by K. A. Holt
“Heya, stranger. What’s cookin’?” Twitch asks. The straps of his helmet dangle under his chin like tentacles. “You out running again? Is the world actually ending, or what?”
“Have I mentioned lately how much I hate running? I hate it with the fiery hot intensity of ten thousand suns.”
Twitch laughs. It reminds me of the Before Days, when I’d hear him laughing in the game room when he and Clara would hang out with their friends, playing pool or video games. Twitch is like a human time machine. “I’m going to ask you a question,” he says. “And I know it’s going to sound crazy. You’re gonna be like, ‘OMG, Twitch, why would you ask such an insane question?!?!’ but I’m going to ask it anyway, because I live on the edge.” He pauses and takes a deep breath. “Are you ready?” he asks as he exhales and takes another dramatic, deep breath. “Why are you running if you hate it so much?”
I shove his arm and he laughs again. “You know why I’m running. I showed you the letter. I’m going to try out for softball, because Clara never got the chance to.”
“But you hate sweating.”
“So?”
“You hate sports.”
“So?”
“Uh …” Twitch looks genuinely confused.
“I’m doing it because Clara wanted it. I’m trying to complete her letter for her. I don’t know.” I stop walking, turn, and peer up into his scratchy-looking face. “I’m hoping it will make me feel less sad all the time, okay?”
His face is serious now as he nods. “Yeah, okay. I get that.”
We walk together in silence for a little bit longer, when he says, “Why don’t you come home with me for a second?”
I can’t think of how to answer him. Why would I go to his house? Even though we know each other in, like, the deepest, most horrible ways, we also don’t know each other that well. He was Clara’s friend, not mine. It would be strange to go to his house.
He holds up his hand. “I don’t mean come over and sit on the couch and hang out. That would be weird.”
I nod, feeling a wash of relief.
“I just mean, I’ll grab my sisters’ gloves and a softball and we can go play catch. Seems like that might be more helpful for tryouts than all this running.”
I think about it for a second, and he has a point. “Okay,” I say. “Let’s play catch.”
He smiles, and we pick up the pace. His house is just around the corner.
“Good!” Twitch shouts as I actually catch the softball instead of trying to dive away from it. “Keep your eye on the ball. Nice work.”
We’ve been out here for a long time, tossing the ball back and forth. Or really, he tosses it to me, I duck, it rolls away, I chase it, find it, throw it back, rinse, repeat. It’s pretty fun, and I think I’m getting in more running than I did when I was actually running.
“When are you going to tell me what you were doing in Mr. Robertson’s class?” Twitch asks as he catches my throw. He’s still wearing his helmet as if afraid I might bean him on the head. He might be right.
I think about all the paper he was carrying and how maybe I saw Clara’s name. If I answer his question, maybe I can ask him one in return. “I was taking a couple of tests to see if I can start taking high-school physics.”
His eyebrows shoot up and are almost lost in the shark teeth encircling his helmet. “Cool. When do you find out if you can do it?”
“Not sure,” I say, trying really hard to keep my eye on the ball as it hurtles toward me. “Soon, I hope.” I catch the ball and continue, “What were all those papers that I made you drop?”
“If you pass the test, how will it work, do you know?” he asks. I can’t tell if he didn’t hear my question or if he’s ignoring it. “Like, will you walk over from the middle school to the high school? Or do some kind of self-paced thing from home?” He catches my throw with ease and tosses it underhand back to me. I like underhand. I can catch those.
“I’m not really sure,” I answer. “I think maybe I’ll walk over. I’ve been trying not to jinx it by thinking too far ahead.”
“Oh,” he says. “Sorry.”
“No, no,” I say. “That’s okay. You’re not going to jinx it.”
“Why wouldn’t I jinx it?” he asks, pretending like I’ve hurt his feelings. “I have excellent jinxing powers.”
I’m just about to ask him again about the papers when I hear: “Hey, Twitch.” Some kid I don’t know walks up to us and they do a kind of high five handshake thing. The kid looks at me and back to Twitch. “You babysitting or something?”
I feel my cheeks burn. Does he think I’m ten?
Twitch laughs. “Nah, man. Just hanging out with my friend Amelia. Amelia, this is Knute.”
