It’s not.
Mom: Just got an email from a woman who wants to buy the playhouse. Have you cleaned it out yet?
I slouch in defeat. I forgot she was selling the Hideaway. I haven’t even been inside it since this whole fiasco began.
But I guess it’s time.
I find some large trash bags under the sink and some empty boxes in the basement, and I trudge into the backyard. Buttercup follows excitedly after me, thinking we’re going to play ball.
“Sorry,” I tell her, with a sad shake of my head. “This is something I just have to do.”
Buttercup lies down in a sunny spot on the grass while I step reluctantly onto the Hideaway’s white wraparound porch. The house lets out a soft creak. Like it’s grumbling about being woken up after such a nice four-year slumber.
I open the door and am immediately shoved back by the cloud of dust that blows into my face. I cough and swat at the air with one hand while the other searches for the light switch. Thankfully, it still works.
The small antique lamps on the walls illuminate the room, bathing the house in a soft glow.
It’s a total mess. Cobwebs and dirt everywhere.
Did I ever come back in here after the fight?
It certainly doesn’t look like it.
I glance around the small room. It’s filled with so many memories that hit me all at once, making it hard to breathe.
So many reminders of the life I had. With Grace as my best friend.
There’s the small table in the corner with the remnants of our play tea set and the little plastic teapot where Grace and I used to hide secret messages to each other. There are the Summer Crush posters lining the walls, half of them falling down and curled at the edges. There’s the soft pink carpeted floor under my feet that Grace and I used to hop around on in our sleeping bags. There’s the green paint stain on the wall from our failed mural. Even the little black chalkboard is still here. The one that Grace and I used to write our business names on. Like Graddie Productions and Graddie’s Buttercup Bakery and Dolly Day Care.
Now it’s lying abandoned on the floor by the window.
How can such a small space hold so many memories?
It’s like they’ve all been locked up in here, just waiting for someone to let them out. For someone to set them free.
I guess that’s what I’m here to do.
With a heavy sigh, I pick up my trash bag and get to work. Maybe Mom’s right. Maybe it’s time to let this house go so another little girl can build amazing memories in it.
I start with the Summer Crush posters, carefully removing the pushpins holding them to the walls and tossing them into the bag. There are four posters of the whole group. One of them—my favorite one—is a picture taken from above. The camera is pointed down at the boys and they’re smiling up at it. Then there’s one poster of just Berrin—my favorite. He’s leaning against a wall with his hands in his pockets, looking kind of lost and thoughtful. And finally there’s the poster of Cole—Grace’s favorite. I remember the arguments we used to get into about who was the cutest member. Who was the most talented. Who was the best dancer. There was never a resolution. We both stuck to our Summer Crush crushes with an unwavering loyalty.
With a sad smile, I unpin the poster of Cole and begin to stuff it into the bag. But a voice from behind startles me to a stop.
“Cole was always the cutest one.”
I spin around to find Grace standing in the doorway of the playhouse, her hands stuffed into her back pockets.
“No way,” I counter without missing a beat. “Berrin has the eyes. You can’t compete with the eyes.”
“But Cole has the killer smile. With the best teeth.”
“Sure,” I allow, peering down at the poster I’m still holding. “If you like buckteeth.”
She laughs and takes a step into the house, glancing around. “So your mom is really selling it?”
I nod, following her gaze to the clothing rack full of costumes. “Yeah.”
“Probably for the best,” she murmurs.
“Yeah,” I agree, trying to make myself believe it. And I do. Almost.
I watch Grace silently take in all the memories. The same way I did when I first walked in here.
“Wait,” I say, with sudden realization. “How did you know I was back here?”
She shrugs. “Just a hunch.”
“A hunch?”
She looks at me and cracks a smile. “Yeah. I got a very strong Hideaway vibe when I was driving over here.”
