Miracle Girls: A Novel

by Anne Dayton

  As the sky changes from a pinkish blue to a brighter, deeper blue, I take a deep breath and let salty air fill my lungs. It’s hard not to think about God when you’re nose to nose with some of the most amazing and bizarre creatures he ever made. I peer into a promising pool and see a beautiful lavender starfish with the standard five legs. I start snapping pictures of him . . . wait, her? . . . aren’t they asexual? It? I keep taking pictures and they all turn out beautiful.

  “You’re really photogenic, you know that?” I say quietly, as if I will disturb him.

  I know I should move on, but I find myself oddly mesmerized by the starfish. I wonder if he was surprised when he found himself hanging out in a small puddle instead of swimming along in the vast ocean. Did he like it? Did he try to get back out to sea? I know it’s stupid, but I can’t help but wonder how long it took for him to adapt and begin to thrive in his new home.

  Before long, water is creeping up around the base of my sneakers and I realize the tide is coming back in. Soon the rocks I’m standing on will disappear under the ocean again. I snap a few more pictures of my friend the starfish and call it a day, picking my way over the slippery rocks back to the shore.

  After grabbing my life jacket, I casually swing by the surfing beach, but I don’t recognize anyone down there. They all seem like older people, college kids or something. I start walking back to the top of Moss Beach, where I said I would meet Maria. It was a silly plan anyway. I mean, what are the odds that I would run into Tyler on this particular stretch of beach on this very morning?

  I kick at the sand and squint down the road for signs of our car. I’m in the right spot to wait for Maria, but I’m a little early. I hear a coughing noise behind me and gasp when I turn and see Riley, wearing a dark wetsuit and carrying a board under her right arm, a little ways down the road. I turn back around quickly and begin to send Maria ESP messages to hurry up and come get me.

  I hear Riley give a little sarcastic laugh that confirms she can’t believe her luck either. She ignores me and walks up to the road, her flip-flops squishing with every step. She puts out her thumb and waits.

  “What are you doing?!” Is she? Could she possibly be . . . hitchhiking?

  “What are you doing?” I try again, but she doesn’t look at me.

  “What does it look like?” Her wet hair hangs limply on her shoulders.

  “You can’t do that,” I say. “That’s so dangerous.” I may not like her very much, but that doesn’t mean I want Riley to die or anything. What is she thinking?

  “What are you going to do?” She scratches at some wax on her board. “Fly home on your broom?”

  I jut out my chin. “You can’t hitchhike.” I don’t want to do it, but I don’t know what else to do, so I add, “You can come with me.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Mommy, may I please have permission to catch a ride home?”

  “Fine!” I throw my hands up in the air. “If you want to jump off buildings to your death and hitchhike with ax murderers, what do I care?” I turn and peer down the road.

  She keeps her back to me for a moment and then turns around.

  “You know, Ana, I don’t know what I ever did to you. Why won’t you just leave me alone?”

  “Leave you alone?” I gasp. “This is probably the second time I’ve ever even talked to you.” I walk back over to her. “In case you haven’t noticed, you’re too cool to talk to me.”

  “Whatever,” she says and puts her thumb out again.

  “You know, the other day I almost felt sorry for you.”

  She narrows her eyes. “Why?”

  I bite my lip. I probably shouldn’t have said that. It’s just that it must be hard to have a brother who has autism.

  She puts her face in mine and speaks in a slow, low whisper. “Don’t you feel sorry for me. You don’t know anything about me or my family.” I see tears welling up in her eyes.

  “Riley, I’m sorry. That’s not what I meant.”

  She turns around and begins to flag down a pick-up truck that’s approaching us.

  “Please don’t do this.” I try to put my hand on her shoulder but she shrugs it off. “My ride will be here in just a moment. We’ll drop you home.”

  The truck pulls up with its radio blaring.

  “Hop in,” one of the two guys in the passenger cab says.

  Riley smiles and then puts her board in the back, hops in, and beats on the side twice. One of the guys looks at me to see if I’m getting in too, but I shake my head. They drive off in a cloud of dust, and I watch them go, knowing I should have done more, or said less, or something.

