The Summer of Bad Ideas

by Kiera Stewart

  The twins will ask me how I did it—how I managed to survive all the dangers. For once, they’ll want to learn something from me. “What’s it like to be brave?” they’ll ask. “Can you show us how?”

  Uncle A.J. will give me my own nickname, like Boss or Champ or Sparkplug. Or Firecracker. I really like Firecracker.

  And Rae. Rae, of course, will be full of admiration. She’ll call me the adventurer. The carpe noctemer. The stay-out-all-nighter. Edie the Gutsy One. The Courageous One. Or at least, the One Who Was Not Felled by Mosquitoes.

  But when I walk in the door, no one seems to notice. The grown-ups are shouting at each other, sure, but it’s not about me.

  It’s about a broken toilet.

  “The pipes are ancient—what do you expect?” It’s Uncle A.J.

  “I expect you to fix it, that’s what!” my mom shouts.

  “Welles doesn’t sell toilets—and he doesn’t have the right parts. Now, if you’re in the market for a Kleenex Kozee—”

  “Oh, for the love of meat loaf, A.J.! Just drive into Bartow. No reason to stay in this pea-sized town. And anyway, the toilet can be put back together. All you really need to do is repair the floor.”

  “All I really need to do . . .” Uncle A.J. seethes. “Hannah, if you know so much, why don’t you fix it yourself?”

  “Maybe we should think about buying a new one,” my dad says. “Maybe with one of those Whisper Quiet toilet seats.”

  But my mom ignores him and turns back to my uncle. “Fix it myself? I just may have to! I can probably figure it out faster than you’re willing to get off your lazy hindquarters to get it done!”

  “Lazy?” Uncle A.J. says. “I’ll show you lazy.”

  My dad continues, “In bone, or maybe a glacier white. I think bisque is kind of outdated.”

  My mom suddenly sees me standing in the entrance to the kitchen. “Oh, hi, honey. You were up early, huh?”

  “Hey there, sugarplum,” my dad says. “Whaaaat’s crackalackin’?”

  “Not . . . much?” I say, but I feel like a human question mark. Is this a trick question?

  “The crapper’s shot,” Uncle A.J. says.

  It’s not really the weeping, relieved welcome I’d expected. My mom and Uncle A.J. go back to their bickering. My dad starts touting the virtues of the Econoflush. I go to look for Rae.

  I find her upstairs, still in bed, her back to the door.

  “Rae,” I whisper.

  She doesn’t move. I wonder if she’s still annoyed with me.

  “Rae.”

  She stirs. “What?”

  “How can you sleep with all that arguing going on?”

  “Who said I was asleep?”

  I don’t answer. She rolls over and looks at me.

  “You just got home?”

  Where’s that look of admiration?

  “Yeah, uh—”

  “I didn’t know you were going to stay up there all night!”

  “Me neither, but thanks for covering for me,” I say. “Sorry about that.”

  She blows out a breath, a little disarmed. “You’re wearing his sweatshirt.”

  “Yeah.” I take it off. It’s getting too hot for it anyway. “I forgot about it, I guess.”

  “Well, so, did you wish upon a shooting star?” She says this with an edge to her voice.

  I make a little laugh breath. “Nooo. We didn’t see any shooting stars.”

  “So, what did you do all night?”

  I want to tell her everything, but I recognize the look on her face. The look of being left out. I know that feeling way too well. All the freedom and fearlessness of last night starts to quickly fade. “It was . . . fine. We just ate Slim Jims and talked a little, and I guess we fell asleep. You should have stayed, though. He brought a candle that kept the bugs away—well, mostly.”

  But the look on her face doesn’t change, and I just want to make everything okay between us.

  “He’s kind of a space case sometimes, though, you know?” I feel a little jerky saying it, but that vanishes when I see her start to smile.

  “I know, right?” And then she laughs, and I seem to be forgiven.

  For a few seconds, it feels pretty good. Then I start to feel like total carp for saying something mean about him, especially just for a laugh. “Just kidding,” I say. “I just mean, it would have been more fun if you were there.”

