by Anne Dayton
“CHRISTINE!” Dad screams.
I slam on the brakes. A bad smell fills the air, and I hear honking. A car is stopped outside the window on my dad’s side, and the driver is leaning on the horn.
“It’s okay,” Dad says in a calm, soothing voice. “You thought it was a stop sign, but it was a stoplight. Just look both ways and continue on through the intersection. Backing up would be too dangerous at this point.”
I gulp and look around. Aside from the angry driver next to us, there’s no one near us. I ease the car forward while Dad smiles and waves to the other driver like a maniac. I feel jittery and shaken. I almost got us killed.
And before I can push the thoughts down like I usually do, make them go to that place in my mind where I keep them locked up and safe, the wreck flashes across my eyes. I see the trees rushing toward us, I remember the sense of falling, I feel myself flying through the windshield, and I see it all happening in slow motion.
I feel my dad’s hand on my shoulder. “It’s okay. It happens to everyone. You just need to stay focused on the road.” Emma, in the backseat, is biting her lip, and her face is pale.
A tear traces my nose, then crosses the barrier of my top lip and lands in my mouth. The salt tastes good, and Dad keeps talking to me in a reassuring voice until we reach the ice cream shop.
I decide to wait in the car while Dad and Emma go in to get ice cream, and they don’t argue. The car is silent, empty. I climb into the passenger seat and lower the back of the seat so I’m staring up at the fabric ceiling. I’m sealed off from the world in here, and it feels good.
I want to learn to drive so I can be a normal teenager and get away from this madness at home, but that day with my mom will always be with me. What if I kill someone with my car? What if I die?
Emma and Dad are laughing when they come back to the car, and mercifully, Dad offers to drive home.
Emma smacks her lips as she digs into her ice cream cone, and I stare out the window and try to tune her out.
We ride in silence for a while until Dad clears his throat. “So, girls. I actually have an exciting announcement that I think you’re both going to be pretty stoked about.” Dad doesn’t take his eyes off the road as he steers toward home.
“Stoked?” I raise an eyebrow at him.
“Emma taught me that.”
She cracks up in the backseat.
Dad snaps the radio off, then flicks on the blinker and pulls the car onto our block. Down at the end of the street, there’s one tree that turns bright orange with the cool autumn air every year. While fall is generally pretty unexciting around here since most of the trees are evergreens, that one tree always gives me a strange feeling of hope. Ms. Moore would have a field day if I told her about that.
“Candace got a great offer on her house, and she’s going to take it.”
I yawn. Whoop-de-do.
“But the buyer had one condition. He needs to be in the house in two weeks.”
“We’re moving?!” Emma asks.
Dad pulls into the garage and shuts the car off. “I hope you don’t mind me telling you instead of your mom. I was so excited that I couldn’t wait.”
Emma looks unsure.
Dad swivels around to face her. “We’re going to have you move into our house. Your mom will live in the office in the backyard, and after the wedding she’ll move into the house. How does that sound?”
I stare at the floor, unable to process the horrible words coming out of my dad’s mouth. What did he just say? “It’s not an office.” I cover my face with my hands for a moment. “We have an office. It’s the third bedroom in the house, and it’s yours, in case you forgot. What’s in the backyard is not an office.”
“Well, it kind of is,” Dad mumbles.
“You can’t,” I whisper, unable to keep the pleading out of my voice. What’s he going to do with all of Mom’s half-finished canvases? Her palette and brushes? Grandma Ba’s couch? “Why doesn’t Candace just move into the house? It’s not like she doesn’t spend the night there half the time anyway.”
Dad blushes for a moment and then gives a fake cough. “We . . . uh . . .” His voice falters. Good. Let him be embarrassed. It’s not like I haven’t noticed. “It, uh, looks better. For political . . . things.”
Awesome. So they’re pretending to be all chaste so Dad can get reelected. When voters look into his personal life, they’ll see that James Lee didn’t live with Candace before the wedding. What a crock.
