Amanda’s shocked. Nothing this good has ever happened to us. Besides winning the lottery, of course.
Hesitation.
How many times has a popular person invited us to do something with her? Um, never—until now.
“C’mon, Amanda.” I try to keep the eagerness out of my voice, but I feel the pleading in my eyes.
Amanda responds with the slightest movement of her head. “We don’t have permission.” Her answer makes me feel the way the claw machine at Denny’s does when I’ve finally gotten hold of the best prize and just before I move it over the chute, the prize slips from the claw and I walk away empty-handed.
“Taxi’s running,” the guy says.
Nikki pulls up on his headrest. “Can we take them around the block?”
“Whatever.”
I shoot a hopeful glance at Amanda, but she shakes her head.
She can’t do this to me. This ride, right now, could make or break me at Magnolia. I can’t not do it. “It’s only around the block. Please.” I add that last part with a look on my face that tells her, Ohmygosh, Amanda, we have to do this, but I guess I didn’t get the message across because she says I can go if I want to, but she is staying right here.
Bored Older Sister speaks. “Make up your mind, chain gang.”
Amanda presses her lips together.
Nikki beams like an adventure waiting to happen. I can collect trash any old day. Nikki picks up on my thoughts because she scoots over and asks her sister to get the door. Bored Older Sister swings open the door and leans her seat forward, waiting for me to squeeze behind her into a whole new world. The creamy white car is brilliant under the sun. The gold trim gleams. I am Cinderella and my chariot has finally arrived.
I drop the trash bag, peel off my gloves.
“Hailee!” Disbelief stains Amanda’s eyes.
I hop in. Nikki’s sister slams the door.
“Hailee!” A mix of anger, worry, and something else fills Amanda’s face. Her arms drop at her sides. I tell her I’ll be right back, and I don’t worry because she can still change her mind but she doesn’t and then the car roars off, leaving Amanda by herself on the side of Culver Street.
“I can’t believe I’m doing this!” I shout to Nikki.
“What?”
I holler again, but the wind roars over the convertible and she can’t hear me. My hair ripples like flames against the wind. I breathe in the music. My heart pumps the beat. Nikki shoves her sunglasses over her eyes, nods her head to the tune. I bob my head like she’s doing; next time, I will have sunglasses. She thrusts out her hand with her pinkie and index finger extended—rock and roll horns—and she is the picture of cool. This is the movie I want to be in, this music playing as the camera zooms in on Nikki and me just as she flashes the horns. We’ll laugh, and even though you can’t hear us over the guitars, you’ll see what a great time we’re having. After a second, just long enough for the audience to focus on us, the car will scream away, like it’s going so fast, even the camera can’t keep up with it.
I learn at stop signs Nikki’s sister is Jordan, and the guy driving is Jordan’s boyfriend, Kyle. I like it better when we’re moving too fast to talk, when I don’t have to think about what to say. I like the way we roar through town, making heads turn.
How you like me now? I want to yell. I am fearless. Nikki holds up her cell phone and snaps a picture of us. The speed of the car matches the energy coursing inside me. None of it is familiar, and all of it is thrilling.
Kyle rips through downtown Palm Hill and way too soon, we’re smack-dab back on Culver Street, and I am dropped off beside a frowning Amanda.
My heart beats with the rhythm of a song I don’t yet know.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” Amanda says. Then, “What was it like?”
As I watch the shiny white convertible drive off, my hair in knots and tangles so bad I’ll have to tear them out later tonight, all I can think of is, It was, like, the best seven minutes of my life.
Chapter 16
Amanda said that after I took off with Nikki, she wished she’d come, too. “I was afraid to. That girl in front was smoking and I don’t really know them.”
I didn’t really know them, either, but I couldn’t let Amanda in on that. She talked as though Nikki and I were good friends. All I ever said was how Nikki and I met in the bathroom and how helpful she was and funny, too, like in history class, and how Emily and Cynthia couldn’t believe that Nikki Simms spoke to me.
Amanda has me right on top of the popularity ladder, but really my fingers are clinging to the bottom rungs. I just let Amanda come to her own conclusions. When I saw myself through Amanda’s eyes, I felt important. I didn’t want to change that.