  21

  It’s a couple miles to Christine’s house, which is farther than any of us really want to walk, but Christine assures us that it’s better than riding with The Bimbo. Apparently The Bimbo isn’t going to be around today, which is why we’re going over there at all. Well, that and the fact that we have to make posters for the upcoming Earth First “Go Green This Thanksgiving” initiative we’re gearing up for, and Christine has more art supplies than God. Though I guess God doesn’t need poster paints since he’s got rainbows and stuff. At any rate, Christine’s mom was an artist so she has a lot of supplies, and it’s the first time I’ve even heard Christine talk about her home, let alone concede to let anyone come over.

  The Bimbo is Christine’s dad’s new girlfriend. She’s an aerobics instructor, and her schedule is as flexible as she is, which is how she is able to come over to Christine’s house every day after school to “be with” Christine until her dad comes home from work, and to help out when Christine’s Dad goes to Sacramento. As you can imagine, Christine isn’t so into this situation.

  As we trudge down Highway 1, the main road that goes through town, Zoe snacks on Starburst and talks about the new piece the piccolo section is learning, and Christine looks down at the ground. Cars zoom past us on the highway, but Christine doesn’t say anything the whole way home.

  Despite the cool November air, I’m thirsty and kind of tired by the time we turn onto Christine’s street. But as soon as we hit her block, she freezes.

  “She was supposed to take The Bimbot to the doctor,” she says. The Bimbot is Christine’s nickname for The Bimbo’s daughter, Emma. A giant white SUV is parked in the second driveway on the left.

  “What?” Zoe asks.

  “She wasn’t supposed to be here today.” Christine purses her lips.

  She points toward an adorable white bungalow with a big porch. But as I look more closely, I realize that the house would benefit from a good scrubdown and some TLC. The grass is brown and the paint is beginning to peel a little from around the bottom of the garage door. There’s a graying, flat soccer ball in the front yard. Christine stands still, shaking her head. Zoe and I wait, trying to figure out what to do.

  “Come on.” She trudges up the flagstone walkway, and we walk behind her. I try not to notice the weeds sprouting up through the cracks. She pushes the faded front door open and steps inside, putting her finger to her lips and walking quietly down the hallway.

  “Is that you, sweetie?” a voice calls from the kitchen. Christine freezes.

  “Christine, we made you some cookies!” A high-pitched voice trills out, and then we hear light footsteps running toward us. A bubbly preteen jumps into the hallway and holds out a plate of chocolate chip cookies. Her smile turns into a blank look when she sees me and Zoe. “Who are you?”

  “These are my friends.” Christine ushers us past the girl down the hallway.

  “Hey, there,” says a perky brunette standing in front of us. “I’m Candace.” She smiles and waves at us. Her long brown hair is shiny and perfectly styled, and she’s so thin, she looks like she could be a model. “And this is Emma.” She strokes the peppy girl’s hair.

  “I thought Emma had a doctor’s appointment today.” Christine plants her hands on her hips.

  Candace lights up. “The doctor had an emergency with another patient, wouldn’t you know it. S
o I was able to come over, after all. That worked out well, didn’t it?” Candace smiles at Zoe and me.

  “Yeah, except for that other kid,” Christine says.

  “I’m so glad to meet your friends.” Candace holds out her hand to Zoe. The Bimbo seems determined to be friendly. Zoe takes Candace’s hand slowly.

  “I’m Zoe,” she says.

  “Ana.” I smile and shake her hand as quickly as possible, then drop it.

  “We’re just going to go to my room and make posters for school,” Christine grumbles, letting her blue hair fall in front of her face. She starts walking down the hall.

  “We made cookies,” Emma says again and bounces up and down. I nod as if I didn’t hear her the first time.

  “Woo.” Christine doesn’t look back.

  “Just make yourselves at home,” Candace says as Christine slumps away.

