“What time are you guys showing up for that?” Artie asks.
“I’ll have to get there early to set up,” Meghan says.
“I’ll be there a little early, too,” I put in.
“Okay. I hate being the first person to show up at a party,” Artie says.
Meghan looks at me evenly, as if she’s waiting for me to say something. I do not say, “Marco will be there, too.” I don’t want to get into it.
Meghan nods slowly, then looks over at Artie. Then back at me. “I think a few people will be there early, Artie. Don’t worry.” She drops her elbows onto the table and rests her chin on her palms. “So — what movie are we watching?”
“Well, I brought a few for us to choose from,” Artie says. “Do you like Miyazaki?”
“Love him!” Meghan says. “Which ones have you got?”
“Back in a second, Hayley.” Artie motions for Meghan to follow her, and they wander off toward the living room as I pull open the oven. Heat ruffles my hair as I put the tray of cupcakes on the top rack. Then I close the door with a clang and set the timer. I do all of these things without even realizing. They’re automatic to me now.
Instead, all the time, I’m thinking about Artie, and how I missed my chance to tell her about Marco. I’ve missed it twice now.
I don’t know how she’ll react when she finds out, and I kind of can’t deal with it. But she’s going to find out, sooner or later. I can’t keep putting it off.
I know I’m probably making things worse by not mentioning it, but I can’t help it.
I just can’t bear it.
I just. Can’t.
“Sit. No, sit. Sit. Like this!” Chloe gets onto her knees to show Tessie how it’s done.
“Now that hound is training you,” Gran observes from her place at the dining table. It’s Sunday night, and we’re all scattered around the living and dining rooms. I’m lying on my stomach across the living room rug, decorating a HAYLEY HICKS FOR VICE PRESIDENT poster. Mom and Gran are sitting at the table in front of a messy pile of wedding magazines and brochures. And Chloe is trying to turn Tessie into a good dog with the help of a few Milk-Bones. Tessie hops around, eyeing the treat in Chloe’s hand.
“I don’t think she’s getting it,” I tell my little sister, who gets back to her feet.
“She’s pondering her options,” Chloe says, giving Tessie a treat.
“Now you’ve trained her to ignore you completely,” I point out.
“But she’s so cute! And she wants the treat! What am I supposed to do?”
“Forget a future career as a dog trainer.” I go back to coloring in my name with a silver paint pen.
“Just wait,” Chloe says. “I’ll train her to carry the rings at Gran’s wedding. Can I do that, Mom?”
Mom and Gran exchange a look, and Mom laughs. “No.”
“Why not?” Chloe demands. “Everyone would love it!”
“Because you can’t even train Tessie to stop eating the edge of your quilt,” Mom says.
“Because I don’t even care about that!” Chloe protests. “I think it’s cute! It’s not like Tessie can’t be trained. She’s house-trained, isn’t she? And paper-trained! She could totally carry the rings down the aisle if we tied them to her collar with a ribbon!”
“Sweetheart, I don’t even know if Tessie will be with us that long.”
“She definitely won’t,” I say, and Chloe looks horrified.
“How can you say that?” Chloe wails, as if I’ve just won the Meanest Person on the Planet Award.
“Don’t you want her to have a good permanent home?” I ask, and then I feel like a horrible sister because Chloe has tears in her eyes. “I mean … Chloe, we don’t even know when Gran’s wedding is going to be.” I’m backtracking madly. “It could be a year from now!”
Chloe looks miserable, and clearly my mom thinks it’s time to change the subject. “Mom,” she says, turning to Gran, “Hayley’s making a good point — do you have a date for the wedding?”
“Oh, not yet.” Gran holds up her teacup and purses her lips at the rim. Then she places the cup in the exact center of the saucer.
“Well — I think you should decide soon. We can’t really book a venue or caterer or anything until we have a date.” Mom starts digging through the crazy pile and comes up with a brochure from Magic Hat Caterers. She frowns and flips it over. “Some of these people want a lot of lead time. How many guests were you thinking of having?”
