Amanda’s eyes get huge, and she drops her voice to a loud whisper. “Do you have a date?”
“I guess I do.” I look down at my shoes, trying to hide the smile that threatens.
“Oh, wow. That is so exciting. Who is it?” Amanda asks.
I figure it’s okay to tell them now. They’re going to see us dancing together soon enough, and then the story won’t be mine alone anymore.
“Kevin asked me last week.”
Amanda jumps up and down, and Lila lets out a tiny little squeal.
“Kevin is so cute,” Amanda says, and Lila nods.
“And he’s supernice,” I add. “And smart.”
Amanda crinkles her eyebrows, as if she doesn’t quite believe me. I know Kevin doesn’t do very well in school, but in my heart of hearts, I’m sure he has so much to offer. He likes to act like he’s supercool, but I’ve seen him when he thinks nobody’s looking—the focused look on his face when we have pop quizzes, the thoughtful way he browses for books in the library. No matter how cute he is, he has a lot of beauty on the inside as well.
“Brrrrr.” Amanda shivers again. “It’s getting chilly out here. We’ll see you inside, okay?”
I nod, and Lila follows Amanda into the school. They’re nice, and we get along well in class, but we don’t hang out at all. They live on the other side of town, and to be honest, they’ve never asked me. It’s okay, though. My writing takes up so much of my free time, and I enjoy spending my weekends babysitting. I mean, sure, it would be nice to be friends with someone my own age, but at least when I play Scrabble with the twins, I know I’m going to win!
Another car pulls up, and two boys I don’t recognize get out. I pluck my antique pocket watch out of my beaded clutch—the watch belonged to my mother’s father before she gave it to me—and check the time. It’s seven forty. I’m sure Kevin said he’d meet me outside at seven fifteen. At the statue, he’d said. I slide the watch back into my bag and scan the next car that pulls up.
No Kevin.
As I glance at the headlights lining up at the curb, one voice overpowers the collective voices of students streaming into the school. The girl who nearly knocked me over earlier, some sort of protester, is walking my way—running, almost—carrying a sign over her head. I jump out of her way as I squint to try to make out the words. I can’t tell what it says, but she’s yelling, “Heck no, we won’t go!” I wonder what she’s protesting about. Women’s rights? Or maybe school lunches.
A car door slams behind me, and a boy laughs. I turn quickly to see if it’s Kevin, but I can’t tell from where I’m standing, so I take a few steps forward to get a better view. Just as the boy steps out, I stumble on a crack in the sidewalk.
I squeeze my eyes shut, praying that the boy getting out of the car isn’t Kevin. I would hate for him to see me being so clumsy.
I straighten up and slowly open one eye, then the other. I don’t recognize the passenger, and in fact, he barely looks at me.
I wonder where Kevin can be.
Maybe he’s late because he’s nervous. Maybe he’s pressing his suit so it will look just right. Maybe he’s having trouble with his tie. Or maybe it’s not his fault at all. What if his parents are having car trouble? And since I don’t have a cell phone, he wouldn’t even be able to let me know. I bite my lip. Maybe I should consider getting a phone. I sigh. Who am I kidding? Even if I wanted one, my dad wouldn’t be on board. I know how much it bothers him that Ashlyn is always on hers, and he probably wouldn’t think getting one so Kevin can reach me is a good enough reason.
The line of cars is getting shorter now. Still no sign of Kevin.
A couple of boys from my homeroom walk out of the school and onto the sidewalk.
“That was the lamest thing ever,” one of them says to the other.
“Right? My ears still hurt from those girls singing along to that Beyoncé song at the top of their lungs.” The other boy shakes his head.
“I’m never going to another dance again,” the first boy says. “When is your mom going to be here?”
“I called her ten minutes ago to come get us, so she should be here soon.”
“Cool. Let’s just go to your house and play Minecraft.”
“Excuse me.” I walk over to the boys. “You’ve been inside?”
“Unfortunately,” one of the boys says. “It’s like a sauna in there.”
“Did you by any chance notice if Kevin Wilton was inside?”
