by Anne Dayton
***
“So you’re really not going to come?” I ask Christine. Sure, she just told me she wasn’t going to come, but I guess I’m in denial. “I thought it would be the three of us, like always.”
It was almost eleven by the time we were done with dessert. Thankfully Zoe offered to extinguish the fire while Christine and I climb inside the tent-mansion to change into our pajamas.
“You think I don’t want to? Trust me—I’d rather do anything else in the world.” Christine is completely unselfconscious as she changes into a pair of men’s boxers and a white men’s undershirt.
“Maybe ask your dad again,” I say.
“It’s freezing!” She dives into one of the sleeping bags we set up in the main room earlier. I laugh as she shivers dramatically in her sleeping bag, then turn away a little as I change into the blue silk pajamas I got for Christmas. Since Mom thought we were sleeping indoors, I couldn’t really get away with packing hardier sleepwear, but luckily, silk is actually very warm.
“Dad says that The Bimbo put a lot of thought into this girls’ weekend, or whatever she’s calling it.”
“Girls’ weekend?” I jump into my own sleeping bag, shivering.
“Yeah, I think The Bimbo is going to try to tackle me and paint my toenails pink.”
“Well, we’ll miss you. Won’t we, Zoe?” I stare up at the trees through the vent in the top of the tent.
Zoe comes in and zips the tent up carefully behind herself. “Miss what?”
“The church ski trip. I begged my dad, but he said I have to go on this stupid girls’ weekend with The Bimbo. It’s some big surprise she’s been planning to torture me with. Did I tell you we have to go to a spa? They’re going to, like, touch me and stuff. Though I suppose it couldn’t be worse than the time she made me sit through one of her peppy yogi-woo-woo-lates classes.”
“I cannot imagine you at a spa.” Zoe laughs for a moment while she collects her pjs and then disappears into one of the other “rooms”—separated from the main chamber by a piece of nylon—to change. “Riley’s still coming, right?” She yells through the wall.
It’s probably good that she can’t see my eyes roll. “Unfortunately.”
“Speaking of Cheerleader Girl, did you guys hear that she’s now dating that football goon, Zach?” Christine spends a lot of time just watching and listening to people, and somehow she seems to glean a ton of information this way.
“Really?” So Riley is not dating Tyler. “Do you really think so?” Zoe yells through the wall, even though it’s not like it’s difficult to hear through the piece of nylon. “I kind of get the feeling she’s not actually interested in dating anyone—she just likes to flirt.”
Christine and I exchange a suspicious look. What kind of person isn’t interested in dating anyone? And it’s not like Zoe is really an expert in this field.
“I don’t know. I can’t keep track of that girl,” I say quickly. Maybe I can change the subject. I don’t want to talk about Riley all night.
“Have you figured out how to get out of your quince yet?” Christine asks. Mom and I had a meeting with the party planner last week, and a little thrill of excitement ran through me when she showed me pictures of some previous quinces she’s put on.
“No,” I say, grimacing. “But it might not be so bad, after all.”
Zoe emerges from the other room, wearing a pair of baggy gray sweats, a sweatshirt that says New College, a giant rust-colored robe, and hideous red plaid slippers, and for some reason, this sets us off into hysterics. We’re a bit slap-happy by this point in the night, it’s true, but seeing Zoe all bundled up like an old person is more than Christine and I can take. Zoe isn’t sure whether to be amused or offended by our laughter. But she decides to go with amused, and soon we’re all rolling on the ground.
“Okay, guys.” Zoe sits up on her sleeping bag. “It’s time to be serious.” She takes a deep breath and tries to compose her face, but she bursts out laughing again.
“Yeah, serious,” Christine says, smiling. “We’ll need provisions.” She reaches into her backpack and pulls out a box of Cheez-Its and a package of Red Vines. “Okay, who’s going first?”
“Going first for what?” I reach out to take the box of Cheez-Its. I slide my finger under the lid and pry the cardboard open, then begin to work on the inner plastic bag.
Christine bites the package of Red Vines open. She pulls a long red strand out and points it at Zoe. “Truth or dare?”