“Oh, hmm. I hadn’t given it much thought,” Gran admits. “Perhaps just a few people. Something small.”
“Does Mr. Malik have a big family?” I ask.
“Well, yes, quite large,” Gran admits. “But I don’t know if we’ll invite them all.”
“You don’t want to offend anyone,” Mom says. “Maybe you should talk it over with him. Get an idea of how many people you might like to have, then we can start looking at places. I love this one,” she adds, pulling out a photo of a beautiful restaurant overlooking a waterfall. “That’s about half an hour from here, but they can’t take more than fifty people.”
“Fifty? Rubbish,” Gran says. “I don’t need such an enormous wedding.”
“Fifty is considered a small wedding,” Mom says, handing the brochure to Gran, who takes it reluctantly. Mom starts making notes on a legal pad. “There are three of us. And Denise.” Denise is my mom’s sister. “And what about your sister and her children?”
“Granty Emily!” Chloe cheers. “And Edwin!”
“What about Josephine?” I ask, naming our other cousin.
“Meh,” Chloe says with a shrug.
“And then there are definitely going to be some people from the groom’s side,” Mom puts in. “And you may even want to ask a few friends.”
“Can Rupert come?” Chloe asks.
“Oh, honestly, this is all just so complicated,” Gran huffs. “I think I’d rather cancel the wedding altogether and be done with it.”
She takes a sip of her tea while we stare at her for a moment. Tessie even sits down. Finally.
Cancel the wedding? My blood feels thick as glue, my head like it’s full of air. Not marry Mr. Malik? But that would be … That would be …
“You’re joking, of course,” Mom says, taking the brochure from Gran’s hand. “Look, perhaps I’m giving you too much information. Why don’t you sit down with Umer and talk it over? We can meet another time.” Mom starts gathering the magazines into a tidy, colorful pile.
She’s focused on making things orderly, but I can tell she’s as upset as I am. Her face is pale, and she rakes her hair back in an anxious gesture I know well — I saw it a lot in the months after Dad moved out.
I’m so busy watching Mom and thinking that I don’t even notice that Tessie has stepped onto my poster until a puddle makes its way toward my paint pen. “Chloe!” I screech.
“What? Ohmigosh, Tessie! No! No!”
Tessie just looks up at my sister and keeps going until she is all out of pee.
“Gracious!” Gran exclaims as I shoo the dog off the poster. Mom dashes toward the kitchen for a roll of paper towels. “What has that animal been consuming?” Gran demands.
“So much for house-trained!” I growl at Chloe. “My poster is ruined!”
“She’s paper-trained,” Chloe protests. “If your paper is on the floor, she doesn’t know the difference!”
Mom drops a pile of paper towels onto my poster, but it’s not like it can be saved. I can’t put up a poster covered in dog pee. Instead, I fold up the mess and carry it to the garbage. Then I spend about fifteen minutes washing my hands with antibacterial soap.
Mom comes up behind me and leans against the kitchen door frame. “Are you okay?” she asks gently.
No, I think. No! I’ve got a poster covered in pee and Marco asked me to the dance and I don’t want to go to another school and I don’t think I even want to run for vice president and maybe Gran isn’t getting married after all! But I don’t wan
t to talk about any of it. “I can’t wait until we get rid of that stupid dog,” I snap exactly one split second before I realize that Chloe is standing right behind my mom.
My sister dashes off. A moment later, I hear the door to our room slam shut.
Mom and I look at each other for a moment.
“I should go after her,” I say.
“Give yourself a few minutes,” Mom says gently. “And give her a few. Do you want to talk?”
Here is a question: How do moms know when you’re upset by more than just dog pee? “I want to think,” I admit. “I’m going for a walk.”
“Okay.” Mom gives me a quick kiss on the forehead, and as her black curls tickle my face, I breathe in the familiar, comforting scent of her shampoo. I grab my coat from the hook and head out the back door. I don’t want to have to explain everything to Gran.
I just want to go out into the twilight air and breathe awhile.
