Addie Bell's Shortcut to Growing Up

by Jessica Brody

  “And the guy in it was so hot, I was practically sweating,” she tells her friend.

  The other girl sighs. “Oh my gosh, I have to go see that.”

  Clementine nods. “It’s even better if you can go with a guy. Perfect date movie.” She grabs a red hoodie from her locker and zips it up over the sleek black sports bra that she doesn’t just wear to look sporty. She actually needs it. Clementine hit her preteen growth spurt three years ago. And her parents clearly don’t have a no-makeup-until-high-school rule, because she’s been wearing eye shadow, mascara, and lipstick since the fifth grade. And her legs are shaved. Sometimes I look at her and wonder if she’s really twelve, because she looks more like sixteen. I even heard a rumor once that she’s dating a freshman in high school who she met in the food court at the mall, which, considering the selection of boys at this school, is a very wise choice.

  I would ask her if the rumor is true, if we actually, you know, hung out. Which we don’t. Because we have basically nothing in common. What would we even talk about? She wears eyeliner and flirts with boys in malls. I still have slumber parties and make friendship bracelets.

  That’s probably why, when I finally get to lunch, I’m not really in the mood to listen to Grace list more tired, childish ideas for our sleepover tonight. I’m so eager for a distraction, I’m actually grateful when Jacob Tucker approaches our table. Normally, I try to steer clear of Jacob Tucker because of the whole smelly-boy issue.

  “Hi, Addie,” Jacob says, sidling up to us with his hands behind his back. He looks a little sheepish and embarrassed and his face is turning a strange shade of red.

  “Hi, Jacob,” I reply warily.

  A strand of unwashed dark hair falls across his pudgy, round face and he blows it away with a quick breath. “I…um…heard it was your birthday. So I brought you a present.”

  He pulls his hands from behind his back and I see that he’s holding a can of my very favorite kind of soda: Grape Crush. I’m so surprised by the kind gesture that I let out a little gasp.

  How did Jacob Tucker know I like grape soda?

  And where did he get it?

  They definitely don’t sell soda at school and Grape Crush can be hard to find. Most supermarkets don’t even stock it. Mom usually has to drive to the next town to buy it for me.

  “Wow, Jacob,” I finally bring myself to say. “Thank you so much. That was really sweet of you!”

  He shrugs, his face growing redder by the second. “It was nothing. I hope you like it.”

  I eagerly take the soda from his hand. Jacob takes a step back and watches me closely as I pry my fingertip under the tab and pop the top.

  The soda explodes out of the can like a broken fire hydrant, spraying all over my face and clothes. Some of it even squirts up my nose.

  I scream and drop the can. It continues to spurt and gush everywhere, rolling around on the cafeteria floor like it’s been possessed by an evil spirit.

  That’s when I hear the laughter. It’s coming from the next table over, where a bunch of seventh-grade boys are cracking up and giving Jacob fist bumps.

  “How long did he shake that thing?” one of the boys asks between hoots of laughter.

  “Like twenty minutes!” another one replies.

  I scowl and grab a wad of napkins from the dispenser on the table, doing my best to wipe off Grace’s sweater, which is now covered in both neon-orange slime and grape soda.

  Happy birthday to me.

  Ugh.

  Why are middle school boys so immature? Rory’s boyfriends would never do something so atrocious. That’s because Rory’s boyfriends are all in high school. They’re practically men. Meanwhile, I’m stuck with these insufferable boys who think tricking a girl into spraying grape soda up her nose is the funniest thing in the world.

  By the time the bus drops me off at home, I’m ready to call it quits on the whole birthday thing. “I’m just going to hide in my room until I’m sixteen,” I tell my mom when I walk through the door. “Which, in case you’re wondering, is in exactly one thousand, four hundred, and sixty-one days.”

  Mom looks up from folding a pile of laundry and frowns. “Wow, that is a long time. I guess I’ll have to call JoJo’s and cancel our reservation for your birthday dinner tonight. Too bad. I was really looking forward to some jalapeño-and-pineapple pizza.”

  Oh, right. I forgot we were going to my favorite restaurant tonight. And jalapeño-and-pineapple pizza does sound pretty good.