Truth or Dare? Why do girls always end up at Truth or Dare? Am I the only girl in the world who doesn’t like this game? Why would I want to choose between doing something stupid, dangerous, and/or embarrassing and spilling my innermost secrets? But Zoe is already answering “truth,” so I guess we are playing, like it or not. Zoe pulls her legs up so her knees are under her chin and wraps her arms around them.
“Who do you like?” Christine asks, shining a flashlight in Zoe’s face.
And why does this game always go there? It’s inevitable. Zoe smiles, and her cheeks don’t even flush red.
“That’s easy,” Zoe says, shaking her head. “No one. Next?” She points her finger at me, then Christine.
“Wait, wait, wait,” Christie says. “Stop right there. I don’t buy it.”
“What?” Zoe grabs a handful of snacks and pops them in her mouths. “I really don’t.”
“You really, seriously, don’t like anyone?” Christine leans in to study Zoe’s face. On the one hand, I kind of agree with Christine here. There’s got to be something Zoe isn’t telling us. But on the other hand . . . this is Zoe. Maybe there’s not. “No one in marching band?” Christine presses, but Zoe shakes her head. “Not in any of your classes? There’s no one you think is cute?”
Zoe shrugs, her cheeks turning a little pink. “Sorry.” Christine continues to eye her skeptically, but then turns to me.
“Who do you like, Ana?” She shines the flashlight in my face now.
Zoe groans and rolls back onto her sleeping bag. “You’re supposed to ask something you don’t already know.”
“Hey, isn’t it Zoe’s turn to ask a question?” I laugh. I look from Christine to Zoe, but neither one seems to care too much about the eternal rules of Truth or Dare.
“I’m just curious.” Christine refuses to back down.
“Oh, come on,” I say, pulling the sleeves of my pajamas down over my hands. Our body heat has warmed up the air in here significantly, but it’s still pretty cold. “Why do you want to ask that? You guys already know.”
“If we already know, this should be easy to answer,” Christine says. Zoe nods and sits up.
“Do I really have to answer?” I cough into my hands for a moment, buying time. “I mean, I didn’t even really pick truth here. Maybe I was going to say dare.”
“You weren’t going to say dare,” Zoe laughs, and I feel my face redden a little, because we all know it’s true. I’m not really a “dare” kind of person.
“Fine.” I sigh, and begin to pull at a loose thread on my sleeping bag. I’m stalling, and I suspect Christine is the only one who really realizes why. “Tyler,” I say quickly, and then read their reactions. Zoe is nodding, but Christine is watching me, not moving.
“Your turn.” I take a handful of Cheez-Its and turn to Christine. “Truth or dare?”
“Dare.” She doesn’t take her eyes off me. I’m beginning to get a little uncomfortable. I said Tyler. Why can’t she let it go?
“Um.” What kind of dare can you do out here? And why doesn’t it surprise me that she picks dare? She’s obviously the least concerned with appearances, but it’s more than that. Christine has this way of not revealing much. “Call Tyler,” I say, giggling at the prospect. I know she has his number. She told me. This is the perfect idea. Christine just shakes her head.
“No cell service.”
“Yeah, you can’t get a signal this far out,” Zoe says.
“Okay.” I could do something with the hors
es, but Zoe would freak out. I could have Christine play a trick on Zoe’s parents, but they’re being so nice to us that that just seems mean. I could . . . well, I don’t know what else to do. “Streak from here to those trees and back.” I gesture to where the clearing ends and the redwoods begin again.
“Streak?” Zoe falls down onto her sleeping bag, laughing at the very idea, but Christine just shrugs, steps out of the tent, quickly drops her clothes on the ground, and begins to run. Ten seconds later, she’s back inside the tent bundled into her sleeping bag trying to get warm again, but she doesn’t even seem to be at all winded or embarrassed.
“There’s no one out there.” Christine shrugs. “No big deal. Now . . . who’s next?”
“Hey.” I hold up my watch. “It’s almost midnight.”
