“I’m sure,” I say lightly. I touch her sleeve. “A joke.”
The moment of tension disappears. Hazel’s relaxed and smiley again.
Phoebe Chen is behind the counter at the register—Mina’s Work Best Friend. She has a neon-green stripe in her hair and a little jewel on the side of her nose. They’re new things but not surprising. Phoebe just seems even more Phoebe than before. “Hey, girl!” she exclaims. She reaches across the counter and squeezes my hand. “I’d come around and give you a hug but we’re a little busy.” She gestures at the line that’s formed behind us, almost everyone holding their very own copy of book six: Nightshade and the Mystery of the Moaning Moat. She’s wearing her red and white The Book Nook shirt. Hers has streaks of permanent marker and dried bits of icing from the cookies. Mina has one, too, but hers is folded up, clean and laundered in her T-shirt drawer, right next to the Ithaca one.
She scans my book. “Seventeen twenty-five.” I pull out a wad of money from my pocket and count out eighteen dollars. “Have you talked to Mina lately? Do you think she’s coming home soon?”
Hazel looks up from the teen magazine she’s been flipping through. “What?” she asks. “Is she? You didn’t tell me.”
“No,” I say. “I don’t know. I mean, it could be soon.” My stomach twists up tight.
“Oh,” Hazel says. She goes back to reading.
Back in July, it was supposed to be two weeks. Then two days. But Dr. Oliver, Mina’s therapist from Pinehurst, talked to Mom and said she wasn’t quite ready to come home yet. So Mina stayed. Her Book Nook T-shirt stayed in the drawer and her room stayed clean and unlived in. I took down the remaining links in the countdown chain I had hung along my ceiling and threw them away.
“It has to be soon,” I say, eager to end the conversation. Somehow, talking about it feels like I’ll jinx it. I take my bag and my change from Phoebe.
Then I wait for Hazel, who buys the magazine, too.
It’s still early, so the Slice isn’t crowded at all—a few old people and a family eating at the big table near the window. I slide into our favorite booth in the back. The table’s a little lopsided and a big chunk of fabric’s missing from the seat, but it’s the closest one to the jukebox. It’s one of the old-fashioned kinds that still play records.
“What do you want to hear?” Hazel’s pressing the buttons to flip through the selections, her hips swaying to some imaginary beat. “Ooh, wait—got it.”
The drums start and Hazel grabs a straw off the table and holds it to her face like a microphone. “Hang on Sloopy, Sloopy hang on.” She mouths the words along with the song and when we get to the part right after the chorus, we raise our hands in the air: “O-H-I-O.” She laughs and falls into the other side of the booth.
A teen boy appears at the table wearing an A Slice of Heaven ball cap. He flips open a notepad. “What’ll it be?”
I’m about to say the regular—Kitchen Sink pizza, extra cheese, and a pitcher of orange soda to split—when Hazel picks up the menu that’s tucked behind the napkin dispenser. “I think we need a minute.” She grins at him with her lip-glossed lips.
The boy steps away. She kicks my sneaker under the table and kind of gestures in his direction with a nod. “He’s cute.”
“Yeah,” I say. “And seventeen or something. He practically has a mustache.” He looks older than Mina. “Aren’t we getting what we always get?”
“I don’t know.” Her words are long and slow. “Don’t you think it might be fun to get something new? We always get the Kitchen Sink. Let’s try something different.”
“But it’s our favorite.”
Hazel shrugs. “I mean, it’s good, but shouldn’t we try something a little healthier? Like veggie?” She turns her menu and points at the picture, as if somehow that will convince me. “Doesn’t that look good?”
What it looks like is a portable salad, but I don’t say that.
I open a menu of my own and hold it out to her. “The Kitchen Sink pizza. Yum.” I move the menu in a circle like I’m hypnotizing her. “You are getting very hungry. Very, very hungry.”
Hazel’s not having it. “Okay, why don’t we do this? I’ll get the veggie and you get whatever you want and we’ll split it.” Hazel and I split food all the time—half of my peanut butter and jelly for half of her turkey with avocado, half of my chips for half of her Oreos (cream side). So even though we’re not eating the Kitchen Sink together, that sounds okay to me.
