by Tate, Kristy
“Mrs. Henderson called. She wants to talk to you about something.”
I raised my eyebrow, waiting for more. Sometimes with Uncle Mitch you have to wait a long time.
“She said she has a proposal.”
“What does that mean?”
Uncle Mitch grinned and shook his head.
“Sounds sketchy.” But I knew it wasn’t sketchy at all. I knew what she wanted, because I knew Bree. Sometimes I thought I knew Bree better than I knew myself. Bree didn’t want to give her Dorothy role to Erin, the understudy.
“But we can’t offend her, on account of the cookies,” Uncle Mitch said.
True. No one made cookies like Mrs. Henderson.
“Any pies lately?” I asked.
Uncle Mitch’s brows lowered, and he shook his head.
I laughed. Our neighbor across the street, Janette Starks, had been making Uncle Mitch pies since before Dad and I had moved in seven years ago. I loved the chocolate silk. Uncle Mitch preferred the razzleberry. Scratch loved them all.
“Oh,” he said, as if it was a total afterthought, “your mom called. You need to call her when we get home.”
Finally. Maybe Mom could answer some questions. “With my phone?”
He nodded. “It’s grounded, too.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means you can use it, but it has to stay at the house.”
“Lame,” I said.
“Phones can’t limp.”
An Uncle Mitch joke—best to just ignore those and not encourage him.
He dug in his pocket and pulled out my phone. “Here.”
“Thanks,” I said, taking it. I wanted to talk to my mom, but not in front of Uncle Mitch. It was like when I first got my period.
He looked at me expectantly, so I pushed her number.
“Evie?” My mom’s voice floated above the poor reception.
Crack, crack, err . . .
“Mom?”
Err, crack, crack . . .
“I’ll send . . . email, okay? Will . . . me . . . your . . . school?”
“Why didn’t you tell me I have a grandmother?” I yelled above the failing connection.
“Can’t . . . hear . . . sweetie. Write me!”
The line went down.
“Aaurgh.” I put the phone in my bag.
Uncle Mitch held out his hand, palm up. “Nice try. Hand it over.”
“Serious? You said I could have it at home.”
“We’re not home.”
Seething, I reached into my bag. The phone buzzed in my hand. Pulling it out, I saw I had about a hundred texts, the latest from Bree.
“Bree wants me to come over so her mom can proposition me. It’s about the play. Can I go?”
Uncle Mitch looked straight ahead. “It’s hard being the uncle.”
I patted his leg. “You do a great job.”
“Thanks.”
#
I had an email from Mom waiting for me when I got home. I glanced out my bedroom window and caught sight of Dylan’s car parked in the Henderson driveway. I really wanted to be there while he was there, too, but I also wanted my mom to answer my questions. My curiosity was at almost boiling point. So many major things had recently happened and I only understood a few of them.
Debating, I glanced at the computer.
Mom and curiosity won, and I logged on.
Hi Pansy, (Don’t ask me why my parents decided to each call me a different P flower name. I asked them once, and neither could offer an explanation. Uncle Mitch summed it up with “they’re both highly competitive.”)
I know you must have a million questions about your grandmother and I wish I were there to answer them for you. You must think I’m a terrible person for not telling you about her, but I wanted to protect you. I thought your father—who doesn’t always see eye-to-eye with me, but agrees with me on this—would be able to keep her away from you. I see now we’ve failed.
For nearly sixteen years she hadn’t shown a spec of interest. I don’t know why she would do so now, but I’ve never been able to understand my mother.
Let me be very clear. Beatrix is not a nice person. Everything she’ll tell you are lies. She suffers from delusions of grandeur. She might look small and harmless, but she’s not.
Remember, your dad, your uncle, and I love you very, very much. I so wish I could be with you. It breaks my heart to think of you being ousted from Hartly and forced into Faith Despaign.
Although, it’s a good school, and I loved going there, I didn’t always fit in. Its history is steeped in superstitions and riddled with rumors. The legends are merely stories told to keep the students subjected to irrational fears.
