Breaking Up Is Hard To Do (Miracle Girls Book 2)

by Anne Dayton

“Christine? I thought you couldn’t make it.” Ana strolls into the room.

  Riley bolts upright, grabs her coat off the couch, and begins to hurry to the door.

  Ana whips around and glares at me. “You guys planned this.” She shakes her head at us.

  Great. Now she hates us all. Maybe this was the wrong thing to do. In fact, I’m pretty sure it was as Riley tries to brush past me and I move to block her.

  “Ana, I’m sorry I tricked you, but I had to do something. I couldn’t take it.” Zoe’s voice is squeaky. “The Miracle Girls are special. Different. We have to stick together.”

  I attempt a smile for Ana, but she shakes her head.

  Riley steps forward. “Ana, I’m . . . I’m sorry.” She says it quietly, and Ana’s face doesn’t change. “I am. But you need to give me the space to make my own decisions.”

  Ana shakes her head. “Don’t you see?” She shrugs. “I said that stuff about Tom because I care about you. These two are too concerned with keeping the peace to stand up to you and tell you what you need to hear.”

  Riley doesn’t say anything as she pulls out her phone and calls her mom to come pick her up.

  20

  Zoe hasn’t stopped wringing her hands since Riley left. We messed it all up.

  None of us is really in the mood to watch a movie after Riley went home, so after a few minutes of awkward conversation, I decide to take off too. Ana called her parents, and they’re at some event but will pick her up on their way home.

  “I’m sorry,” Zoe says for the thousandth time as she walks me to the door. In retrospect, it does seem like kind of a dumb plan.

  Ana shakes her head. “It’s not your fault,” she says again. “It’s . . .” She sighs. “I just want what’s best for her, you know?” She sounds like she’s trying a little too hard to convince herself, but I don’t dare point that out.

  “I know. We all do,” Zoe says quietly.

  I don’t have the energy to have this conversation any longer. I just want to go home and hide out in my—my heart sinks. I can’t even hide in my own room, or in the studio.

  Zoe waves from the door as I make my way down the path to my little car. Thank goodness for my car. Maybe I’ll drive around all night so I won’t have to face anyone.

  I climb in. The air inside is cold, and I rub my hands together before I slip my key into the ignition and turn.

  Nothing happens.

  I turn it again, but the engine stays silent.

  I take the key out and examine it. It’s the right key. I try it again. Silence. I try it a few more times.. Nothing works.

  Maybe it’s the battery? I think I read something about batteries starting cars. I pull the lever to open the hood and walk around to take a look. Yep. There’s the battery right there. My car knowledge exhausted, I continue to stare down at the bumps and coils snaking around under the hood with no idea of what I’m looking at.

  I sigh and pull out my phone. It rings through to my dad’s voice mail as I walk back to the door.

  Zoe’s face lights up as she lets me back inside, and within minutes Zoe’s dad, Ed, is hunched over the open hood with a flashlight while I try calling my dad again, but he’s not picking up. He’s supposed to be on his way back from Sacramento tonight. Ana and Zoe are sitting awkwardly on the couch.

  “It looks like a fuse,” Ed says as he walks back in the front door, takes his plaid jacket off, and hangs it on the coat tree. “I’m afraid I can’t do much about that. I thought it might be the battery. I could have given you a jump, but I think you’re gonna have to take it in to the shop.” He adjusts his baseball cap and gives us a sympathetic smile, revealing his crooked front tooth.

  “I can drive you home, if you like,” Ed says, gesturing at his car. “Or you’re welcome to stay here as long as you need. We’ve got plenty of room if you want to spend the night.”

  I love Zoe and everything, but all I really want to do is go home and climb into my own bed right about now. I force a smile and try my dad again.

  Ed nods, then walks into the kitchen and turns on the water. It sounds like he’s washing his hands.

  “My parents are at a party for one of my dad’s clients,” Ana says, shaking her head. “They were going to pick me up on their way home, but there’s no way they’ll leave early.” Ana’s parents are overachievers too. They won’t leave a work event just because Ana wants to go home.