The boy comes back. “Ready now?” he asks.
“I’ll have a water. And a personal veggie pizza,” Hazel says. “No onions.”
“Um, small sausage and onion.” The words feel weird coming out of my mouth. “With an orange soda.”
While Hazel and I wait, we bench dance to the music from the jukebox. It’s a lot like car dancing but a little more restrained since you’re in public and everything. She does the squid, a move she made up where you wiggle your arms on either side of your body. I do the turtle, where you bob your head forward and backward. Hazel’s snort-laughing and I practically have tears coming out of my eyes, when I hear a noise behind me. Hazel stops dancing. I turn my head to look, but not so fast that I miss Hazel taking the purple horn off her head and hiding it below the table. I blink once and then again. Confused.
“Hazel!” the voice cries but it really sounds like “Heyyyyyzel” the way she draws it out.
Three girls wearing the same field hockey shirt Hazel was before crowd around the booth.
“What are you doing here?” the tallest one asks. I think the answer is pretty obvious; we are at a pizza place after all.
“We were just out and stopped to get something to eat,” Hazel says. “Come sit with us. That’s okay, right?” But she doesn’t wait for my answer. I grab my bag and bike helmet to make room. Two of the girls squish in next to me so that I’m now sitting on the missing chunk. I sink down lower. The tall girl sits next to Hazel. I bet that’s Lucy.
“Everyone, this is Em.” I smile a little and can’t seem to stop blinking. “This is Lucy and Annemarie and Gina.” They all look totally different—Lucy with her straight black hair and Annemarie with her tiny eyebrows, and Gina with her jangly bracelets stacked up on her left arm. But at the same time, they all kind of look alike, too. Maybe it’s the funky shorts or the knee-high socks or their hair up in ponytails. They look like a team even off the field.
Lucy turns to me. She looks me up and down. A small smile forms on her face. “A little early for Halloween.”
My cheeks flush. “Well—” I start. “It’s—” But the right words aren’t forming.
“It was this thing at the bookstore,” Hazel rushes in. “For the Unicorn Chronicles.”
“Oh, that’s cool,” Lucy says. “What are you supposed to be?”
I grin and try to sit up straighter. “I’m Nightshade. The main unicorn detective.”
Lucy turns her attention to Hazel. “Isn’t Drew Lewis supposed to be in the next movie? When does that come out?”
I try to meet eyes with Hazel, but she’s not looking at me. “November, I think.”
I jump in. “Drew Lewis is in it. He’s the magician’s apprentice. And it comes out September 30th.” It’s on my calendar. Hazel has it circled on hers, too. “Me and Hazel are going together.”
“Oh yeah,” Hazel says.
The teen boy returns, but this time with our pizzas and drinks. “Orange soda and sausage and onion.” He sets down the food in front of me. “And a water and veggie.”
“Do you guys want any?” I ask. I hold the little paper plates like an offering.
Annemarie shakes her head. “No, thanks. We’ll eat later, right?” She looks at Lucy and smiles when she nods in agreement.
Hazel blots her pizza with a napkin and holds it up. It’s shiny with grease. She’s removing the best part. The air feels hotter now somehow, even though there’s a fan right above us.
“That’s very unhealthy,” Lucy says. She wrinkles
her nose and Hazel nods in agreement. “Hey, dare me to hit the server with this straw paper.”
Annemarie laughs. “Do it.”
But I’m not watching the stuff with the straws; instead I’m concentrating on how Hazel’s delicately spearing one of her super-small pieces with her fork. My heart thumps in my chest. Before Mina left, she used to cut her food up into tiny pieces and then move them around the plate but not really eat anything at all. At least some of Hazel’s pieces are disappearing. I take a deep breath.
I go to take a bite of my own pizza, crust first, when Gina’s elbow hits my hand. The pizza slides down on the sleeve of my sweatshirt, leaving a trail of sausage bits and cheese strings.
“Sorry,” she says. “But look at that aim.” The straw paper she’s just shot has landed on top of the jukebox. I watch it flutter in place. She holds her hand out to me. “High five.” I hit her hand with mine. She holds a straw out. “Want to see if you can shoot it even farther?”
