The Summer of Bad Ideas

by Kiera Stewart

  And then I hand the bag to him.

  He holds it up with a confused—maybe even pained?—look on his face. “A . . . a rat? Is he— Oh, he’s dead.”

  It suddenly hits me that somehow I’ve confused flirting with, oh, bringing a guy a dead rat. Ugh. A rat is nothing like a Tic Tac!

  I try to explain. “I—I . . . uh . . . it’s for the snakes—”

  “No, this is awesome.”

  “You like it?”

  “Yeah, Imelda loves rats. I mean, all of them do. Thanks, Edie.”

  I feel myself smile. Keep going. Keep trying. Figure out what you have in common.

  Well, it’s not snakes. And it’s not The Godfather.

  What about—I think about Petunia’s list—stars? Item five, the next item, is “wish upon a shooting star.” Everyone likes stars, right? Maybe he’ll want to make that wish with me!

  “Um, so . . . doyouliketoseestars?” My words come out like a sprung leak.

  “Sea stars?” His forehead creases. “Are you asking me something about starfish?”

  “No, I mean . . .” I try to breathe and slow down my words. “Do you like to see stars?”

  “You mean stars in the sky? Do I like those?”

  “Um, yeah.”

  “Yeah, I guess I do,” he says.

  “Yeah, well, me too.” Great. Now that we’ve established that, I have to go through another round of questions—just to see if he’ll go out stargazing with me? This is exhausting! And I haven’t even made him laugh yet!

  My gaze settles on his red shoe laces. Make him laugh even if you have to give him a sort of hard time.

  “Nice shoelaces,” I say. “Where—where’d you, uh, get them?”

  “My shoelaces? I don’t . . . really know?” He says this in a strange way, like he’s grasping for some sort of clue. “Why?”

  “Well, because . . . um, well . . .” Santa called and he wants his shoelaces back. It’s so bad I can’t even finish the sentence. I start to actually back away.

  This is not flirting. This is alienating. I feel like I have slingshot myself into a concrete wall. Splat.

  I can’t look at him. I just can’t. But I hear him say, “It’s kind of cloudy tonight, but you can see a couple.”

  I glance up. He’s gazing at the sky. A few stars break through the murkiness of the night clouds.

  “The rest of the week’s supposed to be clearer,” he says.

  Then he looks at me like he has no idea of what a dork I really am, and for a few small seconds, I actually sort of believe it. But—

  “Hihihihihihihi.”

  “I think you’re being summoned,” I say.

  “Hang on. Let me—”

  But before he can finish his sentence, Colvin leaps into sight and attaches himself to Mitchell’s leg like a barnacle. Mitchell tries to pry his little brother off, and says, “Well, I better, uh, save myself from this scary monster.”

  Colvin roars loudly.

  “Okay, well, see you around?” I ask.

  “Yeah, sorry, catch you later. And thanks for the rat!” he calls out as the screen door shuts.

  “Byebyebyebye.” Colvin’s voice grows fainter as he pulls his brother down the hall.

  I’m not really sure what just happened, and I wish I could talk to Rae about it. But when I get back to our room, she’s kicked back on her bed, chatting breezily on the phone, and it feels like we’re worlds apart. Boys and friends and flirting all seem to come so naturally to her.

  She notices me and tilts her chin a little in a greeting. She holds up two fingers and mouths, excitedly, “Two bars!” I give her a thumbs-up.

  “Edie’s back,” she says into her phone. “So I better go.”

  Pause.

  “Yeah, me too.”

  But she doesn’t hang up. Instead, she giggles and hides a smile.

  “No, you say it.”

  Eyes flash to me, then back down again. Head folds forward, hand over receiver. Muffled voice. A giggle.

  Longer pause.

  Let her talk. I’d be talking on the phone if I could too—to Taylor. But visiting day is still a full week and a half away! Maybe I should just write to Taylor at camp. At least I’ll have some adventures to report.

  I pull out a notepad from my couch-side table and start writing.

  Hey Taylor, I’m having such a fun and exciting summer. Guess what? I gave a boy a dead rat!

  Wait. Not that.

  I rip off the sheet and start again. At least I can write to her about the Hurricane.