I can’t help but grin. Grace and I could always count on our psychic abilities when we needed them most. It’s not the kind of magic that requires an antique jewelry box bewitched by an eighteenth-century mystic. It’s the kind of magic that happens between two best friends.
It’s comforting to know that connection still exists somewhere between us.
It’s even more comforting to believe that maybe it always will.
“Grace,” I begin, my voice trembling again. “I’m sorry about swapping out the playing cards. I’m sorry I cheated. You have to know that I only did it because—”
“Because you wanted to try to rekindle our friendship,” she finishes. “I know.”
“Yes! Exactly! And I’m so sorry about what happened on my twelfth birthday. And every day after that. I’ve been such a mean, insensitive turd.”
Grace looks away, hiding a smile. Then, after a moment, she asks, “Did you really mean what you said to me at the dance? About waking up to discover you were magically sixteen?”
I look down and scuff the carpet with the toe of my shoe. “Sometimes it feels that way. Like I skipped over my entire life and I’m just now realizing what was important to me.” I take a deep breath and look at her. “You,” I say with all the conviction that I have. “You were important to me. You still are. I just want my friend back. We can dance to Summer Crush and hop around in our sleeping bags and eat junk food until our stomachs hurt. We can even have a tea party!” I fling my arms wildly toward the teapot and saucers on the little table. “Whatever you want to do. I just want things to be the way they were.”
Grace presses her lips together, not saying anything. And the longer she stands there, the more I fear that this is not going to end well. That I’m never going to get her back.
Finally, after what feels like hours of painful silence, Grace sadly shakes her head and I feel my chest squeeze.
“But they can’t,” she says softly, almost like she’s talking to herself. “You were right. What you said today during our presentation was right. We can’t keep looking backward and being nostalgic for moments that are gone or things that don’t exist anymore. We have to stop trying to live in the past and just live now.”
I feel a sob rising in my throat. I try to swallow it but just end up hiccupping instead.
“Things can’t be the way they were,” Grace continues, “because we’re not the same people anymore. Too much time has passed. We’ve grown up. We’ve moved on. We’ve found new friends and new interests and new music to dance to.” She nods to the poster still in my hands. “We’re not twelve years old anymore, Addie. You can’t just turn back time and erase four years.”
“But—” I begin to argue.
Grace raises her hand to stop me. I sniffle and hiccup again.
“But,” she echoes, her expression pensive. “It might be nice to start over. You know, get to know each other as we are now.”
The knot in my chest instantly starts to unravel and I wipe my nose.
“Do you think that would be okay?” she asks in a near whisper.
I nod over and over again. “Yes,” I squeak. “Yes. Definitely. I’d like that.”
“Cool. How about we hang out tomorrow?”
I bite my lip. “Okay.”
Grace takes one last look around the Hideaway and flashes me a playful smile. “But not here. We’re way too old for this place.”
I remove the last costume from the clothing rack and stuff it int
o the trash bag. Then I move on to the kitchen. I empty all the cabinets—dusty plates, stuffed animals, a few dolls left over from the days of the day care—and toss those in the bag, too.
Grace is right. We’re too old for this place now. We’ve grown up, moved on, made new friends (or lost new friends, in my case). Things are different. I’m sixteen. This is my life now. I’m just going to have to accept that. I’m going to have to learn how to put on makeup and speak French and pronounce Trigonostrophy and dance to new music.
But it makes me happy knowing that Grace and I will be friends again.
It may not be the same as it once was. We may not bounce around in sleeping bags or choreograph routines to Summer Crush songs or have tea parties, but we’ll find new things to do together. We can go to movies and hang out at the Human Bean and talk about older, more mature things like books and politics and the news. Maybe I’ll even start taking trumpet lessons again so I can join the marching band.
Okay, maybe not that.
The point is, everything is going to be fine. Because for the first time since I woke up in this life, I feel like myself again. Or some variation of myself. I’m not the twelve-year-old girl who made a wish on a magic jewelry box anymore. But I’m also not the sixteen-year-old girl I woke up to find in the mirror.