The boys look at each other, and one of them nods. “Yeah, I saw him.”
Could it be that Kevin and I had a misunderstanding? I was so nervous as we made our plans. It occurs to me that if I was nervous, maybe Kevin was nervous too! A smile comes to my lips, and my gloved hand flies up to cover it.
That must be it. Kevin just forgot that we were supposed to meet outside. Or maybe he slipped in with a bunch of other kids and didn’t notice me waiting. It did get pretty crowded out here.
“Thank you so much,” I say to the boys, and then I lift my skirt a little and walk as fast as I can toward the door. I bite my lower lip, suddenly feeling awful that I’ve been making him wait all this time. He’s probably looking everywhere for me. My stomach churns, and I’m nearly running now.
A wall of noise hits me as soon as I enter the building. A bunch of kids are walking around in the hallway, talking and shrieking and laughing. The band isn’t on yet, but a DJ is playing music so loudly that I can actually feel it rumbling in my chest. I instinctively put my hands over my ears, but it doesn’t help. Just before I get to the gym, I stop and lean against a wall. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and picture Kevin. I see him smile as he asked me to come tonight. I picture him waiting patiently for me in the gym. I think about our first dance.
And then, right in the middle of wondering if Kevin is wearing a bow tie or a necktie, my mother’s face pops into my mind.
Oh, how I wish she were here. She would kiss the top of my head, hold both of my hands, and tell me how happy she is for me. She’d tell me the story of her first dance, and her eyes would sparkle as she remembered the exact song that was playing. She’d take me to the cedar chest in her room, and we’d go through old pictures of her at my age. We’d giggle at her hairstyle and outdated clothes, and we’d marvel at how much I look like she did.
I squeeze my eyes shut. The image vanishes, but the hot tears that bubbled up linger for a few seconds. I take another deep breath, and amazingly, it helps me feel more calm. Somehow, just thinking of my mom fills my whole body with warmth. I don’t know if I believe in heaven or the afterlife or any of that stuff, but I like to think my mom is somewhere not too far away, looking out for me.
With that thought, I smile, stand up as tall as I can, and head toward the music.
ASHLYN { 7:43 P.M. }
UM, HELLO? DARLING FRIENDS OF mine? WHY are you ignoring me? I relaunch my Instagram app in case the Wi-Fi here at the Terzettis’ is slower than Ellie trying to catch on to one of my jokes. But no. When it refreshes, my photo of the cute new suede boots I’m wearing for the first time tonight (even though they really deserve an occasion and not a babysitting gig for their debut) still has zero likes. Are my friends all so seriously wrapped up in their precious dance that they can’t be there for me in my time of need? That is just so—
“It kind of feels like you’re ignoring us.”
Yes! That’s exactly how I’m feeling! Oh, wait. That wasn’t said by me . . . that was to me. I pick my head up and study the twin in front of me. Her brown hair is just past her shoulders and hangs limply, a perfect match to her sister’s, as is her frumpy leggings-and-sweatshirt outfit. And her face, for that matter. It’s almost creepy how identical they are. I hope they’re not going to be offended that I literally have no clue who’s who.
“Sorry, what?” I ask.
She tilts her head. “We were wondering if you’re even going to play with us at all tonight?”
Um, no? My mother always jokes that she can’t g
et me to do anything unless I’m “properly incentivized,” but to be honest, I never understand why she laughs when she says it. Isn’t that basically how our whole society works?
And at the moment, there are exactly zero reasons to be a model babysitter. I have no intention of ever doing this again.
Which means I don’t need a glowing review from the Brats, as I’ve cleverly nicknamed them on my Instagram feed (as in How did I get stuck watching the Brats while everyone else dances the night away?).
The girl shifts her weight to her other foot, juts out a hip, and sighs deeply. “Are you just gonna stare at me, or are you going to answer my question?”
Weh-heh-hel. I dig the attitude. She might be going places, this one. I raise both eyebrows and level her with a look until she flinches and drops her eyes to the floor.
She might be going places, but I’m already there.