“Yay,” Zoe says, clapping. Whew. Saved by the bell. We drag ourselves into the left side pocket of the tent, which we have deemed the party room, and don party hats and pick up the noisemakers my parents sent along. We jump around a little to keep warm, testing out the noisemakers a few times, and open the bottle of sparkling cider Zoe’s parents brought us earlier. We pour ourselves big glasses, then count down the last minute on Zoe’s digital watch. At the stroke of midnight, we lift our glasses in a toast to the Miracle Girls, then toss back the cider. It’s light and bubbly and a little sweet. It tastes great and feels so grown-up, and before long we’re falling over ourselves laughing again.
It’s close to one in the morning when we climb back into our sleeping bags, and my eyes are heavy, but I feel good. We line up our sleeping bags close to each other for warmth and settle in, feeling worn-out and comfortable and happy. Maybe this wasn’t the coolest way to spend New Year’s Eve, but I can’t think of a better one. Thank you, Lord, I pray as I begin to drift off to sleep. Thank you for good friends.
I’m almost asleep when I hear it. Christine isn’t loud on any day, but she’s especially quiet now. “I like Tyler,” she whispers, then turns over in her sleeping bag and doesn’t say anything more. I don’t know if Zoe heard it, and the more I think about it, I’m not even sure I heard it. Did I imagine it? But I can’t stop thinking about it from every angle, over and over again. I wonder what it means to me, to Christine, to Tyler, and to the Miracle Girls. Slowly, my thoughts dull, and I drift off into a fitful sleep.
28
We’re sitting around Christine’s kitchen table, eating string cheese, when we hear the front door open. Our heads turn toward the unexpected sound, and out of the corner of my eye, I see Christine stiffen. No one is supposed to be coming home for hours.
“Emma?” Christine glances at the living room, but The Bimbot is staring, glassy-eyed, at the television. The girl can’t get enough of Hannah Montana. It’s always on in this house. Christine stands up, tentatively, and grabs a rolling pin from a drawer, then begins to sidle toward the door.
Zoe and I came over a little while ago to help her babysit The Bimbot. Okay, maybe “help” wasn’t exactly what we were planning, but she was stuck staying home with the kid on a perfectly beautiful Saturday afternoon while The Bimbo went to teach Yogalates (which sounds like a method of torture, but is actually a form of exercise—so, basically the same thing). It was only going to be a few hours, so she begged us to come over and keep her company. Things have been a little weird ever since she confessed she likes Tyler, and neither of us has mentioned it, which has kind of made it worse, and inviting me over seemed like a really good sign that she didn’t hate me, so I took her up on it.
My parents made me swear up and down that I would get my homework done tonight, since I would be wasting my Saturday afternoon, and I had to spend all of Friday night practicing the piano just to be allowed to come over. But now that someone is sneaking into the house to kill us, I kind of wish I had just stayed home.
The door slams shut, and Zoe and I jump. Christine holds up the rolling pin, takes a deep breath, then walks out of the kitchen and disappears into the hallway. We hear heavy footsteps. Zoe’s eyes are wide. She motions to the door. We both stand up and begin to follow Christine. All I really want to do is hide under the kitchen table. I take a step, then freeze when I hear Christine screeching. Zoe drops to the floor and puts her arms over her head as if an anvil is going to drop on her like in a cartoon. But my body is flooded with a surge of adrenaline. I run toward the sound, ready to pummel Christine’s attacker.
When I round the corner, I see Christine hugging some strange man, not dead on the floor, so I immediately put on the brakes. I can’t stop in time and run into the two of them. What’s going on?
The man pulls his arms away from Christine, then blushes. I step back and try to regain my composure, though I’m still struck dumb. He’s wearing a gray suit and a tie, and his short black hair is slicked back. Christine laughs at me a little.
“I didn’t mean to scare you girls,” he says, laughing. Christine looks sheepishly at the rolling pin in her hand, then turns to me.
“Ana,” she says, using the rolling pin to gesture toward me, “This is my dad.” She sweeps it toward the man. “Dad, Ana.”
“It’s nice to meet you.” He holds out his hand toward me.
“Hi,” I say, uncertain what else to say. As a local politician, Christine’s dad is never around. He’s always off at some supermarket opening in Half Moon Bay or attending to state business up in Sacramento, the state’s capital. so I’ve never seen him before, but he’s hardly what I expected. Considering how much Christine hates to be at home, I guess I thought he would have horns growing out of his head or something, but he seems perfectly nice. Kind of soft-spoken. Handsome, even.