“No one ever uses the old painting studio anyway.” Dad puts a hand on my shoulder, but it sounds like he’s talking from far away. “We’ll move anything that’s in there to the attic, and I’ll donate Grandma Ba’s couch to The Salvation Army. Candace has a nice daybed at her place she can bring, and we’ll set it up in the studio.” He shifts uncomfortably in his seat.
Inside I am screaming, but I keep silent. My lips feel like they’re not even attached to my body, and I’m sure they’re unable to move or form sounds. This man sitting next to me, who calls himself my father, knows nothing about me. He has no idea what this place meant to Mom, and how it is so sacred to me. “No.”
“You want to keep the couch? We can put it in my office if you really like it that much.” Dad leans forward to try to see my face, but I look out the window. My old tricycle is still in our garage, rusting and broken, and one of the handles has foil streamers coming out of it.
“I think when you go off to college, it will be nice to have an extra bedroom out there. You’ll want to bring friends home.” He clears his throat.
“Am I going to stay with Mom in the painting studio?” Emma’s voice shakes.
“Actually,” he nudges me and I scoot away, “we were going to ask your big sis here if you guys could share a room.”
“What?!” I reach for the door handle. I’ll start running and never, ever look back. I could go to Uncle Peter, or maybe Mom has some relatives somewhere who will take me in. Maybe in Manhattan. I could switch to an art school.
“You mean I get to share a room with Christine? Like real sisters?” Emma’s voice is full of something disgusting, like hope.
“If Christine says it’s okay,” Dad says, glancing at me. “If not, we’ll figure something out. But since Christine wants to keep her grandmother’s couch, I think it’s the best option. My office won’t fit a couch and a bed.”
“Oh, please, Christine!” Emma says. She starts bouncing around in the backseat, making the car shake.
“What do you say?” Dads asks.
What do I say? How about no? How about I need my space? I say that I’ve been ambushed, hijacked. I’m a sophomore in high school. I’m practically an adult and she’s a seventh grader, plus we have absolutely nothing in common. Never mind the fact that the Bimbo will be invading Mom’s old painting studio and will be around even more than she already is. But Dad knows I can’t say no in front of Emma. I might not be Humanitarian of the Year, but I have a heart.
“What do you say? Huh?”
I swallow hard, give my dad a cold stare, then muster, “Sure,” with zero enthusiasm.
Emma’s screams can be heard by dogs in outer space.
10
By the time I arrive at Half Moon Bay Coffee Company, Ana and Zoe are already seated at a table for four in the corner. This place is packed tonight, and I see a few kids from school huddled over their drinks as I thread my way through the narrow café. Zoe and I declared this Friday a “girls’ night”—it’s going to be just the four of us, without any extras like Dave. Ana took it pretty well. It had to be done for my plan to work. We need this time together so things can go back to normal.
“In one short week,” I say, grabbing a wrought-iron chair and plopping down, “this carless humiliation will all be over.”
“For you.” Ana sighs. California has this weird rule that for the first year after you get your license, you can’t drive with anyone under twenty in your car without an adult. This pretty much defeats the whole purpo
se of driving, which is to escape your parents. But even if I can’t drive them around, it means all kinds of freedom for me.
“Ooh. What are we doing on your birthday?” Zoe breaks out her floral-covered day planner. She’s not really all that organized, but people are the most important thing to Zoe, so she keeps track of birthdays and special events like her life depends on them. “I’ve got next Saturday put aside for you, but what should we do?”
I shrug. I hate to plan. “I might fail the test. So whatever we think of, we need to have a backup plan.” This isn’t the whole truth. I might fail, but I’m kind of afraid I might not even make it to the test. I haven’t been able to put my fears about driving into words. I want to tell the girls about it, but it brings up too much about my mom and that day. So I keep quiet. No need to worry them about my driving anyway. The last thing I need is a bunch of nervous backseat drivers.
Ana scoots her chair forward. “Listen to me. You cannot fail. Do you hear me, Christine Lee? Think positive.”