My favorite store, Frantic, is two blocks up from the Tea Room. There are always really amazing window displays in the front and usually a street musician performing by the entrance. The store is packed with fun clothes, funny stuff, and beautiful room decorations. I usually can’t afford to buy much, but it’s the kind of store that’s fun to look in, because there are a million things that make me smile.
Anyway, this week’s window display is all shoes, and they’ve been set up so that they’re walking in circles in this Dr. Seuss–style contraption. I’m not usually a shoe girl, but there’s a pair of silver flats in the window that I really wish I could have. They sound dressy, but they aren’t, and they look like they would be really comfortable. I have a pair of black flats, but they have a hole in the bottom near the toe on the right side, and the heels are worn down. I’m pretty hard on shoes. Anyway, I don’t wear flats much. Just if I have someplace to go where I want to look nice. The problem is that my black flats are supposed to be my “nice” shoes, but they don’t look nice at all. I could use some new ones. But since I don’t really go to that many nice places, I really don’t want to ask Mom for the money. It seems kind of dumb. So, instead, I just watch those pretty silver shoes pad around in a circle with the other shoes in the display, back and forth, back and forth.
I’m debating whether or not to go inside and try on a pair — just for informational purposes — when I hear a familiar voice nearby.
“Hey, that was great,” Kyle says to the guitarist sitting on the curb. “Do you know anything by Muddy Waters?”
“Do I know any Muddy?” The guitarist breaks into a grin and busts into a blues riff. Then he starts singing in a deep, gravelly voice. He’s football-shaped, with large glasses and a heavy beard, and he holds his guitar like he’s about to wrestle it to the ground. I’ve seen him playing on the street a few times, but I’ve never stopped to listen before.
Kyle is nodding and tapping his foot to the beat. He claps once or twice, like he wishes he had something to do with his hands. I imagine that if there were a piano nearby, he would hop onto the bench and join in.
I go stand beside him, and when the song is over, I say, “Hey, Kyle, it’s me — Hayley!”
“Fred!” Kyle is beaming, as if my presence has just put a cherry on top of the best day ever. “Do you know Winthrop Little?”
Winthrop tips his hat, revealing long, scraggly gray hair, and I giggle a little as I say hello. For one thing, the guy looks more like a renegade motorcyclist than a “Winthrop.” For another, he’s definitely not “little.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Winthrop says politely.
“Winthrop loves jazz,” Kyle says. “We like all the same records.”
“Really, I’m a blues man.” Winthrop strums a few bluesy chords.
“He’s played all over the country,” Kyle tells me. “Even opened for some of the greats.”
“All true,” Winthrop puts in.
“Wow.” I want to ask Winthrop what he’s doing in Northampton, but I don’t want to be rude. Mostly, I just think it’s amazing that I’ve seen him on the street maybe fifty times, and I’ve never really listened to him before.
“Listen, I’ve got to get going,” Kyle says, digging in his pocket. He drops a folded bill into Winthrop’s open guitar case. “Catch you later.”
“On the flip,” Winthrop says. “See you around, Hayley.” Then he launches into a new song.
Winthrop’s deep, bluesy voice follows us as Kyle and I fall into step down the street. “So — what’s up, Hayley?” Kyle asks.
“Oh, nothing.”
“You seem … thoughtful.” Kyle doesn’t say more. He’s not the type to ask questions.
“I just … I kind of yelled at Chloe for something that really isn’t her fault.” I explain about Tessie and the poster.
“Aww — you yelled at two puppies, huh?”
“Kind of,” I admit.
Kyle nudges me gently on the shoulder. “It’s okay, Hayley. Chloe knows you love her. People get mad sometimes; it’s no big deal. And dogs never hold a grudge.”
“That’s the truth.” I stop walking and inhale a deep lungful of cold spring air. It’s misty, and a little cold, but I don’t mind. I can feel the damp on the tips of my eyelashes.
“Hayley — are you going to the barbecue?” Kyle asks suddenly. “I was wondering if you might want to go together?”
The dampness on the ends of my eyelashes thickens, and Kyle blurs in front of me. My throat is closing, and I feel like I’m going to choke.