  “Yeah, I live here,” Christine says over her shoulder and walks down the hallway. As I follow her, I look at the photos that line the wall. Behind the pictures, the faded yellow and brown wallpaper is starting to peel along the seams. Something strikes me as odd. There are lots of pictures of Christine growing up, and there are a few photos of Christine and her dad, but there are several empty spaces where it looks like photos have been taken down. The nails still stick out of the wall, and the evenly spaced frames on either side highlight their absence.

  “Those were the ones of Mom,” Christine says, following my line of vision.

  “Oh.”

  “Dad took them all down.”

  “Oh.” I really need to think of a better way to respond.

  “She’s here every day.” She nods toward the kitchen.

  Candace and Emma are laughing and talking in the kitchen, and suddenly it’s clear as Technicolor why Christine tries to get herself into detention all the time. If my dad had replaced my mom with a bimbo, I would stay away, too.

  22

  The youth group ski trip is still two months away, but we’re raising money for it now. As Fritz has reminded us for the past few weeks, the more we raise now, the less we’ll each have to fork over in January, but since very few of us in the youth group will actually be paying our way out of our own pockets, the turnout is predictably low. Next time, I think he should mention that he’s providing pizza for lunch, since that always seems to work.

  Today we’re working on Mrs. Murphy’s house. She’s a wealthy, elderly widow in the church. We’re pruning her garden and repainting her living room, and in return she’s donating money to the youth group. If it were me, I’d just hire a real gardener and painter. I’ve seen these people in action, and it’s not pretty. But it’s her funeral. Oh, bad choice of words. Well, whatever.

  This isn’t exactly how I would have dreamed of spending my Saturday, but I’m trying to put on a happy face. Zoe came with me today, and even though she showed up wearing patchwork overalls, I’m glad to have her along. I let it slip a while ago that Riley goes to my church, and Zoe decided that was how she was going to get to Riley to join the Miracle Girls, which is ridiculous, but here she is. She’s planning to come on the ski trip with our youth group, and now we’re trying to convince Christine to come, too.

  Zoe, I was shocked to discover, is a Christian. Dreamy and Ed were a part of what she calls “The Jesus Movement,” which from what I can tell was a bunch of hippies who started going to church in the seventies. The Fairchilds go to something called Church of the Redwoods, which sounds a little kumbayah to me, so I wasn’t shocked that Zoe wanted to try out a real youth group. Apparently at Church of the Redwoods, she is the youth group. And she was predictably delighted to discover that Riley is here today as well. A little too delighted, if you ask me. It’s kind of nutty.

  Because I brought a friend, Fritz gave me first pick of chores, so naturally I chose painting, because it seemed more fun than gardening, but an hour into it, I’m not so sure. The fumes are starting to get to me, and poor Mrs. Murphy picked a pukey shade of green for her walls, which is making me a little ill. Still, the painting itself is much less annoying than the company. Riley won’t even look at me after our little conversation on the beach. It’s not like she ever made much of an effort to be polite anyway, but this is different. She refuses to look in my direction at all. She hates me even more than she used to, which is really saying something.

  And now she won’t shut up about herself. All morning she’s been bragging about how she recently went snowboarding for the first time and tackled a black diamond without ever having taken lessons.

  “I got to the top and looked down, and I freaked out,” Riley says, bugging out her eyes to show how scared she was, “but then you know, what was I going to do? I was already up there.” She tosses her hair and laughs, and her vapid friend Tanya, who hasn’t touched her paintbrush to the wall all day, laughs too. “It’s really just like surfing. I think that’s why it came so naturally to me.”

  I can tell Zoe is listening to Riley’s every word. I refill my roller and continue painting over the lovely light blue walls, trying not to roll my eyes. You know what else is just like surfing? Painting this freaking wall. Really! It’s so great! And I’ve never even had a lesson. It’s all in the wrist!

  “You’re probably really good at surfing,” Zoe says, smiling at Riley. Oh, Zoe. I recognize her attempt to start a conversation, and I ache for what I know is coming. How can she be so kind to someone so horrible?

  Riley spins around, smiling benevolently at Zoe. She’s such a fake.