I examine my nails for chips in my gel polish (ugh—biggest pet peeve ever) while I consider her question. “What did you have in mind?” I ask.
I don’t want to play anything with the Brats, but if Instagram is going to be all sad and lonely tonight, maybe doing something short with them could kill some time. The TV remote has approximately forty-seven thousand buttons, and I doubt these girls like me enough to explain any of them to me. I could always YouTube some instructions, but . . . let’s just see what the Brats have in mind. Might not be terrible.
“We could play Monopoly,” the one in front of me says, while her sister nods enthusiastically from the doorway.
Scratch that. It could be terrible.
I roll my eyes. “Waaay too confusing. I hate the whole mortgaging-properties thing. It makes zero sense, and plus, that game lasts, like, two lifetimes.”
The other girl comes over. Side by side, the matchy-matchy thing they have going on is even more superannoying. Did they not get the memo: No one does you better than you! Why risk any evidence to the contrary standing off to your right?
Hmm. I wonder . . .
I squint a bit and study them. “I have an idea,” I say slowly, drawing each word out. “Really, I should charge you for this service, but I’m already here, so . . .”
“Our mom is paying you,” the one on the left says.
“Not for this, she’s not.” I wait for their eyes to widen in anticipation, and when they do, I lean close. Their heads duck to mine, and I whisper, “I’m going to give you both . . . MAKEOVERS!!”
I sit back on the couch, bracing for the excited screams I know are coming.
Wait for it. . . .
Um, hello? Screams would be oh-so-appropriate here. Why are there no screams? Instead, both of them have wrinkled foreheads as they look from each other to me.
“Why?” one asks.
“Well, because I’m feeling charitable. Besides, when you have mastered something, as I have, the honorable thing to do is to pay that forward by passing your expertise on to the next generation. I’m pretty sure Martin Luther King said that. Or maybe Lady Gaga. I can’t remember, but whatever, because it’s solid advice. In fact, consider that life lesson number one.”
The girls exchange glances again, and this time the one on the right speaks first. “What do we need a makeover for?”
Duh. “Popularity.”
More wrinkled foreheads. What is up with these girls?
“I can show you how to be popular,” I say. “I have prepatented techniques, and before this night is over you could be on your way to owning first grade.”
The girl on the left puffs her bangs out of her eyes. “We’re in third grade. We’re not that much younger than you.”
Well, what a difference a few years make, then, because one of us is going home with cold, hard cash in her pocket, and the other two are obeying the bedtime I enforce. I feel like sticking my tongue out at them, but as the far-more-mature one among us, I resist.
She looks at me. “Most of the kids in our class already like us, because Hope always shares her snacks and I’m awesome at soccer and we’re both really nice to our friends.”
I narrow my eyes. “Do you want me to play with you or not?”
She glances at her sister, who shrugs.
“I guess,” Hope says.
“Perfect. Curling iron. Stat.”
“What are stat? I don’t think we have those,” says the other, who I’ve figured out is Charity via my superior powers of deduction.
I sigh as if I’m injured. “ ‘Stat’ means ‘pronto,’ ‘on the double,’ ‘quickly.’ Do you not watch any medical dramas?” When they look confused again, I wave my hand. “Never mind, just grab the curling iron.”
“Um, we don’t have that, either.”
What is this place? They can afford a forty-seven-thousand-button remote but deprive the women of the household of a curling iron? I shake my head, but I’m not deterred. When it comes to the pursuit of beauty, I never let anything get in my way.
“Okay, grab a whole ton of spoons and some butterfly clamps.”
“Some butterfly whatza?”
I throw up my hands. “Just see if your parents have any binder clips, okay?”
Both girls shuffle out of the room, and I pull up the notepad app on my phone. I’m all about making lists, and this project is going to need them. Okay, so now if I start with Hope and give her curly hair and then use a flat iron on Charity’s to make it the complete opposite—
Wait, they have to have a flat iron, right? I pause, consider, and then decide that of course they do. Not owning a flat iron would make them literal medieval cavemen.