  But she says, “Yeah, he’s nice and all, but sometimes he’s such an Olaf. You know, the snowman from Frozen?”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  And she launches into a scene from the movie, with a dopey-sounding voice. “My name is Olaf, and I like warm hugs!”

  She looks at me like she’s expecting a laugh, and I deliver. In fact, my laugh feels almost too big for the situation.

  She smiles, as if she’s pleased to be entertaining me, but that’s not really why I’m laughing. It’s more a silly, giddy relief of having the dynamic duo back.

  Chapter 17

  Wish in One Hand

  The four of us are out in the shed today—Rae and me, Beatrice and Henry. Over the last few days, our parents have sent us out here several times. They say they want us to sort through things and start to clear everything out, but Rae and I secretly believe it’s to keep us out of their hair so they can fight more freely among themselves.

  Rae’s handing me boxes from the shelves, and I’m sorting through the rusty tools, bags of unplanted seeds, spare lightbulbs, and other collections of not-so-useful things. The twins are supposed to be helping, but instead they’re quizzing us. It’s like a bad game show, with Rae and me as the reluctant contestants.

  “Okay, true or false,” Beatrice asks. “Only female crickets can chirp.”

  “I don’t know. True?” I guess.

  The twins look at each other and laugh in a nasally, self-righteous way. “False, Edith! You didn’t know that?”

  “Obviously not,” I say. “Anyway, when are you guys going to go look for that swallow-tailed kite?”

  “Sparrow-tailed kite, Edith,” Beatrice says. “We couldn’t find that bird either. Now we’re looking for the Florida scrub jay. It’s also endangered.”

  “Okay, well? I don’t think you’re going to find a Florida scrub jay in here.”

  “Dad’s taking us out later,” Beatrice says.

  “How about your kitten? Don’t you want to check on him?” Rae asks.

  “Aristotle? Oh. He only comes out at night.”

  “She’s still the only one who’s ever seen it,” Henry says.

  “I can’t help it if he only likes me.” Beatrice shrugs. “Okay, Rae! This is for you. How many noses does a slug have?”

  Rae smiles. “Henry, Beatrice, look this way so I can count.”

  “She said slug,” Henry sort of sighs.

  “Yeah, and the answer is zero,” Beatrice says. “They smell through tentacles! Okay, Edith! How fast can a dragonfly fly?”

  “A hundred miles an hour,” I say. I’m only partially aware that Rae is trying to hand something to me—something large, as big as a serving platter.

  “You’re not even trying!” Beatrice whines.

  “Okay, then three miles an hour.” I give Beatrice a weary look as I take the big platter thing from Rae.

  “Edith!” Beatrice says in a shocked and bewildered tone.

  “Beatrice, I don’t know then. Fifteen miles an hour? That’s my best guess.”

  But Beatrice doesn’t answer. Her eyes are fixed on whatever is in my hands.

  I turn to look, and see that I’m holding a wooden plaque. And attached to that plaque is the stiff, stuffed, serpentine body that used to be on the wall in the house. My heart pounds fast in my chest, my neck, my ears. My hands are starting to quiver. My mouth opens as if to scream.

  But then I remember everyone is watching me, including my fearless cousin. I make myself smile, and I smile hard. And I say, “It’s so nice to see you again, Herbie.”

  The twins have been c
alled away by my dad for another bird-filming field trip, after an enthusiastic exchange about Herbie and his snakishness. (“How can you tell if a snake is about to shed its skin?” “Its eyes look milky.” And another. “True or false: rat snakes are also called bean snakes.” Annoying buzzing sound. “False! They’re called corn snakes!”) And I’m basking in the fact that I held a snake in my hands. Okay, well, not really—I was handed a piece of wood that a dead snake was attached to. But still, I didn’t scream, or die, or otherwise lose consciousness. It’s not exactly a Taylor-worthy checkmark on Petunia’s list of good ideas, but it’s the closest I’ve ever come to literally handling one of my biggest fears.

  I wish I could share the importance of this moment with Rae. She seems to sense me looking at her as she bags up another round of donations. “Congratulations,” she says.

  “On what?” I ask.

  “On almost touching a dead snake, Edie. I know you’re scared of them. It doesn’t take a genius to figure it out.”