I hold up my hand in a way that I hope says, “It’s not really nice to meet you, please go away,” but, like, in a polite way.
Knute nods in my direction but is still looking at Twitch. “Some of us are going over to Grant’s for a burger. Want to come?”
“Sure,” Twitch says. “We’re just about done … Aren’t we, Amelia?”
I’m about to say something like “I guess” when Knute turns and actually looks at me for the first time.
“Amelia?” he says. “Clara’s sister?”
I swallow hard and nod.
“I didn’t recognize you,” he says, walking over to me. I wish he wouldn’t come closer. I feel like this is about to be a conversation I don’t want to have. “I was at her party. The one where …” He stops and looks at the ground. “Anyway, you look different.”
“It has been three years,” I say, casting my eyes around, looking for anyone, anything, to save me from this.
“Man,” Knute says. “That day … it was really—”
Twitch sees my face and our moment-of-trauma connection lights up. He grabs Knute by the arm and drags him away mid-sentence. “It was great catching up, Amelia,” he says to me, interrupting Knute, and making a har-har sound at his bad pun.
“Uh,” I stammer. “Yeah, it was nice to see you.” And before I can say anything else, he’s whisked Knute off in the direction of the General Store, leaving both gloves and the ball on the ground.
I stand there for a minute, not sure what to do or where to go, and then I realize I’m sweaty and hungry, so I take a deep breath, grab the ball and gloves, and head toward home.
“Heeeeeeey, kiddo!” Dad pulls something out of the oven. Something that smells really, really good. “What have you been up to?”
“Just some exercise,” I say, going to the fridge and getting some water. “Nothing crazy.”
Dad puts the tray on a towel on the counter. “Check it out,” he says. “I’m testing out some desserts for the lake contest. I’m meeting the producers of the TV show up there in a little bit and I thought, why not bring them a little treat?”
I pretend he hasn’t said anything about the lake (or about potentially bribing the producers of that stupid contest) and peer down at the tray. It smells super good. Like chocolate chip cookies, but with something … different added in.
“Can you smell my secret ingredient?” Dad asks, pulling a cookie off the tray and tossing it from hand to hand so he doesn’t burn his fingers.
I sniff the air. “Hmm,” I say. “Is it something savory?”
“Ding ding ding!” Dad says with a smile. “But what?”
“Can I taste one?”
He hands over the cookie he’s been tossing and I take a huge bite. It’s warm and the chocolate is so gooey it gushes over my lip. “Mmmm,” I say, my mouth full. “I taste vanilla and cinnamon and dark chocolate and something salty …” My eyes go wide. “Is that bacon? Dad! Did you put bacon in these cookies?”
He claps his hands. “Ten points to Ravenclaw!” he shouts. “You like?”
I swallow the bite in my mouth and think about it. I actually do like. I like it a lot. “This is weird and delicious, Dad. Nice work!”
“I really only have a few goals in life,” Dad says, looking up to the ceilin
g with reverence. “To be weird, and to make delicious things.”
“Well, if that’s the case, then your goals are complete,” I say, finishing off the cookie. “Yum.”
“Think they’ll help push me into the winner’s circle at the contest?” he asks, eating a cookie of his own.
Man, man, man. I really don’t want to talk about the stupid contest. That’s going to mean talking about me coming to the contest, which will mean talking about me coming to the lake, and I am never going to the lake again. So.
“Amelia?” Dad’s face is hopeful. He has chocolate in his beard.
“I don’t think you need anything to push you over the edge, Dad. I mean, you’re already in MY winner’s circle.” I bat my eyes at him and we both laugh.
“What are you two up to?” Mom is standing in the doorway. She’s trying to sound playful, but her eyes have no sparkle. I wonder how long she’s been listening. I know she hates it when Dad and I are buddy-buddy. She acts like we’re leaving her out of some cool kids’ club. It’s not that at all. It’s just that … Dad and I seem to get each other. Like, we’re on the same wavelength or something. Mom has her own wavelength. Sometimes I think I can hop along for a ride, but other times, it just seems unreachable.
“Try one,” Dad says, tossing a cookie to Mom. Dad seems pretty oblivious to the wavelengths.