  “Fine,” I say grudgingly as I head for the stairs. “I’ll come out for that. But that’s it!”

  At six o’clock, Dad knocks on my door and starts singing, “When the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie, that’s your birthday!”

  I roll my eyes and push past him down the hallway. “Dad. Don’t sing.”

  “Did you know,” he asks, undeterred, as he follows me, “that the average American eats around twenty-three pounds of pizza every year?”

  “Fascinating,” I mumble as I head down the stairs.

  Dad is obsessed with this podcast called Everything About Everything. It’s basically two guys who talk for forty-five minutes about totally random stuff. Dad thinks it’s the most interesting thing on the planet and has basically made it his life’s mission to educate the rest of us.

  When we all pile into the car to go to JoJo’s Pizza, I’m surprised to see that Rory didn’t bring a date to my birthday dinner. It’s pretty rare to see her by herself.

  “Where’s…?” I start to ask, but then realize that I don’t remember Boyfriend of the Week’s name.

  “Henry,” she finishes grumpily. “Mom said he couldn’t come.”

  Mom turns around in the passenger seat to shoot Rory a look. “It’s your sister’s special day. Not date night.”

  Rory crosses her arms and stares out the window. “Whatever. At least he won’t have to listen to Dad talk about Tupperware all night.”

  “Hey!” Dad says defensively from the driver’s seat. “Henry seemed really intrigued when I told him how Earl Tupper was able to use his chemistry background to literally reshape the future of plastic.”

  “No, Dad,” Rory corrects him. “He was just being polite.”

  “Really?” Dad sounds genuinely disappointed.

  “Really.”

  I have to admit, I’m relieved that Henry isn’t allowed to come tonight. He’s pretty much the cutest guy I’ve ever seen in person, and I don’t want to have to worry about how frizzy my hair looks or whether or not I have pizza cheese running down my chin. Even though I changed out of my sparkly starfish dress and Grace’s slimed sweater, I still feel far from glamorous, and being around Rory’s boyfriends just reminds me of how very uncool I am.

  JoJo’s Pizza is not a fancy kind of place, but it’s still my favorite restaurant. I like the extra-thick crust and the honey they give you to dip it in. And they have the best root beer floats in town. Probably because they make their own root beer.

  “So!” the hostess says excitedly as she leads us to the booth. “I hear someone is celebrating a birthday tonight!”

  I shoot Mom an evil look and whisper, “I told you not to tell them. Now they’re going to sing.”

  “The singing is the best part!” she tells me.

  “No,” I disagree. “It’s the most embarrassing part.”

  “You always used to love it when they sang. Remember, they bring out the big cowbell and the kazoos?”

  I shudder at the very thought. “Yes. Exactly.”

  Mom just chuckles. “Fine. I’ll tell them not to sing.”

  The hostess leads us to a booth. I climb into one side with Mom, and Rory slides into the other with Dad. The hostess sets a napkin-wrapped silverware set in front of each of us and then hands menus to Mom, Dad, and Rory.

  At first I’m confused, wondering why I don’t get a menu, but then she sets a large paper place mat in front of me, and a box of crayons.

  “Enjoy your dinner!” she chirps before walkin
g away.

  I hear Rory snicker from across the table. Curiously, I study the place mat in front of me. “What’s this?” I ask to no one in particular.

  But as soon as the question is out of my mouth, I catch sight of the horrifying words printed across the top of the paper.

  Children’s Menu

  (For our diners 10 and under)

  Hot tears spring to my eyes but I immediately blink them away. I don’t want Rory to see me cry.

  Mom chuckles. “I wish people thought I was younger than my age.”

  “Well, at least the bill will be cheaper this way,” Dad says, laughing.

  “It’s not funny!” I cry, and everyone looks at me in surprise. “This whole birthday has been a disaster and you’re all making jokes!”

  “Addie,” Mom says in that tone that tells me she thinks I’m being overly dramatic. But I’m not. If she only knew what I’ve been through today. “It’s a simple mistake. If you want a regular menu we can—”

  “I don’t want a regular menu! I just want to go home! You don’t understand! None of you do!”