  “Oh.” I let out a one-syllable laugh. “I guess I am obvious, then.”

  “Yeah, you can be. I don’t know why you couldn’t have said something to me, though, instead of pretending all this time.”

  “Well, sorry. It’s just embarrassing.”

  “Don’t apologize, Edie.” She puts on her melodrama face—eyebrows knitting together, chin lifting—and says, in a flowery voice, “Love means never having to say you’re sorry. Love Story. Now that’s a classic. You have to see it sometime.”

  But for a second, I start to feel a little annoyed. “Rae, if you knew that I—well, that I have a real problem with snakes—then why did you hand Herbie to me?”

  She lets her hands drop to her sides. “I wasn’t trying to scare you, Edie. I was trying to let you see that you didn’t need to be scared. It’s like stage fright. The only cure for it is getting up on stage. If you don’t do that, you’re just stuck with it.”

  “Oh.” It’s actually a good point. And it did help a little.

  “You know, I don’t always understand you.”

  I sigh. “I know. I shouldn’t be scared of snakes. More people die from bee stings than snakebites, I get all that. It’s just that when I was little, my dad took me to the zoo—”

  I start to tell her the story, but she’s turned away again. She’s back to sorting the shelves like she’s getting paid to do it.

  I trail off. She doesn’t urge me on. She wanted an explanation, didn’t she? But I don’t get a chance to ask her why she lost interest because ding! She picks up her phone and gasps, “Oh my god! I have five bars!”

  Of chocolate? Of gold? Oh, five bars of cell service, I realize, feeling like I’m finally in the correct century.

  “I can’t believe it.” Only then does she look back at me. “You know what? I’m going to try to FaceTime Leo since I finally can.”

  It’s not like she’s asking my permission, but still, I say, “Okay. Go ahead.”

  “Leo? Leo?” Her voice fades as she steps outside.

  “Leo, Leo, Leo! O, Leo! Wherefore art thou Leo?” I say to myself, and sigh. Seems like I’m always losing her to the gorgeous and talented Leo. And she’s always trying to pass me off on Klaus, the Eeyore of boyfriends.

  Through the open door, I can see Mitchell’s small house. Things have been a little strange with him since that starry night five days ago. I’ve seen him around—out in the yard, dealing with the snakes—but we’ve hardly said more than hi to each other. I guess he’s nervous all over again. I can’t blame him. I am too. It’s weird that sometimes the more you like someone, the harder it is to talk to them.

  But I do want to talk to him.

  And—hey, don’t I have a sweatshirt to return? Something to give him helps, like Rae said.

  I run into the house and up the stairs. I grab the sweatshirt from our room. When I step back into the hall, my nerves start to tingle. I make myself keep moving—out the back door, down the steps. Even though it no longer feels like completely forbidden territory to me, I’m still a little jittery walking through the yard. I try not to look in the direction of the enclosure, but out of the corner of my eye I see something move, and I jump.

  It’s Mitchell. He’s got a snake in his hands. A real one. A living one.

  “Oh, hiiii,” I say, trying to sound calm and casual.

  “Oh, hey, Edie.” His voice is friendly enough, but he barely looks up as he places the snake in flat plastic tub.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Just cleaning. I have to take them all out so I can wipe down their enclosures. Come on, Ivan,” he says in a gentle voice as he reaches into the next enclosure.

  “I was just going over to your house,” I say.

  “Oh, yeah? What for?”

  “Um,” I say. Even though I guess it’s a normal question, it stings for some reason. My answer comes out like a question. “I guess I wanted to return your sweatshirt?”

  “Oh, cool,” he says as he slowly lifts this Ivan creature out of its enclosure. Ivan’s head and upper body are free to poke around. The snake finds the sleeve of Mitchell’s T-shirt and noses it curiously.

  “You can just throw the sweatshirt over the gate,” Mitchell says to me.

  The gate. It’s five steps closer to him—and five steps closer to the snakes. I want to approach, yet I want to retreat. Oh, the paradox!

  I take those five steps. I hang his sweatshirt over the gate. He barely looks up. I guess he’s busy with Ivan and Imelda and friends, but he’s acting so strangely.

