not worried.”
And then Lexi decides to drop a bombshell. “Devi, you’re so awesome!” she says. “I would be freaking out if Jared was doing something with one of his ex-girlfriends.”
“What do you mean, ex-girlfriend?” I frown at this new bit of information.
“Barelli is Luke’s ex-girlfriend,” Lexi tells me.
“What do you mean, his ex-girlfriend?” I repeat. Obviously, this is some kind of mistake. Luke doesn’t have an ex-girlfriend. I’m his first girlfriend. Just like he’s my first boyfriend.
“They dated last year,” Lexi explains, “Oh, God, Devi, I thought you knew.”
The doorbell rings. “Devon!” my mom calls from the kitchen. “Can you get that? It must be the pizza.” Already? What are they, Speed Demon Pizza?
Devon Delaney Should Totally Know Better Page 2