I’m someone completely new. And, hopefully, improved.
I move to the small table in the corner and pick up two cups and saucers from our old tea set, tossing them haphazardly into the bag. Everything must go. The house needs to be empty. A blank slate for the next owner to create her own memories.
With a sigh, I scoop up the white floral teapot—the one Grace and I used to hide our secret messages in—and start to throw it into the trash bag. But I stop when I hear a soft rattling inside.
That’s strange.
I gently shake the teapot. There it is again. But it’s definitely not paper. It’s more of a jingling sound. Almost like a…
I lift the top of the teapot, peer inside, and let out a loud gasp.
I can’t believe it.
It’s been here all along. Waiting for me. In the safest place I can think of.
In the home that Grace and I built together. In the heart of our friendship.
I tip the teapot over and shake the ornate brass key into my hand. For the longest time I just stare at it, like I’m trying to figure out if it’s real or not.
But I know it is.
Nothing has ever felt more real in my life. No choice has ever felt bigger.
I drop the trash bag onto the floor and immediately dart into the house. I run up the stairs, Buttercup galloping eagerly behind me, trying to keep up. I head straight to my bedroom and screech to a halt when I burst through the door.
It’s still there. Sitting on my desk.
La Boîte aux Rêves Cachés.
The Box of Hidden Dreams.
The prison that holds my wish captive.
“Be sure to hide the key in the safest place you can think of. If you lose it, your wish will be locked inside the box forever.”
I’m breathing so hard. Either because of my mad dash up the stairs or because of what I’m about to do. Maybe a little of both.
With trembling hands, I slowly insert the key into the lock. It fits perfectly.
I suck in a huge breath and turn it until I hear a faint click as the lock disengages. I open the lid, once again hearing that distant, ethereal sound of a woman singing. And there it is.
My wish.
I wish I was sixteen.
The ink hasn’t faded. The paper hasn’t yellowed or crumpled with time. The box has been keeping it preserved all these years. Keeping it safe.
I run my fingertips over my messy twelve-year-old handwriting.
This is exactly what I wanted. I wanted to be sixteen. I wanted to be in high school. I wanted to wear makeup and have a cell phone and get dressed up for dances and dates with boys and hang out at the Human Bean.
And now I have all those things. A cell phone with all the best apps. A drawer full of makeup. A closet full of beautiful clothes. Even a date with a cute boy. Tonight!
And to top it all off, Grace is finally back in my life. Which means everything is perfect. Everything is exactly as I imagined it.
But then I think about the presentation we gave today. All those memories I didn’t recognize. All those pictures I don’t remember taking. All the things I never really did. A life I didn’t really live.
I grip the wish tightly between my fingers. It’s so light. Almost weightless. It’s amazing how something so significant can feel like nothing but air in my hand.
It’s amazing how four years can feel like a whole lifetime.
I close my eyes and focus all my thoughts on one single thing.
One single thought.
A new wish.
A new beginning.
A new choice.
Then, in one swift motion, I rip the paper in half. Again and again and again. I keep ripping until the pieces are so small, I can’t rip them anymore.
I don’t want to take the shortcut. I don’t want to skip over all those things. I want to live them.
I dream I’m flying through clouds. I soar higher and higher until I reach a magnificent castle. I float down to the drawbridge and knock on the door. It opens and I walk through only to find there’s no floor on the other side and suddenly I’m falling, plummeting through the clouds to the ground below. I try to fly again, but it’s like I’ve lost my wings. Lost my magic. Just before I hit the ground, I wake up with a jolt.
I blink up at the castle above me. It looks identical to the one I just fell through.
Why is there a castle on the ceiling?
I blink again, but it’s still there.
Then, finally, my brain catches up and I sit upright so fast, the room spins a little. Even through my temporary blurry vision, I can see the pink comforter and white dresser and pink chiffon curtains.