I get back to my list, and I’m only on item twenty-two when both girls return with the supplies I requested.
I park Hope on a chair in front of me. “Oh, hold on, we need to dampen your hair first. Do you have a spray bottle?”
Hope shakes her head at the same time Charity answers, “Just the stuff under the bathroom sink. But that’s for cleaning the toilet.”
“Should work fine,” I say over my shoulder as I head for the bathroom. I dump the contents into the toilet and flush, then fill the bottle with hot water. Perfect. The first few sprays smell a little chemically, but whatever. I’m sure that’ll go away as we work.
I return to the family room and hand Charity my phone. “You sit there and monitor my Instagram. I want real-time updates on any activity. Got it? Take notes for yourself too, because if you want to be popular, you need to master your various app options.”
Charity plops down. “Okay, fine, but we can’t get cell phones until middle school.”
I arch an eyebrow. “You need to start campaigning ASAP. When I was your age, I was sticking Verizon magazine ads to the ceiling above my mom’s bed at least four nights a week, tucking brochures comparing cell phone plans under her pillow, taping them to the rearview mirror in her car, rolling some up in her yoga mat . . . you name it. You girls have to start planting the seeds now, because you’re already falling behind. That’s life lesson number two. You’re welcome, and stay tuned; there’s more where that came from.”
As I talk, I dampen Hope’s hair. I’m doing her the biggest favor in the world, and all she can do is complain about her eyes watering from the bathroom cleaner fumes. Fine, so maybe I didn’t rinse out the bottle, but stop being such a baby about it—beauty comes at a price! I roll big chunks quickly but carefully around each spoon and secure them with binder clips that mostly do the job. I’m pretty proud of my improvising, I have to say.
When we’re done a few nothing-new-on-Instagram minutes later, I use a pillow from the couch to press down on Hope’s hair so we can keep all the “rollers” in place as I march us all up to the master bedroom and plug in Mrs. Terzetti’s hair dryer. At least she has one of these. Sheesh.
I’ve barely aimed it at Hope’s head when she begins wincing and then screeching, “Ow! Ow! Ow!”
I tap my foot and flip the dryer off. “What now?”
“That’s burning my scalp!” Hope yelps.
I turn the dr
yer over in my hand. “It’s only on the medium setting. Don’t be such a whiner.”
“It’s the spoons! They’re a thousand degrees.”
Ugh. Exaggerate much? Someone needs to tell her that no one appreciates snark. It should be me clueing her in, but I’ve already given away too many valuable life lessons, and I’m not getting nearly enough idolization in return.
I place a hand on her head and snatch it back just as quickly when it scorches my palm. Huh. “Fine, I’ll switch to the low setting, but we have to use a heat source or the curls won’t set.”
Hope whimpers and Charity opens her mouth to say something, but I cut them both off by holding up my hand. I guess I can offer a few more life lessons, since they so clearly need my help. “Sometimes you have to suffer for beauty. It’s a universal truth.”
I nod a few times, wisely, but it’s wasted on the girls, who seem to be having some weird telepathic conversation with just their eyes. Twins can be so freaky. I should get extra pay for putting up with the creep factor.
Ignoring them, I pick up the hair dryer again and set it to low. At first Hope goes along, but after about thirty seconds she reaches up and begins yanking out the binder clips. Charity abandons her spot on the edge of the tub to help.
I shriek. “What are you doing? The curls haven’t set!”
Both girls look at me, and Charity speaks first, “We don’t want to suffer for beauty. We’re perfectly happy with the way we look.”
Hope adds, “And I feel sorry for anyone who has to do all this just to be popular. Ellie always tells us the most important thing is to be kind and smart.”
Of course Ellie would say something supercheesy and Hallmark-y like that. I snort. “Ha! Try getting through middle school on those things alone!”
They both look at me with pity, and my jaw drops.
No one EVER looks at me with pity. Is this what it feels like to be Ellie? Why would they pity me? They should want to be me. At the very least they should want to be around me.
Best. Night. Ever. Page 6