And, of course, the uniforms are emblematic of the school’s dreariness. (I assume they still make you wear clothes the color of a November sky.)
There’s nothing for you to do, but join me here in India, where the skies are always robin’s egg blue, and the clothes are as bright and cheery as a field of wild flowers. There are numerous online homeschool programs and you would excel at all of them. In no time at all, your Uncle Mitch could be showing you to your Yale dorm room, and you’ll be reunited with your friends.
An education via the Internet might not be the high school experience you dreamed of, but trust me, high school at Faith Despaign isn’t going to be dream-worthy, either. I’ve already contacted your dad. He’s fine with whatever you decide.
Aaurgh.
As always, my mom never failed to disappoint.
My heart stuttered when I saw Dylan’s red convertible still parked beside the Hendersons’ van. Wanting to get to Bree’s while he was still there, I decided I would write my mom later, after I let all my questions and frustrations percolate into something I could actually put into words.
I pulled off my dress and boots, and rummaged through my closet, searching for something to wear. I had to look cute, but casual. Pulling on my favorite jeans, I considered all my tops. Nothing said I’m not a sophomore. I glanced out the window, making sure the car hadn’t moved, before returning to the clothes staring at me. Immediately, I dismissed everything I had bought when Maria had taken me shopping. And of course all of the Hartly red sweaters were itchy and hot. Then I remembered the package my mom had sent me for my birthday.
When I’d first seen the bright skirt and tops, I had thought them too mom-like and utterly non-New England chic. But now . . . I wasn’t so sure.
I found the box near the back. Opening it, my mom’s familiar musky scent floated out. I bit my lip and threw another glance out the window. I really wanted to talk to my mom, but I also wanted to talk to Dylan . . . and Bree and her mom, of course.
I slipped on a colorful gauzy, cotton blouse. It reminded me of my mom and made me feel better. I pulled out my hair tie so my curls tumbled around my shoulders, slipped in some hoop earrings, and found a pair of matching red sandals. Was I was trying too hard?
I was trying too hard. But if Dylan could just even pretend to be my friend at Faith Despaign, I knew I would immediately be accepted. All the social circles would open and include me. We didn’t have to go out, but if he could just talk to me, introduce me to his friends . . .
Tripping down the stairs, and banging out the back door, I gave myself a small, mental pep talk, and promised I wasn’t going to overthink this. I was just going to talk to Bree and her mom, and if I happened to see Dylan, and if he happened to talk to me, and if we ended up chatting tomorrow at school . . . my steps faltered when I reached the Hendersons’ shed.
Josh had his shirt off. With his low cut jeans, he looked exactly like a guy from the cover of one of his mom’s romance novels. Why had I never noticed this before? He squatted beside an ancient looking dirt bike, a rag in his hand and a bucket of soapy water by his feet.
He must have heard me, because he looked up.
He greeted me with a grin. “Hey.”
“Hey,” I said. “Is Bree home?” Which was a stupid thing to ask. Wher
e else would someone with a broken leg be? “And your mom?” I quickly added.
“Yeah, I think so.” Joshua returned his attention to the dirt bike.
Fascinating conversation, I thought, eager to dismiss Josh and his big, buff chest from my thoughts. It didn’t matter that he looked like he belonged on an Abercrombie and Fitch poster; I couldn’t look at him that way. He was my best friend’s brother, which made him practically my big brother. I hurried up the steps of the back porch into the mudroom. The dogs started barking when I opened the door.
“Shut-up!” Gabby called from somewhere in the kitchen.
“It’s just me,” I told the herd. Bending down, I ruffled Riddler’s ears and scratched Penguin on the head.
“Oh, hey,” a voice said.