My hands immediately fly to my head, expecting to feel the soft, sleek strands of my sixteen-year-old hair, but instead I feel thick, bumpy locks tied up in a bun.
A bun!
I jump out of bed and run to the mirror, grinning like a crazy person when I see my reflection.
My reflection. Freckle-faced, curly-haired, four-foot-six Addie Bell.
I leap onto my pink princess bed and start jumping up and down, shouting, “It worked! It worked! It worked!”
Mom comes bursting into my room a few moments later. She’s dressed in yoga pants and a tank top, her hair pulled back in a ponytail. She looks like herself again.
“What’s going on?” she asks, eyeing me suspiciously.
“Mom!” I bounce off the bed and run to her, wrapping my arms around her waist and squeezing so tightly. She seems a bit taken aback by my attack hug, but eventually she squeezes me back.
“Everything okay?” she asks.
“Yes!” I shout. “Everything is perfect!” She gives me another quizzical look. “I just…,” I begin, trying to come up with a good excuse for my strange behavior. “I had the craziest dream!”
Mom sits down on my unmade bed. “Tell me about it.”
“I dreamed I was sixteen and in high school!”
She smiles. “Wow. You must have loved that dream.”
I giggle. “I did! At first. I mean, it was cool. I got to wear makeup and have a cell phone and drive a car and go to high school dances! But then it turned into kind of a nightmare pretty quickly.”
Mom cocks an eyebrow, suddenly super-interested. “Why’s that?”
I sigh. “Because I realized that high school was actually superhard. I was in French class but I barely spoke French.”
Mom laughs. “That sounds terrifying.”
I laugh, too. “Yeah. It was. And I had to take this weird math class called trigonometry and…”
I sputter to a halt. Wait a second. Did I just pronounce that right?
I think I did!
“Yes,” Mom
prompts. “Trigonometry and…?”
I let out a guffaw. “Yeah. Trigonometry. Trigonometry. Trigonometry. Huh. It’s so easy! I don’t know why I had so much trouble before.”
Mom tilts her head curiously and I realize I’m probably not making the most sense. “Anyway, then I discovered that Grace and I weren’t friends anymore and…” I have to stop because my throat starts to burn.
As soon as I mention Grace’s name, Mom’s expression darkens. “Speaking of,” she says, in a serious tone. “I got a call from Grace’s mother this morning.”
I feel a sense of dread. It sounds like I’m about to get in trouble.
“I’m not happy about the way you treated her last night.”
Last night?
Hang on a sec. What day is it?
“I really think you should apologize to her at your party today.”
My party is today? It’s the very next day?
It’s like I never left!
And that means I have a chance to do it all over again. The party is where everything went wrong. Grace and I had the big fight over the gift she gave me, which led to me abandoning her during our school project. But now, I can fix it. I can steer this ship back on course.
“Yes!” I yell, skipping wildly around my room. “Yes! Yes! Yes!”
“Addie?” Mom says, still looking at me like I’m crazy.
I stop skipping and put on a serious face. “You’re absolutely right, Mom. I behaved horribly toward Grace. I will definitely apologize today and I’m sure we’ll have an uproarious time.”
“Uproarious?” Mom echoes with a frown.
“Yes,” I reply. “It means superfun.”
Mom laughs. “I know what it means. I’m just surprised…You know what? Never mind.” She stands and walks toward the door. “You should get dressed, Addie. The guests will be arriving in a few hours.”
“Okay,” I tell her. “Mom?”
She turns around. “Yeah?”
“Don’t ever stop calling me Addie, okay?”
Mom squints at me. “Why would I stop calling you by your name?”
“I mean my nickname. Addie.”
Mom looks more confused than ever. “Yesterday, at the restaurant, you told me you hated your nickname. You said it was babyish.”
Addie Bell's Shortcut to Growing Up Page 21
