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

by Anne Dayton

  Candace is in the kitchen making her mother’s famous lasagna for Christmas dinner—another tradition, and from what I understand from Emma, the only thing her mother can successfully cook—and I’m lying on my bed, staring up at the ceiling.

  It’s only ten a.m. What am I going to do with the rest of today?

  I try to brainstorm new ways to start a rift between my dad and Candace, but I don’t come up with anything so I reach for my phone. No message from Andrew. Maybe Riley’s around. But her phone rings and rings, then goes to voice mail. No one answers her parents’ landline either. I try Zoe because she never goes anywhere.

  Zoe picks it up on the fifth ring. “Hullo . . . ?” She sounds half asleep, but she’s home. You can always depend on Zo.

  “Zo? Are you still in bed?”

  “Christine?” She moans. “What time is it?”

  “It’s Christmas morning, and you’re still asleep?”

  “I was.”

  “Where are Dreamy and Ed?” Zoe only calls her parents by their first names. They’re kind of hippies, not that that makes it seem any less weird.

  “I don’t know. Sleeping, probably.”

  “Don’t you guys do some big Christmas thing or anything?”

  “Usually, but we were up late. My dad did some carpentry work for this guy across town who couldn’t pay him, so instead he gave us a hot tub.”

  “What? You have a Jacuzzi now?”

  Zoe yawns loudly. “It’s purple. It’s like from the eighties or something. We were up late sitting in it.”

  “Okay, that’s weird, but whatever. You want to come over?”

  “Can’t.” The phone gets muffled, like she’s covered the mouthpiece, then it clears up. “We’re having an early dinner with the Farcuses, and I’m supposed to help my mom make vegan chocolate cake.” Zoe gags. “And I have to shower and stuff.”

  “Oh. Okay.” She’ll get up for Marcus Farcus but not for Christmas presents? Zoe may be worse off than she lets on. “Well, uh, have a good Christmas, I guess. Call if you get bored.”

  “Sure. You too.”

  I flop back on the bed and dial Ana’s house. She isn’t allowed to have a cell phone, which is really inconvenient because we have to call her house, and if her dad answers it’s really uncomfortable because he’s not the friendliest guy. But luckily this time Ana answers. Only she’s speaking Spanish. What the . . .

  “Ana?”

  “Christine! Sorry. I thought you were my grandma calling from Mexico. Hey, can I call you back? I’m on the other line with Maria.”

  “Oh. Sure.” Maria is Ana’s old housekeeper who moved back to Mexico earlier this year. Maria basically raised her, and I know Ana misses her a lot.

  “It might be a while because my grandma may call. Ooh, but guess what? I got a laptop! It’s so cute. Did you get anything fun?”

  A laptop? Cute? She already has a desktop computer in her bedroom. Why does she need a laptop?

  “No, not really.”

  “Oh. Well, look, I’ll call you later, okay?”

  “Yeah. Later. Bye.” I hang up and let my phone fall onto my bedspread.

  Great. What do I do now?

  Would it be weird if I called Andrew? I guess not, right? I think back to the night we spent on the phone together. We’re bonded now. I could call him, but then, he’ll probably call later. I’ll just wait.

  I glance over at Emma’s empty bed, then walk over to check on Joe. He swims to the top of the water, thinking I’m going to feed him. “Are you a pig or a fish?” He looks at me like he’s famished, and I toss in a few flakes. After he eats them all he swims back to the little cave I bought him and hides. Ugh, even my fish doesn’t want to hang out with me. I’m so bored.

  I pad down the hall in my socks and walk into the kitchen. Candace is standing behind the counter, spreading lasagna noodles across the bottom of a pan. There’s so much tomato sauce on the counter that I actually think she might be bleeding at first, which, frankly, is a distinct possibility when she’s in the kitchen with all those knives. She lifts her head when I come into the room.

  “Hey there.” That isn’t her normal pageant queen smile. She almost seems to be forcing herself to try. “Thanks for this.” She points to the kitchen timer I gave her this morning. “It’s coming in handy already.”