  “Addie,” Dad says soothingly.

  “Just forget it!” I jump out of my seat and run from the booth, wiping furiously at my wet cheeks. But the tears are falling faster than I can swat them away.

  If I were sixteen, I could just get in the car right now and drive myself home. But since I’m still only twelve, I have to sit on a bench outside the restaurant and wait for my parents to drive me home. Because there’s no way I’m going back in there. I can never show my face at JoJo’s Pizza again!

  I expect to see my entire family come rushing out the front door to make sure I’m okay, but only Mom makes an appearance. She sits down next to me on the bench with a sigh.

  “For the record,” she says, “I don’t think you look ten.”

  “You don’t count,” I reply grumpily. “You’re my mother.”

  “That means I count double!” she jokes. I know what she’s trying to do. She’s trying to cheer me up. It won’t work.

  “I hate this,” I say, kicking at a rock on the sidewalk. “I’m a year older but nothing has changed. Strangers still think I’m a little kid. You won’t let me wear makeup or shave my legs or have a cell phone when like every kid in my class has one. I still have all these annoying freckles on my face—”

  “I like your freckles,” Mom interjects.

  “They’re babyish. Just like my name.”

  “Do you want us to start calling you Adeline?” Mom asks hopefully, like this will make everything better.

  “I want to be turning sixteen. Not twelve.”

  Mom laughs and puts her arm around my shoulder, pulling me close to her. I want to scoot away because I’m afraid someone I know will walk by and see me sitting here cuddling with my mother, but I’ll admit, it feels kind of good. “There are no shortcuts to growing up,” she says. “That’s just one of the things in life you have to do the hard way.”

  I huff in response.

  “Why are you in such a hurry to grow up, anyway?” she asks. “You haven’t even given twelve a chance yet. Maybe you’ll like it.”

  “I doubt it,” I grumble.

  “C’mon.” Mom nudges my shoulder. “Let’s go back inside and have some pizza.”

  “I’m not hungry anymore.”

  “Hmm,” Mom says thoughtfully, tapping her chin with her finger. I immediately notice the mischievous twinkle in her eye. “If I can’t cheer you up, then there’s really nobody else to call.”

  Now I do scoot away, glancing uneasily around for witnesses. Thankfully, the parking lot is empty. “No. Mom. Don’t. Don’t do it. Not here.”

  “Don’t do what?” Mom’s voice grows deeper, more like a growl.

  “Mom,” I beg. “Please. Someone might see.”

  “You must pay a toll to the Yeti Forgetti.” Her voice has completely transformed now. There’s no turning back. I try to stand up but Mom grabs me, pulls me back, and starts tickling me everywhere. Under my armpits, on my belly, under the backs of my knees. I shriek with laughter. “Mom! No!”

  “Who is Mom?” she bellows in her bigfoot voice. “I don’t understand this word.”

  I’m giggling so hard I can’t even breathe. “Yeti Forgetti! Stop!”

  She tickles me harder. “The Yeti Forgetti can’t stop.”

  I scream and wiggle out of her reach, rolling right off the bench onto my feet. Mom stands and lowers into a crouch, ready to attack. I run. She sprints after me, all the while never losing her deep monster voice. “The Yeti Forgetti needs more tickles!”

  Five minutes later, we’re both out of breath and ready to go inside for pizza. By the time I sit back down at our booth and smell the mouthwatering jalapeño-and-pineapple pie waiting for me at the table, I’ve almost managed to forget why I was so upset.

  Grace arrives for the slumber party about ten minutes after we get home. She’s right on time, which is typical. Of the two of us, she’s definitely the punctual one. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her late for anything.

  “I’m saving your present for the party tomorrow,” she announces as soon as she walks into the kitchen.

  “Is it a puppy?” I ask hopefully.

  “No,” Mom and Dad say in unison, and I scowl at them.

  Grace giggles. “It’s not a puppy. And I’m not telling! You’re going to love it, though! I picked it out months ago!”

  Mom brings out a small cake—she’s making cupcakes for tomorrow’s party—and I blow out the candles. I don’t bother making a wish this year. Mom already said I wasn’t getting a dog and that’s been my wish for the past six years, so what’s the point?