I just took a giant pizza bite, so I shake my head no. I’m feeling good. Hazel’s been talking about these girls all August and it’ll be good that we know some new people going in. Of course, it’ll still be Hazel and me, but we can’t just sit alone together at a lunch table. If Hazel asked me again, I’d add these new friends to the list of things I’m excited about.
After talking about field hockey practice and first-quarter schedules and some kid named Joey’s skateboarding skills, the girls leave and Hazel bounces up-down in her seat.
“I knew you’d love them,” she says. “And Gina always comes to practice with these awesome braids. Maybe she’ll teach us. I think my hair’s still long enough.”
“That would be great,” I say. I try to imagine where three more girls will fit into Hazel’s tiny room for sleepovers.
“I knew they’d like you, Em Murphy.” She exaggerates my name like I’m some kind of queen or celebrity. “Hey! Do you have two quarters? I wanna play one more song.” I pull two quarters out of my pocket and hand them to her. The server’s already boxed up our pizzas to go. We never did get to trade.
“I’m going to go to the bathroom,” I say.
Even through the bathroom door, though, I can hear the refrain of the song Hazel chose. We spent hours up in her bedroom watching the YouTube video for it on repeat so we could get the dance moves just right.
I wonder if Annemarie and Gina and Lucy like to dance, too. I picture all of us dancing in sync.
By the time I step out, Hazel’s waiting for me outside the restaurant.
I pluck the straw wrapper off the jukebox and another one off the floor and throw them into the trash can. Then I grab my leftovers, bag, and bike helmet and walk out the door.
NEW TEEN TRENDS
I decide I need a back-to-school outfit, too.
Mom’s still in her bank clothes since she’s picked me up straight from work. White blouse, too-tan panty hose, and maroon skirt, which she says makes a good impression. I think it must, because the bank has given her more hours.
She does change into gym shoes when we get to the mall, though. She keeps them in the backseat because she has to stand in these pinch-toed heels all day, and she says she’s still not used to it.
I hold the door open for her. The chill of the air-conditioning feels good against my skin. There’s nothing awesome about August weather.
“So what are you thinking?” Mom asks. We’re heading to the juniors section on the second floor. There’s a bunch of people here. Maybe they all want back-to-school outfits, just like me. Hazel says that clothes say something about you without you having to even open your mouth. I think she read it in Teen Scene, but she’s right. If sixth grade is going to be a brand new start, then I need something that says EM!
“I’m not really sure. Something cute and fun,” I say, trying out the words Hazel texted me about her own outfits.
“Hmm, cute and fun.” Mom heads straight for the sales rack while I hang back and look at the display with New Teen Trends written over the top of it in neon glowing letters. I pick up a shirt and hold it out in front of me.
“What do you think?” I ask.
Mom shakes her head. “I don’t know, Emily. It’s a little mature.” Maybe it is, but that’s kind of what I want. It’s cropped at the waist, so I’m thinking my belly button would probably show. I picture it—a stripe of pale, freckly skin right over my jeans. My hand reaches for my stomach to cover it as if it were a reflex. Hazel would tell me to get it. I put it back.
Mom flips through a bunch of shirts. She pulls one out. “Why don’t you try this one on?” From the back, it looks like a plain old T-shirt, but the front is covered in gold sparkly polka dots. “Maybe with your magenta pants? And a little navy blue sweater? Those school buildings are cold.”
I close my eyes and think. Is it something that brand new sixth-grade Em Murphy would wear? I’m not sure.
The saleslady lets me into the dressing room. I slide the shirt on and open the door. I’m quick, so Mom’s not paying attention yet. She’s sitting on one of the faded fabric chairs that has week-old cherry slushy stains or something on it. Her head is back against the wall and her eyes are closed and she’s doing this thing where she kneads her eyebrows together with her hand. She looks the most tired I’ve ever seen her. My face grows warm. This moment feels like the one when I saw Mina kissing Hugo Morris on the back deck two summers ago—a hidden one. Private and secret and something I’m not supposed to see. I close the door as quietly as I can and try to forget it happened.
I count to three in my head. “Okay, Mom. I’m coming out,” I announce this time. Loud.