Mom catches the cookie and takes a bite, nodding as she chews. “Pretty good,” she says.
“Pretty good? Pretty good?! These are officially the best cookies ever made! I mean, come on!”
Okay. I take back the part about Dad being oblivious to the wavelengths. Now he’s doing the thing where every word and gesture is about ten times too loud and too big because he’s trying to make us laugh, and bring us all together in some kind of made-for-TV family bonding moment. Yeah, no thanks. I grab another cookie and shove the whole thing in my mouth at once so I don’t have to say anything. Out the kitchen window I see Mr. Robertson and his dog hanging out on his front porch. Hmm. Would it be against some kind of secret rule if I went over there and said hello and asked how the test grading was going? I chew my cookie and ponder my choices. Go out there, ask about the test, have him refuse to tell me, feel embarrassed, learn nothing new. OR have to talk to Mom and Dad about the contest and the lake. Hmm again.
I head upstairs to shower. If he’s still on his porch when I’m clean and have possibly eaten one more cookie for courage, I’ll go out there.
“Tiny!” I say, squatting and slapping my thighs. Tiny leaps off the porch, his tongue wagging almost as much as his tail. He leaps on me, knocking me backward, and covers my face with slobbery licks.
“Tiny! No!” Mr. Robertson’s yell is half-hearted. I’m pretty sure he knows that Tiny is going to do what he wants to do. Humans only serve to get in his way.
I roll over onto my belly to avoid the licks, and push myself up to my knees and then my feet. This is the only way to escape a Tiny lick attack. I learned this years ago when he was a puppy, but still nearly twice my size.
Mr. Robertson is standing next to me now, in the little dip in the grass that separates his house from mine. He’s holding Tiny by the collar, but only because Tiny is letting him. If that dog wanted to, he’d be free as a bird.
“I brought you some cookies, but …” I hold up the ziplock bag. Inside is a mound of crushed cookies. “Sorry about that.”
Mr. Robertson smiles and takes the bag anyway. Tiny is immediately sniffing at it and trying to nip through the plastic to the bacon he knows is in there. Mr. Robertson taps Tiny’s nose with one finger. “No. You’ve already ruined them. I get all the crumbs to myself.” Then he turns his attention to me and tilts his head slightly. “You wouldn’t be coming over here to pry certain information out of me, would you?”
“Who, me?” I say, feeling my cheeks get warm. “Of course not.”
“Good,” Mr. Robertson says. “Because it would be against district policy for me to tell you that you aced both tests. I could get in trouble for saying something like that, so I would never say it. I wouldn’t tell you that you should prepare to start taking physics at the high school. And I definitely wouldn’t give you an extra textbook to look at so that you’re caught up with the class when you join us. Nope. Never would say anything like that. You’re going to need to wait for the official call from the school counselor.”
Wait. What?!
I jump up in the air and squeal, clapping my hands. This makes Tiny jump up and bark. He’s not one to miss a celebration of any kind, no matter how spontaneous or short-lived.
Mr. Robertson is pretending to look stern, but his eyes sparkle. “Wait right here,” he says. “And don’t let Tiny escape.”
I nod. Tiny is on his two hind legs, his front paws hanging over my shoulders. I hold him there and we dance for a minute. Turns out Great Danes are very good dance partners.
Mr. Robertson is back outside in a flash and he offers me the textbook as he lures Tiny off my shoulders with a treat. “I’m not telling you to read up to page twenty-five and be prepared for a pop quiz on Friday. I’m not saying anything of the sort.”
I try to look stern, too, but I feel my smile peeking around the edges of my face. “Yes, sir,” I say. “It’s weird how your mouth has been moving and yet I’ve heard no sounds come out of it.”
He nods back and I take the book. We both grin as he pops a pinch of cookie crumbs in his mouth. “Tell your dad these cookies are pretty good, but I think maybe he mistook some bacon for chocolate chips.” He winks as I run back to the house.
“How’s Mr. Rob—” Mom starts as I run in through the kitchen door. She and Dad are sitting at the table playing gin rummy, because they are apparently ninety-five years old. I move as fast as I can to the stairs and up to my room, hoping they didn’t see the textbook in my arms. I know I should want to tell them the good news, but for some reason I don’t. I just want to sit with it for a little while, feel the goodness inside me, all mine, before someone says something to make it feel either less good or less mine. I shake my head. Do I even make any sense? I have no idea.