  I shrug. I feel a little bad about that. She actually spent a lot of time picking out clothes that she knew I’d like from the vintage store, but I got her a kitchen timer because I think her cooking stinks. I thought it would keep her from burning water. She was very sweet about it, making a big show out of trying out all the features, but still I could see she was a little hurt. Maybe I should have put a little more thought into it.

  “Need any help?”

  “I’m almost done.” She smiles weakly, and I notice that her skin looks dry and sallow. “Thanks though.”

  I pull out one of the kitchen chairs and take a seat. “Lasagna. Odd choice.”

  “Yeah. My mother taught me. It’s Emma’s favorite.” The crease in her brow deepens. “Not that that matters today. But it’s something we’ve done for years.” She spreads cheese over the noodles, then adds a layer of meat.

  There’s a bowl of nuts in the center of the table. I grab a handful and toss a salty cashew into my mouth.

  “She wanted to be here on Christmas Eve to hang out with you.” She smiles and pours tomato sauce over the meat. “I guess we could have had something more festive for dinner since she won’t be around, but this just feels like Christmas to me.”

  “I like lasagna.”

  “What did your mom usually make?” Candace watches me carefully.

  A part of me wants to scream at her that she has no business asking about my mom, but another part of me knows she’s trying to be nice and that it’s Christmas and she misses her daughter and I should give her a break. And then there’s the part that can’t actually remember what my mom made for Christmas dinner. Did we even have a traditional meal? I’m not sure.

  “I don’t know.” I shrug. “Whatever.” I reach into my pocket and check my phone. No messages. Silence echoes throughout the kitchen.

  “Do you have any big plans for the day?” Candace puts a final layer of cheese on the lasagna and brushes her hands off.

  “Not really.” I type a text to Riley.

  CALL ME. I’M SO BORED.

  “Well in that case, I was thinking—” Oh no. She wants to bond. I need to invent some plans, stat.

  “Actually I—”

  “—how you have all these art supplies, but I haven’t seen you paint in a while. And I thought I might throw it out there that you’re welcome to use the studio if you want to paint in there.”

  “What?”

  “It was very nice of you to share your room with Emma. I want you to still have a space to go and paint and . . . just, you know, if you want to. If you don’t, that’s fine too.” She unrolls some tin foil and rips a piece off in one clean motion.

  “Oh.”

  “I’ll be out of the studio soon enough. Then it will be yours again. I know it’s special to you. And I want you to keep painting.”

  “Cool.” Painting. Huh. I stand up slowly and push my chair in, scraping it across the linoleum. “Thanks.” I walk slowly down the hall toward my room because I don’t know what else to do.

  30

  “Oh my goodness. Would you look at this gravy boat?” Candace holds it out like she’s found the Holy Grail. “Do you like it? In the lace pattern? Or do you prefer this basket weave one?” Candace holds up another mysterious piece of china. This one has a red crisscross pattern. What could it be for? Is there a separate dish for . . . potatoes?

  “Um, gosh.” I eye the registry gun in Candace’s hand, an idea forming. A smile spreads across my face. Well, yes. Why didn’t I think of it before? I’m really falling down on my job of being the evil stepdaughter. “Go with the lace. It’ll work for any occasion.”

  Candace looks rel
ieved. “You’re so right about that.” She puts the funny looking basket weave pot back on the display table. “Do you think your dad will like the lace?” She picks up a teacup so ostentatious and dainty it would make the Queen Mum blush.

  “He doesn’t care what you get, as long as you’re happy. You know Dad.”

  “You’re right.” Candace flips the gravy boat over and zaps it with the bar-code gun.

  Wait. Where’s Emma? I look around the crowded Bloomingdale’s floor and spy her slumped over in a chair that’s clearly meant to hold bored husbands. I decide to leave Candace to it. She’s frantically gunning every single piece of obscure and useless piece of china in the Wedgwood Vera Wang Lace collection, so she won’t miss me if I sneak off for a moment. I weave my way through the post-holiday-sales hordes to Emma.