Now Mom’s leaning forward. She’s smiling big like that last moment of tiredness never happened. “Emily, that looks darling on you.”
I have to say, it’s not bad. But I’m not sure if it’s not bad in a Mom-picked-it-out kind of way, or if it’s not bad in an it’s-actually-cute-and-fun kind of way. But there’s just me and Mom here and no one else to ask.
“You’re looking so grown-up these days.” She says it in a way that’s happy and sad at the same time.
You can’t go to the mall without getting the good soft pretzels from the food court. I get mine with dipping cheese and Mom gets hers with extra salt.
Mom brushes crumbs off a table with a napkin, and we sit down. We’re quiet for a minute, just eating and chewing and listening to two lovebird teens five tables down from us talk loudly about how adorable the other one is. Mom’s phone buzzes. All other noises—the little kids screeching at the play place, the elevator music piped in above, the crumpling of paper food wrappers—fade into the background. “It’s Dr. Oliver.” She takes in a sharp breath and clicks the button to take the call. “I’ll be right back.”
Mom walks away from the table. I put my pretzel down.
Even though Mina’s not here, she’s here. She’s everywhere. It’s like her Converse sneakers are propped up on the chair next to me here in the food court. For once, I wanted it to be me and Mom. I only want to think about my back-to-school shirt that’s in the bag between my sneakers and the silver unicorn earrings Mom added to the pile at the register at the last minute. I only want to think about Em Murphy, world’s best sixth grader. I want to think about locker decorations and me and Hazel together in the cafeteria. I want to be 100 percent happy about something—not 88 or 74 or whatever percentage I am right now.
Selfish, my brain says. You’re so selfish. My stomach twists with guilt.
Mom’s back now. “Guess what?” She doesn’t wait for me to answer. “Mina’s coming home!” She’s grinning, but I can’t meet her eyes.
I should smile. Or give Mom a hug. Instead I say, “That’s what you said last time.” It’s the wrong thing to say but the only thing I can think of. I picture the Welcome Home decorations I had made back in July, now shoved away in the bottom of my art bin.
Mom can’t seem to keep still. “I think it’s really going to happen.” She takes a big sip of her giant Die
t Coke in celebration. “Things have gone really well this past week. She thinks Mina’s ready. Mina thinks she’s ready.”
I hold in a big sigh. A little bit of me is excited. But the excitement is so mixed up with nervousness and grumpiness that it gets a little lost. “That’s so great,” I say, but the words sound fake.
Mom looks down now and sees my almost uneaten pretzel. “Oh, honey,” she says. “Are you worried about school starting? It’s going to be okay. You love school.”
I nod but don’t look up. I don’t want Mom to see my feelings about Mina all over my face.
Later that evening, I’m sitting on the back porch with a glass of lemonade. Well, what used to be lemonade. Now it’s only melty lemon water and I’m drawing pictures in the condensation with my finger.
Dad promised he’d call at eight. My cell phone finally rings a half hour later.
“Hey, Dad,” I say. The screen door to the house is open, and every so often Mom walks past. She’s got her soft slippers on but I can still hear her. Our house is a nice quiet right now.
“Hold on a second there,” Dad says. In the background, there’s the whirr of the can opener and the clink of a metal bowl. “Sorry about that. I had to feed Pickle.” Pickle is Alice’s cat. And now Dad’s cat, too, I guess. I never knew Dad was a cat person. “So what’s up, kiddo? Tell me what’s going on with you.”
“Hazel and I went to this bookstore thing,” I say. “Mom got me new—”
“Speaking of new,” Dad interrupts. “Alice and I got a new couch. . . .” I tune out when he mentions her. Blah, blah, blah Alice. Blah, blah, blah. Then he asks me a question. “You still like purple, right?”
“Purple?” I try to make it sound like I’ve been paying attention.
“Yeah, the color Alice wants to paint your new room.”
I frown. “But I already have a room. It’s already painted.”
“I know that, Button. But Alice thought that this might—” Every time he says her name my chest squeezes a little tighter.
“I don’t actually like purple anymore, Dad.”
Things That Surprise You Page 2