Kyle waits a moment, and then flashes an embarrassed smile. “You aren’t saying anything,” he says. “Are you — thinking it over?”
“Kyle, I —” There is a lot that I wish I could say, but don’t really dare. “Marco asked me already.” My words are limp, but they’re the best I can do.
“Oh. So you’re going with him.”
“I’ve already said yes.”
“Got it.” Kyle looks like he understands. Like maybe he understands the whole thing.
Like maybe he understands it better than I do.
And who knows? Maybe he does.
Kyle dropped a five-dollar bill into Winthrop’s guitar case. It was folded in a square. I saw it.
And I know Kyle did that on purpose. He isn’t one of the rich kids. Or he doesn’t seem to be. But how many kids in my school would have given five dollars to a street musician? How many would stop to talk to him?
When I’m with Kyle, the world just seems bigger, somehow. More interesting. Brighter. It seems like an adventure, and anyone who is brave enough is welcome to step into it.
It’s like he sees the best in people. I know he sees the best in me. When I’m around him, I just wish that I could be more like him.
He’s so easy to talk to. You never have to make anything up.
And here is the real confession:
I wish I could say yes.
Yes!
Yes!
“Amazing job, Artie. As usual,” Meghan says as she stands back from the lime-and-yellow poster. It really pops against the bland beige wall.
“Thanks!” Artie grins as she makes a minuscule adjustment to make it even straighter than it was before.
“What was wrong with the old posters?” I ask.
Meghan jumps a little and turns to face me. “Oh, hi, Hayley. I didn’t realize you were there. Studies show that people stop seeing the posters after a few days or so. It’s good to freshen them up. We’ll surprise everyone tomorrow morning.” The last bell rang ten minutes ago, and the halls are deserted. I’m only here this late because I have to talk to Señor Derby about the advanced class situation.
“But we’re keeping everything in the same color palette,” Artie explained, waving the old yellow poster. “So that people recognize the brand.”
“Great,” I say, as if I know what we’re talking about.
“You should do your posters in green and yellow, too,” Artie suggests, “so that people realize that you two are together.”
“Brilliant!”
Meghan says, holding her hand up for a high five. Then Artie says, “Thank you” in a British accent, and Meghan says, “No, thank you” in the same accent, and they go on that way for a while, and all the time I’m just standing there, like, “Say whaa?” Because — since when do those two have an in-joke?
“Okay,” I tell them. “I have to start over with my posters, anyway.” I explain about the dog pee incident.
“Yeah, Meghan and I have been meaning to ask you why your posters weren’t up yet,” Artie says. “We were wondering.”
“If you need help, just let us know,” Meghan says, and now I’m seriously feeling weird, because since when do Artie and Meghan get together to talk about me?
“Uh — I’ll try to get them up tomorrow,” I tell them, even though I’m a little annoyed that I’m not getting any sympathy for the dog situation.
“Well, well, well,” Omar says as he rounds the corner. “I see you’ve finally managed to organize something, Meghan.”
“I’ve been organizing stuff all year, Omar,” she snaps.
Omar just purses his lips as he holds up his campaign poster and rips a piece of tape from a roll with his teeth. Then he slaps up the tape — not even straight along the edges, just all wonky and haphazard — and plasters the poster right next to Meghan’s. Omar’s poster isn’t as pretty as Meghan’s. At all. It’s just large, chunky black lettering written crooked on the right. But what it lacks in prettiness, it makes up for in largeness. It’s huge.
Meghan takes one look at it, and I practically see steam coming out of her ears. “‘Ideas that matter’?” she demands, reading the poster.
“Yeah — good one, right?” Omar says.
“Like my ideas don’t matter?”
“I didn’t realize you had any ideas,” Omar replies.
“Omar!” I say. “That’s not fair. Meghan’s done a lot of stuff.”
“I have a ton of ideas,” Meghan huffs. “Just because I didn’t like your one idea —”
Omar glares at her. “Meghan, the role of the class president is to listen to the people in the class, then help them make things happen.”
Confectionately Yours #4: Something New Page 6