  I touch the back pocket of my jeans, making sure I remembered to bring along my phone. I used to always know where my phone was because it would, you know, ring, but now I keep losing it because this week it’s been silent, mocking me with its utter lack of good tidings from my friends and, more important, from Andrew. Thankfully, late last night I remembered that Andrew had said something about going to his grandmother’s for Christmas. She must not live around here, which would explain everything. Families never let you get away to make phone calls. He’s tied up, it’s the holidays, and he’ll call soon. I can’t believe I’m so bored I agreed to go to Bloomingdale’s.

  I kick Emma’s shoe. “What are you doing?”

  She opens one eyelid, then shuts it again. I don’t think she slept a wink at her dad’s place. “Nap.”

  I kick her shoe again. “C’mon. I have an idea.”

  She sighs. “What? I want to stay here and nap. Is Mom looking for me yet?”

  I crane my neck in Candace’s direction. She’s conferring with a Bloomingdale’s employee about china. “No. She’s in the zone.”

  Emma yawns.

  I grab her hands and pull her up. “I need your help, pip-squeak so move it.” Once I have her on her feet, she gives her head a good shake and seems to wake up a little. I take her elbow and drag her downstairs.

  “Where are we going?”

  “You want to break up my dad and your mom, right?” I step on the escalator and drag her on behind me. She nearly trips but catches herself on the motorized railing.

  “Well . . .” Her voice is quiet. She must be really tired. “I don’t know.”

  I glare at her. “What?!”

  The escalator stairs flatten, and I pull her over to the side, away from the stampeding crowds of shoppers.

  Putting my hands on her shoulders, I lean over so we’re eye to eye. “What are you talking about? Don’t you see this is the only way to get your parents back together again?”

  “My mom’s so happy, though.” Emma bites her lip.

  I drop my hands from her shoulders. I can’t really argue with that. Her mom does seem a little happier each day we inch closer to the wedding. Unfortunately our happiness levels are inversely proportional. Ooohhhh . . . I think that was a math joke. And Mr. Mackey thinks I’m unteachable.

  “Em, you’ve got to help me.” I put an arm around her, putting out of my mind that I’m being a little manipulative. But who’s going to look like a hero when her mom and dad get back together again? “Please? For me?”

  “Fine.” She sighs, and before she can rethink her decision, I usher her over to the registry check-in desk.

  ***

  “There! That’s it!” I run over to the Godiva chocolate display. “Give me the gun.” Emma squeals, hands me the bar-code gun, and I register for four of everything on the whole stand. People are going to think Candace has a chocolate obsession.

  I don’t know if I’m surprised that the dim-witted registry lady gave Emma another gun or not. On the one hand, when we checked in with her this morning, she didn’t look like this job was her life’s ambition. On the other hand, Emma is a terrible liar. But I was proud of her. She marched right up to the registry director and said her mother had sent her for another gun so she could help. Plausible enough. Kids like to be involved. The lady promptly handed the gun over, and since then we’ve been running wild in Bloomingdale’s, gunning down every single bizarre treasure, trying to one-up each other. So far we’ve registered Candace for a sausage maker, a spa footbath, another engagement ring (my idea), two hideous elephant lamps, and a lifetime’s supply of Godiva truffles.

  Emma cocks her hip and holds out her hand for the gun. “Chocolate? I can do better than that. Gimme that gun.” She takes off down an aisle, and I have to sprint to keep up with her as she disappears near a display of robes. I follow but somehow lose her. Panting and standing on my tiptoes, I try to spot her short frame among the tall racks, but that’s when I hear it. Well, I hear two things.

  The first noise that registers is so beautiful that for a moment I assume I must be hearing things. But on the second ring, I know: it’s my phone. As I reach for it, I also hear Emma’s telltale laugh in the lingerie section behind me, but I block it out. He’s calling me; he’s finally calling me. My heart slams in my chest. I have to remember to not sound like I was waiting for him to call.

  I pull my phone out of my pocket, and my heart sinks when I see the picture of Zoe across the screen. I stand in the middle of a busy path, holding my phone in front of me as if I’m from 1975 and don’t know what a cell phone is or how to answer it. I notice a few shoppers staring at me. Finally, the call goes to voice mail and I frown.

  “Christine!” Emma pulls on my arm.