  After we gobble down our cake, Grace and I say goodnight to my parents and head outside to the Hideaway.

  The Hideaway is a playhouse in the backyard that my dad built for Rory and me when we were little. He’s a contractor, which means he builds big houses all the time. So building this smaller version of a house was no big deal. Rory decided early on that she was too cool to play inside a playhouse, so Grace and I moved in and made it our own. We call it the Hideaway because it’s the only place where we can really hang out alone, without parents and sisters spying on us. Of course, I never worry about Rory spying on me. She couldn’t care less what I’m doing. But Grace’s little sister, Lily, always wants to hang out with us.

  We run down the stone path through the yard and bound up the front steps. The Hideaway is a pastel yellow house with white trim, white shutters, and a white wraparound porch. Mom says it’s Victorian style, like the old houses in San Francisco. There’s a small chalkboard sign that rests inside the front window. Right now it says GRADDIE DANCE STUDIO (which we got by mashing our two names together) because lately we’ve been using the playhouse to choreograph dance routines to our favorite songs. Last summer it said GRADDIE’S BUTTERCUP BAKERY because we decided to start a cupcake business and the Hideaway was the hub of our operations. Over the years the sign has also said GRADDIE’S TEAHOUSE, when we turned the house into a tearoom, and even DOLLY DAY CARE, when we were really young and used the house as a day care for our dolls.

  Grace and I decorated the Hideaway ourselves. The walls are covered with pictures of Summer Crush. There are four posters of the entire group—Berrin, Donovan, Maddox, and Cole. And then one poster of my favorite member—Berrin—and one poster of Grace’s favorite member—Cole. There’s also a small round table in the corner, a huge clothing rack against the back wall where we keep all the dance costumes we’ve collected over the years; and a cabinet full of dishes, stuffed animals, extra blankets, old Barbie dolls, and friendship bracelet string.

  Grace rolls out her sleeping bag on the pink carpet directly under the poster of Cole and lies down, gazing up at it. “Do you believe the rumors that Cole and Berrin don’t get along?”

  I plop down on my own sleeping bag. “Of course not. It’s just haters trying to stir up trouble. I read that they’re all best friends and hang out even wh
en they’re not on tour together.”

  “What do you think they do when they hang out?”

  “Go out to dinner,” I reply knowledgeably. “Berrin’s favorite food is sushi.”

  “I hate sushi,” Grace says, scrunching up her nose.

  “Me too,” I agree. “It smells like…”

  “A fish tank,” we both say at the exact same moment. Then we point to each other with open mouths and cackle like old ladies. It’s what we always do whenever we say the same thing at the same time, which happens a lot.

  “So,” Grace says, rolling onto her stomach. “What do you want to do first? Work on our new routine? Make friendship bracelets? Build a sleeping bag obstacle course?”

  I let out a sigh. “I don’t know.”

  “We haven’t had a tea party in a while!”

  I fight back a groan. “Grace. C’mon.”

  “What?” she asks and sounds like she really doesn’t understand what’s wrong with that idea. “It’ll be fun.”

  I rub at the small scuff in the carpeting next to my pillow. There’s a dent in the wood floor underneath to match. I remember when we made that dent. It was the summer we decided to use the Hideaway as a library and loaned out our books to the neighborhood kids. We tried to move a giant bookshelf from the house and it ended up falling over and damaging the floor. “Don’t you think we’re a little old for tea parties?”

  Grace stares blankly back at me. “The queen of England has tea parties and she’s like a hundred.”

  I look over at the plastic floral teapot sitting on the table in the corner. It was part of a whole set that Grace got me for my seventh birthday, but that was a long time ago. My mom now uses the sugar bowl to hold loose change in the kitchen and only two of the cups and saucers remain. I have no idea what happened to the rest of them. Grace and I haven’t actually used the teapot for tea parties in more than three years. Now we use it to leave secret messages for each other. When I was bringing my stuff out here after school, I found she had hidden a happy birthday message inside. I don’t know when she did it, but that’s kind of the point.