I slip off my jacket and leave it on a chair, then head to the counter. The mousy woman at the register with a name tag that says “Marge, Manager” doesn’t look me in the eye as she takes my money and makes my mocha. It’s clear from the furtive looks she keeps giving us that she’s not thrilled to have her shop invaded by teenagers. I take the coffee back to the table and sit down to a brainstorming session.
You’d think after sixteen years of longing for wheels, we could think of something fun to do once I could actually drive.
Ten minutes later Riley appears, soaking wet, with her brother, Michael, following behind her. My heart sinks. So much for our girls’ night.
Riley rushes over to us. “I’m so sorry, guys. One of Mom’s clients demanded that they drive clear over to Emeryville to look at a condo tonight. And my dad’s out of town.” Riley holds Michael’s shoulders protectively. His blue Windbreaker hangs loose on his thin shoulders, and water drips off his sandy blond hair onto the stone floor.
“Don’t worry about it at all,” Zoe says and sounds like she actually means it. She scurries across the room to get another chair.
Riley smiles at me, but then she spies someone beyond me, over my head, who makes her face light up. I turn and see a table full of people waving at her. She laughs and waves back at them.
Michael sits down without taking off his raincoat, soaking the chair Zoe brought him. Riley starts to say something, but stops herself.
“Rats have small pouches in their cheeks where they can store food.” Michael looks at me for a reaction. Michael is almost fourteen, but he doesn’t act like most eighth graders. He has autism and is for the most part completely unaware of social niceties.
“Efficient,” I say. He nods.
“What are you guys drinking?” Riley squints at the menu.
“Mochas,” we say in unison.
“I want a mocha,” Michael says.
“Doesn’t that have caffeine?” Riley whispers to Ana, who nods back.
“I want a mocha!” Michael almost yells.
“Okay, Michael. Coming right up.” Riley winks at me and walks to the counter to place her order.
“Rats use their whiskers to feel around because they have poor vision. They can only see certain colors.” Michael looks around the café nervously.
“What got you so interested in rats?” Ana asks, taking a sip of her drink and trying to stifle a laugh.
“Ratatouille,” Michael says, nodding. “It’s an animated film about a rat who likes to cook, but that’s stupid. Rats can do a lot of things, but they can’t talk or cook.”
“Did you like Ratatouille? I did.” Zoe is trying to steer the conversation away from every girl’s least favorite vermin.
Michael shakes his head. “The writers didn’t know anything about rats.”
We all nod. Can’t really argue with his logic, I guess. Riley is way better at this stuff than we are. I look up to see if her drinks are almost ready, only Riley’s not at the counter. I scan the room for her. Ah. There’s her freakishly blonde hair, by the other wall.
Wait. She’s standing in front of a table packed with cheer-nerds. Their heads are bobbing every which way as they talk, and Riley, clutching a paper cup in either hand, is leaning over and laughing at something one of them is saying.
“We could go to San Francisco Saturday night,” Ana says, bringing the subject back around to my upcoming birthday. “There’s got to be something fun to do there, right?”
I turn back to our little table, hoping the other girls don’t notice that we’ve been ditched, but I’m too late. Zoe hears Riley’s loud, boyish laugh across the café and turns to watch her talking with her other friends.
“All the restaurants in San Francisco have rats.” Michael chews on his bottom lip.
Zoe turns back around and smiles twice as big. “Or Santa Cruz? We have to do something big and exciting now that you finally have wheels. I wonder if the Boardwalk is still open this time of year.”
“I went to the Boardwalk once. I puked on the carousel,” Michael says. “There were seventy-three horses on the carousel.”
I hear Riley’s laugh again. What is she doing? It’s one thing to be forced to bring your brother along, but it’s something else to abandon him—and us for that matter.
“Or we could just stay in town,” Zoe says, shrugging her shoulders. “As long as we’re together, it doesn’t matter to me.”
“Where’s Riley? She always has the best ideas.” Ana glances toward the counter, squinting, then looks around the table in front of us and stops suddenly. She rolls her eyes, and I turn in time to see Riley squishing in to share a chair with Kayleen, or Kylee, or Kaylee, or whatever. Some bouncy blonde. “Oh.”