  “Ow! Jeez!” I yank my arm away. I can’t believe it wasn’t him. What’s going on here? Doesn’t he know that New Year’s Eve is tomorrow? Doesn’t he know he’s supposed to arrange something? How am I going to get a kiss at midnight if he doesn’t call?

  “I found the most awesome thing. Wait till you see it.” I check my phone again to make sure I saw that right. Yep. My worst fears are confirmed. It was Zoe.

  “Come on!” Emma moves behind me and begins to push me forward. Maybe I missed a call sometime? I punch buttons. . . .

  “Stop it, Em!” My yell silences the frantic shoppers for a moment. At least one woman gives us a look clearly meant for naughty children.

  Emma wilts before my eyes. “Sorry,” she mumbles quietly.

  Oh no. Too harsh. Okay, I need to refocus on our mission here.

  “Sorry, Em.” Let’s see. What would a good big sister do? I decide to sling my arm around her shoulder and grab her in a headlock. “Picking on your elders? Huh? Huh?” I give her a gentle noogie.

  Emma wriggles free, a smile back on her face. “Okay, seriously, Christine. You’ve got to come see what I registered for.” She takes my hand, and I let her pull me away.

  It’s not too late. There’s still plenty of time to set something up for tomorrow night. I put my phone to my ear and listen to Zoe’s rambling voice mail as I cruise through the hosiery department. Who says hosiery anymore anyway? Zoe is inviting us all over to sit in her new hot tub tomorrow night. Too bad I’ll be out with Andrew.

  Emma drags me into the lingerie department, past all the slinky silk and lace numbers over to a section with a huge sign that says, “The Silver Collection.”

  “What in the . . .” I spin slowly. I didn’t know they made such ginormous, hideous bras and panties. Most of them resemble tents.

  Emma walks to the end of a long row of bras and reaches high over her head. She can’t quite touch the one she wants, so she jumps. After a few tries, she pulls it off the rack.

  “Can you believe this?!” She slips her rail thin arms through the loops. Each boob holder—probably not the technical term—is the size of Emma’s entire head.

  I start to laugh. I can’t help it. “You—I can’t . . .”

  Emma struts back and forth in the space between the racks as if she’s a supermodel working the runway.

  “Emma . . .” I try to stifle my laughter. It’s too much to watch her in such a giant bra.
<
br />   She stops in front of me and snaps her fingers in the air like a diva. “Vogue, vogue, vogue, vogue.”

  I lose it entirely and have to lean over my knees to catch my breath because I’m laughing so hard.

  “I registered for ten. Do you think that’s enough?”

  I nod. “I think that’ll do just fine.”

  31

  “Christine, get in.” Zoe splashes my leg a little. “You’ve got to be freezing.”

  “Splash me again and I’ll pummel you, Red.” I told Zoe and Ana that I’d only hang my feet in the hot tub tonight. I can’t very well boil in a hot tub all night and monitor my phone. I decide to deflect attention from myself.

  “What’s your appendage doing tonight, Ana?”

  Dreamy and Ed put their new hot tub on the deck outside their back door, which means we’re surrounded by enormous trees. The cold, clammy night air smells like eucalyptus.

  Ana rolls her eyes at me because she hates that joke, but come on—she earned it fair and square. “Mom and Papá said this holiday was too mature, and they didn’t want us to spend it together.”

  This isn’t exactly how I envisioned New Year’s Eve. In my dreams, I’m not here, I’m out somewhere with Andrew, but I could at least be okay with this if Riley were here. Our little group feels incomplete without her. The empty fourth side of the hideous purple hot tub seems to mock us, reminding us all that our tight little group is no more, that Riley is out with her cool friends tonight. She said she’d already accepted Kayleen’s invitation before Zoe called and she couldn’t back out, but come on. Even if it’s true, that’s not what’s really going on here. None of us has even mentioned her tonight.

  I grimace. Ana throws her hands up in the air, getting a few droplets of water on my baggy khaki shorts. “I know. They’re crazy. It’s accepted fact. But next year I’ll be off probation and really allowed to date, so the worst will be over soon. Plus, they did let Dave come to family dinner tonight before I came over.” Her eyes go glassy, and she looks away for a moment.