Neither Amanda nor I mentioned my little car trip to our parents. That’s the kind of thing you don’t have to discuss with your best friend—she just knows. Besides, it’s not like I murdered someone or stole something. There isn’t one single commandment against riding in convertibles. Still, I’m glad she didn’t tell my parents because I’d be in big trouble and then we probably wouldn’t be stopping by the electronics store after church today.
Holding my thumb to my ear and my pinkie to my mouth, I pretend to talk on my new cell phone in front of my mirror. Emily’s phone is green; Nikki’s is red; Amanda’s is plain old black because it’s not a smart phone with a screen, and black is the only color that kind of phone comes in.
I feel sorry for Amanda because I’m also getting a laptop. All she has besides her dad’s old phone is a chunky computer that sits on a desk in their formal living room. I can’t believe I used to think she was lucky. Poor Amanda.
I do a few more poses in the mirror before getting ready to put on one of my church dresses. Opening the drawer of my undergarments, I push aside my first bra because, guess what? I have outgrown it. This is how it happened: Mom took me to the mall for new clothes. I shopped in Aéropostale and Forever 21 and all the good places, and I discovered something I didn’t know before—I hate shopping for clothes. You have to look through five hundred tops before you find one that isn’t see-through, doesn’t hug you so tightly your belly button is a dark oval shadow that everyone can see, or isn’t cut so openly, your bra shows.
As I modeled one top, Mom fingered the strap on my left shoulder. She examined the front of my chest. My bustline, as she calls it.
“Mom!” I crossed my arms.
“I think you need a bigger cup size.” She didn’t even whisper.
I slammed the dressing room door shut, pulled off the shirt, wriggled out of the tank, and put my own clothes back on. Mom tried to pull me to the lingerie section, which is right by the water fountain and the bathrooms. Like, what if someone I knew walked by and caught me holding Sweet Things Bra and Panties, Matching Set? I headed for the door instead, but there were three tops and some shorts I liked, so I couldn’t storm out like I wanted to. Finally my mom emerged from the aisle, two bras dangling on hangers from her fingers.
I handed her the clothes, then pretended I didn’t know her. When we got home, I rushed the bag upstairs like a hot potato before Dad saw it. For all I know, she tells him about these things. No, she doesn’t; no, she doesn’t, I convinced myself.
So I hook up the new bra and put on the matching underwear, then I slip the green summer dress over my head. Green looks good with titian hair. Usually, I go bare-legged to church, matching my flip-flops to my outfit, but today I’m thinking I should wear stockings. Like Nikki. I poke my head into the hallway and listen. The clanging of dishes means Mom’s in the kitchen. I hear Dad downstairs talking to her.
Tiptoeing through the hall, I slip into their room and head for the drawer I know Mom keeps her stockings in. “Reinforced toe,” the boxes say. When I pull out the stockings, big seams and double strips of nylon cross over the toes. I don’t want my feet to look like old lady toes. I stuff them back in their boxes and shut the drawer when I spy Mom’s makeup sitting on top of the dresser. I
wonder how I would look with darkened lashes and shiny lips.
Hiding a tube of mascara and some lipstick in my fist, I check for Mom or Dad, then sneak into the hall bathroom. I twist open the mascara. The wand makes a dry sound when I draw it from the tube. Bristles stick out of the tip, but I don’t see any mascara on them. Maybe it’s like water paint. I add a couple drops of water to the tube and slosh the wand around. Much better. Black, runny drips splat into the sink as I brush the stick through my eyelashes.
Poison! Poison! Eye poison! The ink runs into my eye. It stings like iodine! I’m blind. I run the cold water, splash my face, and see in the reflection that the mascara has left gray water streaks on my cheeks and red cracks in my eyes.
And then, “Hailee! Need your help.” Oh, my gosh, why is she always calling me when I’m busy?
“Coming!” I yell back, my voice muffled by the washrag I’m scrubbing with. I’m not taking any chances with the lipstick. Before she can call me again, I’ve put the makeup back in her room and I’m downstairs.
This is what Sunday mornings smell like: salty sweet bacon sizzling in the pan; scrambled eggs and cheese; the dark brown aroma of coffee.