I looked up and into the eyes of Dylan Fox. “Hi,” I said, my conversational skills barely lukewarm after my practice with Josh. I couldn’t think of any words that I could string together into a comprehensible sentence. I wanted him to say something like I saw you at school today or I didn’t know you went to Faith Despaign, we should hang out sometime or I’m on the tennis team—you should try out. No, scratch the last one. That would be bad. Because then I would have to try out for the team, and I’d bomb and he would know it, then he’d have to feel sorry for me, and if he was ever nice to me, I would know it was just pity-niceness, and not because he liked me. Not that I wanted him to like me, because Bree liked him, so I couldn’t possibly . . .
He moved passed me and banged out the door.
The dogs and I stared at the back door, all of us wondering what had happened.
“Oh, there you are.” Mrs. Henderson spotted me. She wiped her hands on her apron and beckoned me to join her in the kitchen.
Bree sat at the window seat, her leg propped up on a bunch of mismatched floral pillows. Janette Starks, our pie-baking neighbor and director of the drama guild, sat beside her. Janette pulled out a chair for me.
“We have something to ask, and it’s a little unorthodox,” Janette said.
“She’s fine with unorthodox,” Bree said.
“It’s kind of a big thing to ask,” Mrs. Henderson said.
I sat down, guessing what was coming. “You want me to be Dorothy.”
Everyone smiled and nodded.
“But,” Janette started.
“Just until Bree’s better,” I finished.
“She might not get better,” Mrs. Henderson warned.
“I totally will,” Bree said.
“The doctor said—” Mrs. Henderson began.
The back door opened and closed, but the dogs, all lying on their beds in the mudroom, didn’t start yipping, so I knew it had to be one of the Hendersons. I looked up hoping to see Josh, but it was just Lincoln. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, either, but since he was only seven, he offered a totally different sort of experience.
“Mom!” he barked, sounding a lot like the dogs. “Josh won’t let me ride his dirt bike.”
“It doesn’t even run,” Mrs. Henderson said, without turning to look at him.
“He won’t let me even sit on it!” Lincoln continued.
“He’s working on it, Lincoln-love,” Mrs. Henderson said.
“I just want to see if it’s comfortable! Why does he get a motorcycle and not me?”
“Because he’s seventeen and he needs a ride to work and football practice,” Bree called back. “Does that mean I can get a Vespa when I’m seventeen?” Bree asked her mom.
Mrs. Henderson rolled her eyes. “You know I didn’t want him to get that thing, but your dad insisted. So, if I get my way, when you get a job, you can get yourself a foot-powered bike.”
“Mom!” Lincoln placed his hands on his hips. “Make Josh let me sit on his bike!”
“Lincoln, we’re having a grownup conversation, and you’re interrupting,” Mrs. Henderson said.
Lincoln frowned at us. “No you’re not. You’re talking to Bree and Evie. They’re not grownups.”
“But Mrs. Starks is,” Mrs. Henderson said.
Janette smiled at the boy.
Lincoln glared back. “Did she bring a pie?”
“Lincoln!” his mom reprimanded him.
“I don’t know why we call her Mrs. Starks,” Lincoln said. “She doesn’t have a husband.”
“Lincoln!” his mom and Bree both yelled at him.
“That’s okay,” Janette said, smiling, but looking tired. “I had a husband.”
“Well, what happened to him?” Lincoln wanted to know.
“He died,” she said.
“Oh,” Lincoln said. “How come?”
“Not an appropriate question, love,” his mom told him.
“It’s all right,” Janette said. “My husband died of a heart attack. It was a long time ago.”
“Lincoln, you need to walk the dogs,” Mrs. Henderson said with a sigh.
“All of them?” His voice squeaked.
Mrs. Henderson nodded.
“Even Penguin? He’s too slow.”
“Good,” Bree muttered.
While Lincoln bashed around in the mudroom, trying to harness the dogs, Mrs. Henderson, Janette, and Bree turned their attention back to me.
“It’s a lot to ask,” Mrs. Henderson said.
“We can’t ask anyone else,” Bree said.
“What about Erin?” I asked, even though I thought I knew the answer.