  “We could watch Love Story,” Zoe says. “It’s like the original chick flick. I swear it’s good.”

  Ana sighs. I dial my dad’s cell one more time. When it goes to voice mail again, I shake my head and take a deep breath. I’m frustrated, but I’m surprised this doesn’t bother me more than it does. Maybe I’m getting used to it. I sigh and punch in a different number.

  Fifteen minutes later, Candace walks in the door. Her smile is too wide, and her hair is too big, and she makes annoying small talk with Zoe’s parents when all we want to do is get going, but somehow I almost don’t really mind too much. In any other circumstance, I’d probably make fun of how thrilled she sounded when she picked up the phone, but . . . she’s here and that counts for something.

  21

  When I walk into her office on Tuesday, Ms. Moore is wearing her jacket, one of those black peacoats people from the East Coast always wear.

  Something weird is going on. “Cold?”

  “Not yet.” She stands up and ushers me back out the door. “We’re going on a field trip today.”

  “Ooh, like to the zoo? How about tidepooling? I love tidepooling. Our class went tidepooling in fourth grade, and Melissa Harris fell into one of the pools. Do I need a permission slip?”

  She pulls the door closed behind her and steps into the hallway. As we pass Mrs. Lovechuck, Ms. Moore tosses a careless wave at her, but she doesn’t look up, and Ms. Moore doesn’t seem to notice. She leads me out into the courtyard.

  “What did I do to deserve such a treat?” I zip up my hoodie.

  “It’s time for a change of scenery, don’t you think?”

  I cough a little, but she smiles as if she’s unaware that she’s freaking me out, which is totally bogus. She walks down the cement breezeway toward the language classrooms, her footsteps echoing. It’s not too late to run back inside, but she doesn’t stop, and she doesn’t look around to see whether or not I’m following her. It’s like she doesn’t care what I choose to do. I give in and jog a little to catch up with her.

  “It’s a lovely day, isn’t it?” She takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. I squint up at the sun. Huh. I guess it is kind of nice actually. I hadn’t even noticed the sun was out, and it’s chilly, but in a brisk, invigorating way, not a freeze your gizzard kind of way.

  “Sure.”

  “Did you do anything fun this weekend?” she asks as we walk out of the courtyard and onto the long, sloping lawn when the stoners hang out.

  “My car died.” I let my steps fall into rhythm with hers as I walk next to her.

  “What?” She turns her head a bit but doesn’t stop walking.

  “It’s in the shop now. Turns out old cars have old problems.”

  “What happened?” We’re passing by a small grove of evergreen trees, and their sweet smell reminds me of Zoe’s backyard. I recount the evening, and Ms. Moore listens without interrupting, but when I mention the part about my dad not showing up, she demands every single detail, then sets her mouth in a firm line.

  We move along the edge of the parking lot, and for a moment I think we might actually go on a real field trip, but Ms. Moore doesn’t break toward any of the cars. I pick out my normal parking spot, near the corner of the student parking area under the trees. I sigh and keep walking.

  “Where are we going?”

  “I don’t know.” Ms. Moore sounds as if she’s considering the question for the first time. “Any place you’d like to go in particular?”

  Is she serious? She smiles and turns her face up to the sun like she’s loving every mo
ment of this.

  “Not really.”

  “I was thinking it might be nice to check out the pool.”

  “I usually leave the swimming to Joe.”

  “He’s still alive?”

  “At my house, you have to be a survivor.”

  She smiles. “How’s the wedding planning going?”

  “Well, let’s see. They reserved a cathedral. A simple church wasn’t good enough for Candace. It’s in San Francisco. I guess it’s famous or something.” I imagine the horrible service, me standing up there, dressed like a pastel birthday present with bows from head to toe. “I don’t really know why they want to get married in a church anyway. It’s not like either of them goes to church.”