Libby kicks in her high chair. “Aa-ee!”
“Libby! Hi, Libby! Hi, Libby!” I sing in a high-pitched voice. Babies like that—babies and dogs—but we can’t have a dog until Libby gets bigger, so that’s why I put dog toward the end of my list.
It’s been a month since we won the lottery and I’ve only gotten four Things I Need: bicycle, cell phone (getting today), laptop (getting today), new clothes (though I can’t wear them to school because of the uniform rule).
Dad’s plate is empty and he’s bent over the checkbook. “Hi, honey,” he says, lifting his eyes for a moment.
Mom sets down my breakfast. As she pours a glass of orange juice for me, she says, “When you’re done, I need you to wipe Libby up and play with her until church.”
“But I haven’t done my hair yet.” A messy bun looks easy but takes time.
“You can take her into your room.” Mom clicks off the burners, closes containers, puts things away. “I’ve got to get ready.”
After she’s upstairs, I ask Dad, “Could Libby just stay in her high chair?”
Dad shakes his head. “I’m trying to balance the checkbook, and I want to go through the newspaper and see what’s on sale.”
Hel-lo? Lottery winner—don’t need bargain basements anymore.
He moves into the dining room and I sigh as I hear the newspaper rattle.
“Okay, Libby,” I say when I hoist her out of her high chair.
Libby’s not interested in any of the toys I stick in front of her. Pulling my hair is more fun. I wouldn’t have this problem if I were bald. She bounces from picking up a ceramic vase to almost biting the electric cord to pulling on a bookcase. I bet she thinks her name is “NoNoNo” because I say that a lot more than I say “Libby.”
I drag her new saucer upstairs. The least she can do is sit in it while I fix my hair. Or so you would think. She bellows as soon as I slide her into its colorful seat.
“WaaAAHHH!”
“¿Cómo te llamas? ¿Cómo te llamas?”
“Look, Libby, look!” My dogs-and-babies voice.
Dad calls up, “Hailee, can you please do as Mom asked? I’m trying to concentrate.”
Libby squirms in the saucer, and when I try to reposition her, I find a brand-new doll under her butt. She stops crying when she sees it, stretches out her arms, but I hold it closer for a better look. I’ve seen this doll in commercials; I wanted this doll when I was younger. Too expensive, I was told.
Libby pulls on the doll’s legs.
I never had stuff like this when I was little. I don’t care if we won the lottery or not—they’re bringing Libby up to be a lady of leisure. Brand-new saucer, store-bought bibs (as in not from garage sales), new clothes, and now Happy Hannah Hearts. I clench Happy Hannah with my fist and she squeaks.
“Aanah!” Libby demands.
It’s so unfair.
I yank Happy Hannah Hearts away from Libby. Happy Hannah Hearts has to go to sleep now. Happy Hannah can’t play. I take the doll to Libby’s room and stick her on top of the changing table, turning my back on her happy little heart.
Libby jumps up and down in the saucer when I come back. “Aanah! Aanah!” she chants.
I bend over and brush my hair, ignoring Libby’s cries.
“Hailee, I need you to pay attention to her.” Mom stands in my doorway.
I’m upside down looking at her through my legs. Mom’s mouth is where her eyes should be and her eyebrows are her lips and tracks of watery gray mascara streak her cheeks.
I flip right side up. Without thinking, my hand rubs my own cheek, which causes Mom to say, “I know—my mascara.” She shakes her head.
“Maamee! Maa-mee!” Drama Queen Libby raises her hands for Mom. Her little face is red and bubbly with tears and snot.
Mom lifts Libby from the saucer and nestles her against her hip. “What’s wrong, little girl? What’s the matter, you? You’re in here with your big sister and your saucer—no crying, okay, no crying.” Libby shudders with a big finishing sniffle. Mom says, “I’ll take her. Bring the saucer for me, will you?”
I scoot the saucer behind Mom. As I pass Libby’s room, Happy Hannah Hearts glares at me.
Chapter 17
Me: Amanda, this is Hailee. I’m texting you from my new phone! LOL!