  “Yeah,” Riley says, then turns back to Tanya. “I thought I was going to die. But you know what? It was so fun.” She dips her brush back into the open paint can. “What a rush.”

  “Outta my way, ho!” We all turn to see what kind of a creep is coming toward us, only to see Dave making a weird face and wrestling with a garden hoe, which is blocking the partially open sliding-glass door. Riley laughs as Dave sets the offending instrument down outside and comes into the living room. He wipes his face with a tie he has fashioned out of an old rag.

  “How’s it coming, Dominguez?” Dave grabs a brush from the ground and examines it. “You need any help?” Sweat drips down his face and plasters his dark hair to his scalp.

  “I guess.” Maybe he can tell me where Tyler is today. I introduce him to Zoe, then turn back to my painting. They chat for a moment, then fall quiet, and we all work in companionable silence, at least on this side of the room. On the other side, the Riley Show is in full swing.

  I’m working up the courage to casually mention Tyler when Dave clears his throat. “So,” he says, smiling at me. “Did you enjoy the Web site?”

  “The . . . what?” I squeak. Does he know I was looking at their Web site? How could that be? I can feel my cheeks burning.

  “Three Car Garage.” He smiles and brushes his hair back from his face. “The Web site? You were looking at it, right?”

  “Um . . . ” Okay, I have two options here. I could deny it all and play dumb, but I suspect that will only work for a little while. Or I could come clean and play it off like it’s no big deal, though it’s a very big deal. I mentally roll the dice and opt for number two. “Yeah. Great site.” I clear my throat. “Um, I see you have a concert coming up.”

  “Yeah. And thanks,” he says, smiling. “I built that site myself.” He dips his brush back into the paint and begins to apply a coat of green. “Since I host the site, I can see the ISPs of every visitor, and from there I can figure out what name the browsers are registered to. I saw the name Dominguez, so I figured . . . ” he trails off and shrugs, and I feel my face turning bright red. Oh, no. I pray that he can’t see which parts of the site I looked at, too. If he can see how many pictures of Tyler I looked at, I’ll actually physically die.

  Zoe, who has been listening to all of this and knows about my crush on Tyler, mercifully tries to change the subject. “What’s that?” she asks.

  “It’s a tie,” Dave says, clearly hoping she’ll ask more about it. She does, and h
e explains his tie-a-day mission and how he fashioned this one out of an old towel his mom gave him. He blots his face with it again, and Zoe admires his handiwork.

  “By the way,” Dave says, giving me with a serious look. “I really hope I didn’t get you in trouble with your pops. I didn’t know about the, um, rule.”

  I stop painting. “What?” He’s never met Papá.

  “It’s just that when I called your house—”

  “You called?” The breath disappears from my lungs. I know I’m sweating, but I can feel the hair on my arms stand up like I’m cold. It was Dave who called, not Tyler? Why would Dave call me? I cast a nervous glance at him, then look away quickly when I see him watching me. All of a sudden I feel like I’m going to throw up.

  “Yeah.” He watches me. “He didn’t tell you?”

  I shake my head. How could it not have been Tyler?

  “Sorry to disappoint you,” Dave mumbles almost silently under his breath.

  “I mean . . . ” I stutter. I can feel my cheeks flush. I know, somewhere in my whirling mind, that I should be flattered, but mostly I just feel embarrassed. My disappointment must be etched on my face.

  “You were probably hoping for a call from someone else.” He paints the wall in angry, broad strokes.

  “No, wait. I mean, I—“

  “It’s not a big deal.” He dips his roller into the paint and applies more puke green to the wall as if he were attacking an enemy. “Don’t worry about it. I was just calling about signing up for this workday thing. And clearly, you did that all by yourself.”

  “I’m . . . ” I try to regain my composure. “It’s okay.” I swallow.

  “Whatever. I just hope you’re not grounded or something. Your dad was pretty angry.” Dave tosses his roller into the paint tray with a loud thud.

  “It’s cool,” I say, all of a sudden talking like Christine. “I’m glad you called.” But before I can even get it out, Dave has gone back outside and picked up the hoe again.