“Hi,” Zoe says, peeking her head around the wall. Her cheeks are bright red.
Mr. Lee chuckles when he sees her. “Christine, you’ve got friends stashed all over the house.”
“Zoe’s the last one. Dad, this is Zoe.”
Zoe shakes Mr. Lee’s hand and keeps her eyes down.
“The legislative session finished early,” Mr. Lee says, placing his hand against the wall. He uses his right heel to push off his left shoe, then begins to slip off the other one. “So I hopped in the car and headed straight home. And Candace called to say her last class was canceled, and we had a brilliant idea,” he says, smiling at Christine. Her face falls. I can practically see the thoughts running through her head. Her dad wants them all to spend time together. One big, happy family. Mr. Lee is too busy hanging his black trench coat on the coat rack by the door to notice her sour expression.
“I thought we could go to San Francisco. Didn’t you say you wanted to go ice skating?” He looks at Christine, his face hopeful.
“I thought Candace didn’t like ice skating,” Christine says, her voice sullen and thick with sarcasm. In the space of thirty seconds, Christine has gone from delighted to the angry girl we first met in detention.
“She’s not coming.” Mr. Lee smiles. “She’ll stay here with Emma. You and I are going. Just the two of us.” Christine squints at her dad, almost smiling. “And your friends, too,” he says quickly. “Just the four of us. How does that sound?”
Christine looks at us. Zoe shrugs, and I try not to look too eager. San Francisco! Of course I want to go!
“Candace is really not coming?” Christine spins the rolling pin around the handle and watches him.
He shakes his head. “It was her idea.”
***
Zoe is surprisingly nimble on ice skates. I guess that shouldn’t have shocked me, but for some reason, seeing her there on the outdoor skating rink, her long gray skirt flying out behind her, is strange. She skates smoothly but listlessly, her wavy hair tumbling around her shoulders. It’s kind of like seeing one of those prim prisses from a Jane Austen novel on a Harley. Christine, on the other hand, is quick and sure, and she zips around the ice as if she owns it. Apparently she once had aspirations of being the next Michelle Kwan. Mr. Lee bops his head as he circles the ice, smiling and laughing, though he looks like he might fall over at
any second. Me, I try to focus on the patch of ice directly ahead of me. I just put one foot in front of the other, and every so often I look up quickly to take in the sunshine and the smell of the sea air and the palm trees.
The Bay Area doesn’t get cold enough to have a natural ice skating rink, but every winter the city of San Francisco builds one here, just outside the Embarcadero Center. There are some indoor rinks you can go to, but because this is outdoors and only up for a few months out of the year, it seems more special somehow. We walked by here last year after Mom and I went Christmas shopping at Nordstrom, but she doesn’t know how to ice skate, and we were running late for some appointment, so I didn’t get to give it a try.
As I make my way around the ice, rail-hanging every step of the way, there is just one thing ruining this perfect moment. In the pit of my stomach, I have a nagging feeling that Mom and Papá might be kind of annoyed with me. When I called to ask if I could go to San Francisco, no one answered the phone at my house. I tried their cell phones, but they didn’t pick them up.
I take a deep breath and try to relax. They’re the ones who wanted me to make some friends, and this is a totally supervised, male-free (except for Christine’s dad, but I somehow don’t think he counts) day. What could be bad about that? Plus, I’ll get my homework done, like I promised I would, and I left a message about where I was going, exactly who was coming, and when I’d be back. I try to suppress the doubt that tugs at the edges of my mind and remind myself that this is the day that the Lord has made and to rejoice and be glad in it.
After we pile off the ice rink, sore and tired, Mr. Lee declares that he is taking us all on a date. We hop a cab to a café in North Beach, which is the Italian neighborhood of San Francisco, and get a table for four at a charming restaurant. Mr. Lee selects a table by the window so we can watch the people going by, and orders us a big plate of steaming hot garlic bread. We devour it and compare bruises. Zoe wins hands down because she’s one of those people who bruises if you look at her wrong.