I press send. “I just texted Amanda!” I yell to Mom and Dad in the front seat. We’re on the way home from the store after church. “I wrote, ‘Amanda, I’m texting you from my new phone! LOL!’”
I have to explain to them that LOL means laughing out loud. Then I text Amanda about how I had to explain LOL to Mom and Dad. I set up contacts for Emily and Nikki. I’ve never called Nikki, but she gave me her phone number that day in the convertible.
“Turn around, Mom!”
Click! I take her picture. I add her to my contacts and Dad, too, because they also got cell phones today. “Take my picture, Mom.”
She stabs the screen with her fingernail.
“Not like that!” I roar. OMG!
My phone tweedles. “Amanda’s texting me!” I read it out loud. All my teachers say I project my voice well.
Amanda: Wow, what kind of phone did you get?
I peck out my answer. “I’m going to tell her you guys got phones, too. And that I got a laptop. Hey, it’s fixing my typos!” Send.
“Libby!” Click. Trees passing by. Click. Click.
Now my phone makes a different sound. I slide my finger across to answer. “Hello?”
Amanda’s voice blasts through the ear dots. “Oh, my gosh! I can’t believe you got a phone!”
“And a laptop!”
“You’re so lucky!”
“I know!”
Mom turns around. “Hailee, you’re yelling.”
I nod. Then to Amanda, “Say hi to Libby.” I put the phone up to Libby’s ear and hear Amanda’s voice. Libby tries to grab the phone. I pull it to myself. “Me again!”
“Yelling,” Mom says.
“I’ll call you back later,” I say. “No! I’ll text you!”
Me: I love my new phone. Do you have anyone’s number I could put into my contacts?
Send.
I text Emily. Hi, Emily, it’s Hailee and this is my new phone! Just got it! LOL! I read the message, then backspace over LOL, because why would I be laughing out loud about getting a cell phone? My thumbs hover over the illuminated keyboard. I press a colon, then a parenthesis. Now my message reads, Emily, it’s Hailee and this is my new phone! Just got it!:)
I start to send the same text to Nikki, but then I change stuff because Nikki is different from Amanda and Emily, so the text I now send looks like this: Nikki, it’s Hailee. New phone. Just got it.
Amanda buzzes in with a text. She’s sent me Tanner Law’s number. Huh. She never told me she had his number. Emily sends a
text that, when I open it, fills the screen with exclamation points. A Christmas-morning feeling washes over me.
I poke my head up to the front seat and hold my cell phone in front of me. “Which ringtone do you like better?” I ask Mom and Dad. The first one sounds like a dull flat line. The second is a silver jagged buzzer. The third one chirps red notes. The fourth one—
“Stop!” Mom laughs. “You’re driving me crazy!”
Dad shifts the rearview mirror. “Plus, I don’t want to work Libby up before her nap.”
Libby.
At home, Dad unpacks my laptop, but it’s useless until the guy comes to hook up the Internet. I don’t mind, though; there is so much to do on my phone. The phone asks me if I want to hook up to a network. I see my neighbor’s last name and click on it. I have wi-fi! I click a picture of my cheery red maple, which, now that the new leaves are opening, should be called my chartreuse maple. I click Dad outside on a ladder against the garage, tying the bougainvillea to the trellis with special florist string he bought. I click myself in the mirror, then hold the phone away and up, and click another picture of myself. Then I review my photos. My nose slopes down into a bump; my eyes crinkle into slits. I delete both pictures.
I finger-comb my hair so it falls across one eye. Instead of a big fat smile like in the other pictures, I keep my lips together as if I’ve got a secret and I’m teasing the other person. Pulling my shoulders back, I hold one arm up, aim, and click.
The playback photo reveals a mysterious girl with dark eyes. It’s me but it’s not me. I love it. Immediately, I text it to Amanda and Emily to use as a contact picture.
By the time I’m called for supper, I’ve taken more than a hundred pictures, played a bunch of free games, and decided on my ringtones. I carry my phone down and lay it on the table beside my knife.
You could sharpen pencils on Mom’s raised eyebrow. I move the phone over to the island and take my place at the table.
“Can I open a Facebook account?”
A Whole Lot of Lucky Page 10