In my room, I sit on my bed and open up the textbook. I run my hand over the smooth pages. There are formulas and equations I could stare at all day. I might stare at them all day. I look over to Clara’s empty bed. “I did it,” I whisper, and point to the book. Then I remember that Clara had no idea I would try to get into high-school physics as an eighth grader. She knew I was good at math, but hadn’t seen me blow through my science assignments. She never saw me win the science fair.
Already, the excitement I felt a few minutes ago has dimmed, just a little bit.
There’s a quiet knock on my door, and then it squeaks open. I scramble to hide the physics book as Dad walks in.
“Want to go for a ride?” He jangles the keys to Old Betsy. “Maybe grab some ice cream?”
I don’t really want to go, but I also don’t really want to argue about not wanting to go. “Okay,” I say. “But let’s do more ice cream and less riding around.”
Dad smiles. “Deal.”
I should’ve known something was up when Dad shoved a couple of bags into Old Betsy’s trunk before we took off, but I was distracted by thoughts of chocolate scoops and sprinkles. So, once we were all in the car and rounding the bend past the lake, I shouldn’t have been surprised when Dad turned down the little gravel road to the lake parking lot.
“Um,” I say, feeling my heartbeat ratchet up to about 245. “This doesn’t look like ice cream.”
“Cookies,” Dad says. “Producers. Remember?”
Mom stares straight out the windshield, arm stiff on the car door where the window is open. I get the feeling she didn’t know about this pit stop either.
Ahead of us, over a grassy area and near the RV hookups, is Pits ’n’ Pieces shining in the sunlight. There’s a crew setting up a camera, and a woman in a floppy hat waves and walks to the car.
“James.” Mom’s voice is low.
D
ad reaches over and squeezes Mom’s shoulder. “It’ll be quick,” he says. “Just smile for the camera.” He opens the car door and shouts a booming “Hellooooo!” at the woman in the hat.
The lake sparkles just like it did on that day. The color of the sky is the same, too. I can’t believe he brought us here like this. I can’t believe he’s smiling and talking to that woman and not feeling like his guts are going to burst into flames.
“Amelia, Jen … come meet Stacy, the producer of Trailer Takeout,” Dad shouts at the car. “Amelia, grab the cookies from the trunk, please.”
I feel shaky and blindsided. Mom squares her shoulders and swings the car door open so hard it bounces away from her and then slams shut again. Oh boy, Dad is in for it.
The rest of the next hour goes by in a fog. Along with every question Stacy the Producer asks me, I hear the lake growling in the distance. During every moment the cameraman zooms in on my face, I see Twitch screaming on the shore. Stacy the Producer explains the rules of the show, but I don’t hear anything. I only hear Mom’s sobs from that day. I only see horror reflected in the sparkles on the lake.
By the time we’re all back in the car, I feel like I’ve run up Deadman’s Hill six times. Mom is silent and seething.
“I’m sorry,” Dad says as he puts on his seat belt. “But I knew if I asked you both to come with me for the interview, you’d find an excuse not to. Stacy really wanted the whole family for the background coverage. It’s good for the show. Plus, I got to give her some of my cookies. This whole thing is for the success of all of us, remember? It could be a really big deal.”
For once, Dad’s enthusiasm is lost on me. This was not fun. This was not okay. It wasn’t the whole family.
“Ready for ice cream?” Dad asks, his voice hopeful as he throws Old Betsy in reverse.
“Just take us home,” Mom says, and right now her tone suits me just fine.
Dad sighs deeply while he backs out of the parking space. “I’m sorry,” he says again. “But look at it this way … we all went to the lake, and now we’re all going home. Together. Nothing bad happened. I know it wasn’t cool of me to ambush you both like that. I do. But look!” He sweeps his arms wide, despite the fact that he’s driving, and his right arm ends up in Mom’s face. “It’s a beautiful day! We’re going to be on a TV show where we’ll be made famous! And the lake was nothing but scenery. THAT is a successful afternoon, don’t you think?”