  “Crap, I lost him!” Rae says, glaring at her phone. “Yep, back to zero bars again. Why am I not surprised?” Then she glances at me. “Sorry. That was Leo.”

  “Yeah, I kind of guessed,” I say, but I smile.

  “So, where’d you go?” Rae asks.

  “Oh, well . . . over to Mitchell’s.”

  Her eyes get big. “Did you flirt with him?”

  “Uh, no. Not really. Not successfully, at least.”

  She laughs. Then she notices the piece of paper.

  “What’s that? Are you writing a letter?”

  “Oh. Yeah.”

  “I told you, you can call Klaus anytime you want.” She wiggles the phone.

  “No, this is to a friend. My friend Taylor.”

  “Oh. Well, you know you can still use my phone if you want to call her too, right?”

  “Thanks. I would, but she’s at camp, and . . .” I look at Rae. She does seem to be listening. “She’s with another friend. And it’s sort of, well, driving me a little crazy.”

  To say the least.

  “Well, I totally understand how you feel, cuz.”

  “You do?”

  “Hello? Who’s not at Shakespeare camp this summer with her boyfriend and her besties?” she says. “That would be yours truly.”

  I give her a smile. Could she really understand how I feel?

  “So what’s your letter say?”

  “Oh, well, it’s—” I look down at it.

  Guess what? I snuck out at night! I broke into an abandoned building! The police were called!

  But as I read it over, I realize I sound less like a spirited adventurer and more like a pathetic juvenile delinquent. Do I really expect Taylor to be impressed by this?

  “Nothing really,” I say, shrugging—hoping to disguise my disappointment as nonchalance. I tear off the sheet, crumple it up, and put the tablet away.

  Chapter 14

  Carp-y Diem

  It’s the Fourth of July. While the rest of the country is celebrating, Pinne, Florida, just gives the holiday a droopy-eyed nod. No fireworks, no parades, no bands playing the national anthem. At Beatrice’s urging, we’ve dressed in our brightest shades of red, white, and blue, and we’re all wearing glow-in-the-dark necklaces that my dad bought for us at Augustus Tools.

  So, it’s pretty much like any other day, just a little more blinding.

  Dani’s taped a few streamers to the ceiling of the diner, but the humidity has made most of them fall, and they drape listlessly over the mostly empty tables. One dangles into the sugar basket of a four-top.

  “So how’s the hunt for the Batman whompus thing going?” Uncle A.J. asks my dad and the twins as we slide into our usual table.

  As Dani sets up our table, my dad starts droning on about how they’ve started a search for the sparrow-tailed kite, since Bachman’s warbler has proved too elusive. That’s when the door opens, ushering in a gust of warm air—and Mitchell.

  My dad speaks first. “Well, howdy there, Mitchell. What brings you to the B-Ditty?” It’s how he now refers to the BEST Diner in Town, with no regard for the cruel and unusual embarrassment he causes me.

  “Mitchell!” my mom says, clasping her hands to her chest. “I’m so sorry. I completely forgot!”

  Mitchell’s smile turns awkward. “It was tonight? My mom said you’d invited me—”

  “Yes, yes! Of course. We’re thrilled you’re here! Kids, everyone, let’s
make room for Mitchell.”

  “Sit here!” Beatrice says, moving over a seat so that Mitchell can sit between her and Henry.

  Though I’m secretly excited to see him, I’m also incredibly nervous. For one, I’m not exactly sure what transpired between us the other evening—dead rats and sea stars, really? And for two, there’s my freak show of family, decked out in glowing necklaces and patriotic colors . . . and that’s even before they open their mouths. If I haven’t scared him off yet, they will undoubtedly do just that tonight.

  I send a worried glance over at Rae, but she’s grinning at Mitchell. Then she says in her raspy Godfather voice, “It’s an offer you can’t refuse.”

  And the two of them laugh together again, while I can only spectate and paste on a smile. His eyes meet mine for a fleeting second, but I look away and end up studying the blue plaid of the tablecloth. So much for eye contact.

  Dani comes over to take our orders. Everyone goes for burgers (and fried pickles) again, but not me. I decide to try something unexpected—unpredictable! adventurous!—and order an omelet.

  The second Dani brings our drinks, Beatrice launches in on Mitchell. “Guess what human fingernails have in common with a snake’s scales?”