“You guys, she’s just saying hi. She’ll be here in a minute,” Zoe says quietly.
Michael begins tapping his fingers against the table in a rhythmic beat.
Zoe’s probably right. Riley will probably come back and sit with us in a minute, but that doesn’t make me feel much better. The truth is, she could leave. Without us, Riley would be fine because she has other friends, popular friends, but what about the rest of us? What’s going to happen to us when she leaves?
I try not to be too obvious, but I steal a peek over my shoulder and see Riley leaning into Kayleen, sitting halfway on Kayleen’s chair.
I turn back around, paste a smile on my face, and attempt to reason with myself. It’s okay that she has other friends. That doesn’t mean she’ll forget about us. It’s not written anywhere that Miracle Girls can’t have other friends. Plus, she’s involved in so many things in school that she can’t help but know lots of people.
I hear someone at her table scream her name, and my hopes plummet. She’s pulling away. “Who are those people?” Zoe squints across the room.
“Riley has a lot of friends.” Michael begins to tap out a beat on the table. It sounds familiar, but I can’t quite place its rhythm.
We continue to ignore him, absorbed in the drama of the moment.
“She’ll go along with whatever,” Zoe says, smoothing down the page of her day planner. “Why don’t we decide, and we’ll fill Riley in?”
“Fine with me.” Ana lets out a long breath, but her shoulders stay tense. “What could they possibly have to say for this long?”
“The Miracle Girls are Riley’s friends, but she has lots and lots of friends.” Michael sounds like a tape recorder playing back something he has heard on more than one occasion.
I stare down at the table, and we all wait, silently listening to Michael’s rhythmic tapping. She’ll come and sit with us soon, but will it already be too late for the Miracle Girls when she does?
11
So far, being sixteen is nerve-wracking. Dad and Candace took me to the DMV before school, and I passed my driver’s test on the first try, which has been some kind of mistake because I was only half awake and shaking hysterically. Then Dad let me drive his car to school as a special birthday trea
t, but I spent so much time adjusting mirrors and checking over my shoulder before doing anything that now I have to hurry to make it to class on time.
When the school gates come into sight, I slow down to a crawl and relax a little. It’s almost over now. I did it. I ease over the speed bump, pass through the parking lot’s chain-link fence, and enter a new planet of cool.
“I find a parking spot and turn the car off, then lay my head on the steering wheel and let out a huge sigh of relief as tears of relief threaten to fill my eyes. I got here safely, and aside from the near miss with the mailbox, I didn’t come close to hitting anything or anyone.
Something is pounding on the passenger-side door. I yank my head up and laugh. Zoe is clawing at the door handle and Riley is pounding on the hood. A second later, a door swings open and Ana climbs in.
“Happy birthday!” Ana throws her arms around me from the backseat. I reach over and unlock the passenger door, and Zoe jumps in, and a moment later Riley slides into the backseat next to Ana.
“Were you guys lying in wait or something?” I unbuckle my seatbelt and turn to face them.
“Something like that.” Zoe starts digging in her bag.
“Ooh, look!” Ana says, and points at a red-haired figure standing by a car in the next row. It takes me a second to recognize Ashley Anderson, cheerleader extraordinaire. “Riley, quick! Wave at her. She’ll go blind with jealousy.”
Riley laughs but is careful not to make eye contact with Ashley. “I’m not going to get on her bad side. The number one rule of cheerleading is never, ever get dragged into a battle. Stay above it.”
Ana glares out the window at Ashley. “Well, I’m waving. She used to call me God Girl.”
Ana flashes a huge smile and waves, and Ashley mouths something that would get Ana grounded for life. We dissolve into laughter.
“I found it.” Zoe pulls a paper sack out of her school bag. “Okay, Christine, you have to change your clothes.”
I glance down at my outfit. Sure, it’s nothing special—a green T-shirt that hugs my body in a sort of pleasing way, my vintage Levi’s 501s, and my favorite pair of black Chuck Taylors—but there’s nothing wrong with it. Andrew said he likes green.