  “Churches are nice.” She leads me past the gym, pulls out a little key and unlocks a metal gate, then swings it open to reveal the pool deck. The high walls of the gym and locker rooms surround the cement deck on three sides, but the fence on the fourth side keeps the riffraff out while providing a nice view of a grove of cypress trees.

  “Sure, churches are probably nice if you go to church. But it’s kind of hypocritical to make a big deal about getting married in a church if you don’t go any other time.”

  In the middle of the deck is the long shallow lap pool, its surface smooth and calm, a beautiful shade of turquoise. Next to it, separated by a low metal railing, is the smaller, deeper diving pool, dark and shadowy, with two low boards and one high board. When the swim team gets here, this place is loud and chaotic, but when there’s no one else here, it’s quiet and peaceful.

  “I don’t know.” Ms. Moore pulls the gate shut, but doesn’t lock it, then walks down a few cement stairs to get to the deck. “It must mean something to them. Even if they don’t go regularly, getting married in a church is a statement of some kind.”

  She walks along the edge of the lap pool, and I follow. The water is four feet deep here, according to the little black number on the edge of the pool, but it seems much shallower than that from this angle. It looks like I could reach down and touch the smooth white bottom with my hand.

  “Don’t you think God would rather have them show up on special occasions than not at all?” She stops at the lifeguard stand and turns to watch my reaction.

  Tiny wisps of steam curl up from the surface of the smooth water. It resembles glass, and I have the sudden urge to jump in just to disturb the perfect surface.

  “I don’t think God cares.”

  “I don’t believe that.” She starts walking again, toward the diving pool. “I suspect you think God cares more than you’re willing to admit, even to yourself.”

  I follow her, unsure of what else to do. She skirts the edge of the deep, blue depths of the diving pool, her footsteps echoing in this cavernous space, and puts her hand on the silver rail of one of the low diving boards. She steps up onto the thin white board, and it dips under her weight. She bounces lightly on the end a few times, and I suck in my breath. She’s finally lost it. She’s going to do a swan dive in her clothes.

  Thankfully, she bends her knees to stop the board from bouncing, then stands at the edge and looks into the blue abyss before carefully lowering herself down to a sitting position. The board curves toward the water, and she bounces up and down a few times, then gestures at the other diving board. I shrug, scramble onto it, and slowly edge my way out to the end. We bob up and down silently for a minute.

  The surface of the pool is almost hypnotic.

  “I used to dive.” Ms. Moore raps her fingers against the rough fiberglass board.

  “You did?”

  “In high school.” She laughs, a low, quiet laugh.

  “Why did you stop?” I move a little, and the board bounces again. The bottoms of my Chucks just barely touch the surface of the water.

  “It was fun, but I knew I couldn’t ever be really good because I refused to compete on the high dive.” She nods at the tall board next to us. “I did a little three meter work, but there was this big tower with these huge cement platforms, and the coach wanted me to dive off those. I told him the day he made me do it was the day I would quit diving.”

  “Why?”

  “I was afraid of heights.” She stares into the depths of the pool and frowns. “Diving is tough. Most of the time you’re falling blindly through the air and you can’t see the board behind you or the water under you. You have to be willing to throw yourself into the air and trust that physics will work like it’s supposed to.”

  “And you couldn’t handle that.” I concentrate on keeping the bottoms of my shoes at the surface of the water. I point my right toe and feel a little water creep into my sock.

  “I’ve always regretted that.” She nods. “What would have been the worst that could happen?”

  “You could have croaked.”

  “True. Occasionally someone will hit their head on the cement or land wrong and sustain internal bleeding. But almost never. Usually people figure out how to let go and conquer their fear. They get over it, they get better at it, and they end up doing beautiful things.”

  “I’m not joining the diving team.”

  “Tell me about the accident.”

  If I slipped under the surface of the water, I could stay beneath for a while. It’s warm, and the water would deaden sound, and I could let myself drift off into blessed unconsciousness.

  “Christine?”