Bree, Mrs. Henderson, and Janette each glanced at each other, as if silently coming to an agreement.
“Erin had to back out of the play,” Mrs. Henderson said. “She took a role in the Nutcracker Suite.”
That surprised me. “When? Why?”
Bree shrugged. “You’ll have to ask her,” she said with a small satisfied smile.
“We knew you would want to step in and help Bree,” Janette said.
“And you can totally do it,” Bree put in.
“But what if you don’t get your cast off in time?” I asked, my heart skipping while I thought about playing the leading role. I was pretty happy as a Munchkin. “Do I have to dance?”
“Are you okay with singing the solos?” Janette asked. “Mrs. Olson said she’d help you.”
I knew I could sing. I also knew I couldn’t dance.
“We’ll modify the dances,” Mrs. Henderson said.
“Yeah, no reason for you to have to learn those since I’m going to get my cast off in time anyway,” Bree said.
Mrs. Henderson looked at her sympathetically before turning back to me. “Mrs. Olson said she could help you with the music Wednesday after school. Does that work for you?”
I nodded. Even though I had expected something like this, the reality of it smacked me in the face, taking away my breath. I felt confident about filling in during the rehearsals, but what if Bree wasn’t better by opening night? She couldn’t be Dorothy with a giant pink cast on her leg.
“Lincoln,” Mrs. Henderson called out. “I want you to run upstairs and bring down the ruby slippers.”
Lincoln groaned. “I just got the dogs roped up!”
“Take them with you,” Bree said.
While Lincoln and the dogs trooped through the kitchen, Janette showed me the scripts and handed me the score, but when Dylan and Josh walked in—both without their shirts—I pretty much lost all interest in anything Oz related.
#
The next day when I passed Dylan in the hall, he looked right past me. I thought about bumping into him, or throwing my books at his head, but instead, I swallowed my disappointment. It was a lot easier going down than my tuna sandwich at lunch.
Court must have noticed, because she whispered, “Why do you keep staring at Dylan Fox?”
I glanced at Ryan and Austin, not wanting them to overhear. They were arguing about a video game involving werewolves and she-demons.
“I know him. Or at least, I met him.” I shrugged and tried to look like I didn’t care. “I’ve seen him without his shirt, and that should mean something. I should at least g
et a hello.”
“Not with guys like him,” Court said.
I looked down at my sweater dress. It was on its second day, and everyone knows you can’t wear the same thing two days in a row. But since it was the only navy or gray thing I owned, I felt like I didn’t have any other choices. I wasn’t about to wear something colorful. I’d stand out like a butterfly in a swarm of moths. I had thought about wearing my black dress, but I didn’t want to look like I was in mourning, and since it was what I wore to Grammy Jean’s funeral, I was pretty sure that was exactly how I would look.
“How do you know him?” Court asked.
“He’s friends with my neighbor.”
“Oh, lucky you,” she crooned.
“Not feeling so lucky. More like snubbed.”
“Don’t let him bug you.” Court motioned at a tall, reed-thin blonde lounging at Dylan’s table. “See her?”
I nodded.
“That’s Heather, his ex.”
“She’s wow. Just wow.”
Court nodded. “And she’s still in love with him.”
“How do you know?”
“Everyone knows. It’s totally obvious.” Court bit into her apple and chewed. “I’m just telling you the competition is steep.”
“I don’t want him to like me . . . or at least not in that way.”
“No?”
I flushed. “Well, maybe I do, but even if he doesn’t—don’t you think he should at least say hi? You know, acknowledge me?”
Court wagged her head back and forth, looking somber. “You want too much.”
“I guess.” After another look at Ryan and Austin, I leaned closer to Court. “What can you tell me about him?”
Court chewed thoughtfully. “He’s rich, but you probably knew that from his car.”
I nodded.
“He’s captain of the tennis team.”
So, I’d guessed that spot on.
“Why do you look like that?” Court asked.
“Like what?”
“I said tennis, and you looked as if I said Disco.”