  Mitchell looks perplexed. “Um . . .”

  Henry answers. “They’re both a form of skin.”

  “Errrrrr!” Beatrice says. “Both human fingernails and a snake’s scales are made up of keratin.”

  “That’s basically what I was saying!” Henry argues. Then he turns to Mitchell. “Do you know the definition of ecdysis?”

  Before Mitchell can even try to answer, Beatrice blurts it out. “It’s when a snake sheds its skin! Oh! You should know this, Mitchell, since you like snakes. It’s spelled E-C—”

  “Beatrice!” I scold.

  “D-Y-S-I-S.”

  Mitchell just smiles at her. “Cool.”

  Dealing with my own bad social skills is hard enough— now I have to deal with the twins’! I need Rae, but her attention is now on her phone. I even try to snag my mom’s attention, but the adults are too wrapped up in discussing the details of the housework to pay attention.

  “That roof probably needs to be redone,” Uncle A.J. is saying.

  “Oh, A.J.” My mom sighs. “Can’t we just repair those shingles where it’s leaking?”

  “And by ‘we,’ you mean me,” A.J. scoffs.

  “We also need to decide on paint colors,” my dad says. “Now, me, I’m partial to Summer Shadow for the exterior of the house.”

  Henry continues the siege on Mitchell. “If an alligator ate you, do you know how long it would take until he completely digested you?”

  “I . . . have no idea,” Mitchell says. “A week?”

  “It could take a hundred days!” Henry says.

  “Maximum,” Beatrice argues.

  I take a breath. If Rae won’t save Mitchell, it’s up to me. “Speaking of alligators, we met a—”

  But Henry keeps on. “And did you know that if a snake is born with two heads, the two heads will fight each other for food?”

  “That’s pretty incredible,” Mitchell says. He looks across the table to me. “What about alligators?”

  “We met an alligator trapper the other day,” I tell him. “And she said there was a report—”

  “Where did you meet an alligator trapper?” Beatrice asks.

  “Wait. A gator sighting?” Mitchell sits straight. “Where exactly? Did she say?”

  “Over by some store? A Buy ’n’ Tote, I think? But it sounded like a false report. She said they’ve been getting a lot of those. The alligator was gone when she got there.”

  Mitchell looks extremely interested, but Beatrice won’t let up. “Edith, where did you meet an alligator trapper?”

  “At the—” And then I remember I wasn’t supposed to be at the ice cream/hardware store on laundry day. That’s all I need is Beatrice tattling. I press my knee into Rae’s. Help. But I’ve lost her to her phone. I try to distract the twins. “Didn’t you guys bring your Samurai Sudoku?”

  It doesn’t work.

  “Oh, Mitchell!” Henry says. “There’s this African snake, and it swallows eggs whole. And then, inside the snake’s body, there are spikes that crack the egg open, so the yolk and stuff can be digested. And then, afterward, the snake vomits up a little shell package!”

  “Henry, gross. We’re about to eat,” I say. Just then Dani brings the plates. I look down at my omelet. Bad choice.

  “Oh, Edith!” Beatrice eyes my plate. “I wonder how many African snakes—”

  “I think we should change the subject.” I realize I sound a little like my mom, but I’m getting pretty desperate.

  “Okay.” Beatrice turns back to Mitchell. “Did you know we have a kitten?”

  “You have a kitten?” Mitchell asks.

  “No,” Henry says. He starts explaining to Mitchell how there’s no proof, and Beatrice tells him there is because Henry saw the droppings himself.

  “It’s called scat,” Henry says.

  “What is?” Beatrice says.

  “The droppings.” Henry looks smug. “The scientific name is scat.”

  My face is on fire. My stomach is in knots. I need Rae to save this dinner—seize it, carpe it, take it hostage, whatever it takes, but she’s still preoccupied with her phone. I nudge her frantically with my knee under the table. “Rae, help!” I whisper. “Mayday, mayday! Emergency!”

  “Can you believe this, Edie? Yay for dirty laundry! We’re up to two hundred and forty-two likes on Instagram!”

  I’m at my breaking point. I need to escape. I get up from the table.

  “Edith? Where are you going?” my mom asks.