  “So, uh, did you get in trouble or something?” I ask.

  “For what?”

  Ouch. There’s no way he could have forgotten.

  “The other night?” My voice goes high on the “night,” giving it a weird inflection. My arms cross protectively in front of my chest.

  “Oh.” He finally glances at me. “No.”

  “You said it was a—” Should I wink? Should I do something heavy lidded? I realize I’m not even sure what that really looks like. This must be covered in an advanced flirting lesson. “A good night.”

  “Yeah, it was great.” He throws a little dimple-less smile in my direction.

  I try to smile back, but my face does this little spasm instead. “I thought we had fun.”

  “Yeah, totally. I’m glad we’re buds.”

  Buds. Like buddies. Pals. Chums.

  “Yeah, uh.” I force the corners of my mouth to inch upward. “Me too.”

  “How about you? Did you get in trouble?” he asks.

  “Uh, no. There was, uh . . . a broken toilet.”

  “A what?”

  “A . . . uh . . .” Why am I even talking? “Everyone was just too busy dealing with house issues to really notice I was gone. Things falling apart and stuff.”

  “Oh, got it,” he says. “Well, I guess I better get back to work.”

  “Yeah, me too,” I say.

  We say bye, and I leave him and his precious serpents alone. Maybe I should stick with made-up boyfriends, like Klaus, who I’m sure wouldn’t require any flirty talk or special glances—just a no-nonsense smile from time to time. A firm handshake might equally suffice.

  Rae and I are in our room. It’s late, but our light is still on. She’s blabbering on about something. I’m inserting a “yeah” from time to time, along with the occasional “hmm.”

  “Are you really listening to me?” she asks.

  “Yes,” I say.

  “What was I talking about, then?”

  “Leo,” I say, which is pretty much a no-brainer.

  “What about him?”

  I try to remember a few verbal scraps. “That he looks like Justin Timberlake.”

  “Edie!” She seems exasperated. “You’re not listening.”

  “Okay, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I say. She opens her mouth, no doubt ready to give me her Love Story quote again, but before she can, I add, “I guess I just have a lot on my mind.”

  “Yeah, I g
uess I can tell. What’s wrong?”

  You mean besides the fact that you’re on your phone all the time? And Mitchell is so . . . I don’t know. And that my best friend is off at camp with my archnemesis? And that visiting day is only three days away and I have yet to get a single checkmark on Petunia’s list of good ideas?

  “Okay, talk to me, Edie. Does this have something to do with your”—she says the word very carefully—“boyfriend?”

  “Nooo.”

  “You’ve hardly even mentioned him lately.”

  “I know. It’s just that he’s just acting weird. He thinks—”

  “Hang on. So you actually talked to him? When?”

  Carp. She means Klaus. Ugh.

  “Oh my god, you’re talking about Mitchell! I knew it! I knew you liked him!”

  “No, no!” I stammer. “You’ve been kind of teasing me about Mitchell all summer, so I thought that’s who you meant.”

  “Edie, please. I can see the way you’ve been looking at him.”

  “How do I look at him?”

  “Like you don’t care two poops about Klaus.”

  Well, there’s probably some truth to that.

  “Just tell me what’s really going on,” she says.

  I look over at her. She’s taken out her contacts and swept her long, flowing hair back. With her glasses, retainer, and ponytail, she looks less like a celebrity, and more like—well, more like a dorky Posey. Which feels like a good thing right now.

  I take a deep breath and find it surprisingly gratifying to just finally feel like I can tell her something. Even if it’s not everything. “It just felt like . . . he liked me a little. And I felt like that back. But then, when I went to give him his sweatshirt, he called me his bud. Like he didn’t like me like that anymore. Or ever.”

  “Oh. Okay.” She’s quiet for a few moments, like something’s wrong all over again.

  Wait. Could it be that . . . “Rae? Do you like Mitchell?”

  “No, Edie,” she says, and sighs. “And if that’s what you think—well, I don’t even know where to start.”

  “Okay, okay,” I say, surrendering.

  “So is that it? That’s all you were going to say? Just that weird stuff with Mitchell?”