  “It was raining.” I bite my lip and stare down at the water. The sun glints off the surface in a thousand pinpricks of light. “We were arguing.” I swallow and keep my eyes trained on the water. “She—” I lie back on the board, feeling the hard fiberglass press uncomfortably into my spine, but it feels good, gritty. The sky is clear and cloudless, a deep blue almost the same color as the pool.

  Here, in this strangely beautiful place, I almost want to tell her about that day, but the smarter part of me knows better. If I open up now, I may never be able to stop.

  I wish I could slip into the pool and study the world through the water’s surface, watch everything swirl, warp, and melt into itself.

  “That’s okay,” Ms. Moore says finally. She leans back on her board too, then pulls her feet up so they rest on the edge. “It’s a start.”

  22

  The magazines say that if a guy asks you out with less than two days’ notice, you should say no and act like you already have plans. That shows him you’re not sitting around waiting for him.

  Has anyone ever actually taken that advice? Who in her right mind would say no when Andrew Cutchins calls on Saturday to ask if you want to hang out? You say yes. You say yes even if you don’t know what he means by “hang out” and even if you’re not sure if it’s a date or not.

  Andrew just found out he could get his mom’s car for the night, and he’s picking me up in a few hours, but the late invite means that I don’t have enough time to fix one major problem: a big red zit, right between my eyes. It’s like a bull’s-eye, and I need to do something about it. I lean back and squint at myself in the mirror, but it doesn’t get any better.

  A pot crashes to the floor in the other room, and I grimace. Candace is attempting to make dinner. God help us all.

  The obvious thing here would be to ask Candace what to do because she must have lotions and creams that can make any kind of imperfection vanish, or at least some thick makeup to cover it up. But I have a little pride, and I’m not going to go begging from her.

  I guess I’ll have to make a trip to the store. I pull open the bathroom door carefully, peek my head out, and look up and down the hallway. Clear. I run to my room, grab my sweatshirt, and then make a dash for the kitchen to get my keys. I got my car back yesterday, thank goodness. The TV is blaring some Disney show in the other room.

  “Christine!” Candace beams at me from behind the stove, wearing a calico apron as if she’s Betty Crocker. “Where are you off to?”

  I need to find another place to keep my keys, far away from prying eyes.

  “The store.” />
  “Oh, so’s your dad!” She gestures to the other room. “I need more flour and some eggs, so I’m sending him on an emergency run.” She laughs. “Why don’t you go with him? Save on gas?”

  “Uh . . .” I didn’t even realize my dad was home, and she has no idea what store I was planning to go to.

  “Come on, Christine,” Dad says from the hallway, slipping his feet into black loafers. “We’ll go together.” Argh.

  “Um . . .” I cannot think of anything more humiliating than going to the store to buy makeup with my dad—well, maybe tampons—but cover-up for my zits is pretty bad, especially if he finds out I need it for a date. They both look at me. “Okay.”

  On the way to the store, Dad tells me about his latest round of legislative meetings, and I nod along, but I’m really constructing my game plan. I’ll act casual until we get there, then run off to the cosmetics section and pick out some cover-up quickly. Dad will still be wandering helplessly around the produce section looking for the flour by the time I’m through the register line and have my purchase safely bagged in my pocket.

  The glass doors slide open as we step toward them, and when Dad stops to examine the list Candace gave him, I make a beeline for the cosmetics.

  Okay . . . wow. There are a lot of different kinds. I narrow in on a brand I’ve heard of and begin to examine the little colored bits of plastic they put out to display the colors. I place ten different shades against my wrist. They have names like “Fair” and “Porcelain.” I flare my nostrils, catching a glimpse of my nose ring. I guess they aren’t going to have one that’s called “Half-Vietnamese, Half-Chinese.” I settle on Fair and grab some matching powder. I even snag a tube of colored lip gloss for good measure. Okay, now I just have to make it to the cash register without running into my dad.

  I walk to the end of the aisle and duck down the row toward the registers. So far, so good. But—wait. Oh no. I jump into the closest aisle and stand completely still, holding my breath. What are the odds that Ms. Moore would feel the need to come to this very store right now?