  “Bathroom,” I murmur.

  “Wrap the seat!” she calls out after me.

  I walk faster, but still I can’t get away quickly enough.

  In the bathroom, I snap off my glow necklace and pat down my overheated face. I look at myself in the mirror and notice a smudge of dirt over my left eyebrow, probably a remnant of today’s indentured servitude—a day full of fetching tools for my mom and uncle and carrying boxes down from the attic. I feel an extra flutter of annoyance at Rae for not mentioning the smudge to me.

  I lean in a little closer, studying my own eyes, looking for that stormy gray that Petunia and I supposedly share. What color is “stormy,” anyway? I hope for something dramatic—a bright-gold fleck or two, like a flash of lightning. But right now, all I see in my eyes is the color of an ordinary overcast day.

  The door swings open and Dani walks in, untying her apron. “Oh, hi, Edie.” She washes her hands under the faucet and gives me a slightly concerned look in the mirror. “How are you doing?”

  “Okay, I guess.”

  “You don’t seem okay.”

  “Oh.” I say. It’s a little awkward. For the first time, I wish for a movie quote, or Shakespeare, to save me from having to really answer.

  “It’s okay. Of course you miss her.”

  “Petunia?” I ask.

  “Who else? I know you never got to meet her, but she’s part of you anyway,” Dani says. She makes it sound so simple, and maybe it is. “You know, I miss her too. Maybe not that snake of hers that she kept wrapped around her shoulders, though.”

  “Herbie?” I smile. I might even be starting to feel a little affection for him.

  “Yeah, well . . .” She turns to face me, leaning into the sink, putting one hand on her hip. “I never believed he was a service snake.”

  “A service snake?” I ask.

  “You know those service animals that people use—people with seizures and diabetes, and that kind of thing? Usually they use dogs, but Petunia said that Herbie was a service snake. Snake therapy, she called it. Always wanted to say to her, yeah, maybe that thing is making you feel better, but it sure as heck is scaring the tiddledywinks out of the rest of us!” She laughs. “Honestly, snake therapy! I mean, you ever hear of such a thing?”

 
“Well . . . uh, no,” I say.

  Dani chuckles. “She could be a real rascal at times, that Petunia.” She inspects her smile in the mirror and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “All right, well, I’ll see you back at your table. We’ve got some great desserts tonight.”

  “Right,” I say, but I’m not quite ready to return to the disaster of a conversation that I escaped.

  I think about what Dani told me. I wonder what snake therapy is, and if I might need some of that after this summer is over.

  When I finally return to the table, there are platefuls of chocolate cake and big bowls of banana pudding waiting. We’ll never get out of here.

  “How many times does a hummingbird’s heart beat per minute?” Henry is asking. “Dad, Mom, you’re not allowed to answer.”

  “Two hundred?” Rae guesses.

  “I’ll go two fifty,” Uncle A.J. says.

  “Five hundred?” Mitchell says. “I know it’s super fast.”

  “Edith?” Henry asks.

  “I’m not playing,” I say.

  “Well, you’re all wrong! It can beat up to one thousand two hundred and sixty times.”

  “I’ve got one,” my dad says, smiling mischievously. “How much wood would a woodchuck chuck, if a woodchuck could chuck wood?”

  I shovel some more chocolate cake into my face. Might as well enjoy something.

  “Daaaad,” Henry whines. “That’s a tongue twister. It’s not a real question!”

  “No, Henry, it is a real question, and I know this!” Beatrice says. “Seven hundred and eleven pounds of wood a day! Right, Dad?”

  “Well, theoretically, of course,” my dad says, and he and Beatrice laugh and laugh.

  I shovel faster.

  On the way out, my mom offers to give Mitchell a ride home with us.

  “Thanks, but I rode my bike,” he says.

  “But it’s dark. I don’t think it’s safe—”

  “It’s okay, Mrs. Posey.”

  But, not surprisingly, it turns outs my mom’s offer isn’t technically an offer but a polite demand. She has Uncle A.J. attach Mitchell’s bike to the back of the van, and we all cram in for the ride home. Mitchell squeezes in next to me, and my heart squeezes up a little when he does.

  “So,” he says to me in a hushed voice, “about those stars . . .”