Kat and Meg Conquer the World

by Anna Priemaza

  “Fine,” she says, sighing. “We can take a one-week break. But then we need to really knuckle down.”

  “Aye aye, Cap’n,” I say, saluting her. In a week I’ll find some other way to distract her from this science project obsession. For now, we’re free. And brilliant.

  My giddiness at our brilliance only lasts a few days, but Mr. Carter reenergizes it all over again when he lets us skip deadline day—the Thursday science class when the rest of our classmates have to hand in their topics and get approval. If I’d known handing things in early could result in being excused from class, I would’ve switched to being a keener nerd a long time ago.

  Although I guess I’m already kind of a keener nerd in history, since I’ve been bringing in books about space travel and how the pyramids were built—some people think aliens!—and other random things to discuss with my teacher. But that stuff is interesting, so it’s different. Stephen-the-Leaver would say it still counts, but he doesn’t count, so it doesn’t matter what he’d say.

  We spend our free period in the library, and Kat must be as happy as I am about the break, because she plays LotS the whole time and doesn’t even mention our science project once. I switch back and forth between playing LotS and shopping for new nerd accessories. Well, window shopping, since Mom’d probably have a fit if I used her credit card to buy glasses when I don’t actually need them. But I bet I’d look baller with glasses. Especially if they had bright-green frames.

  When school ends on Friday, I race down the hallway, still on a high, speedy as a cheetah, or a race car, or a rocket, whichever is fastest, which is probably the rocket because it can fly and the others can’t. Flying cheetahs would be awesome, though.

  I whip around the corner and slam on the brakes.

  “Do you go everywhere at top speed?” It’s the boy I pointed out to Kat in the caf, with the floppy brown hair and the jaw like LumberLegs. The white guy whose eyes I keep meeting across the cafeteria. Boxer Boy. His face is only a foot away from mine. His bushy eyebrows are a shade darker than his shaggy brown hair; I wonder if he dyes it—the hair, not the eyebrows, though I suppose it technically could be either. He reaches out his hand to steady me, but his hand just grazes my arm before falling back to his side. His boxers are blue plaid today.

  “Top speed?” I say. “This is slow for the Flash.” I back up just a little so I’m no longer cross-eyed when I look at him.

  “Are you implying that you’re a superhero?”

  “Have you ever been attacked by a supervillain?”

  He cocks his head as if to consider it. I knew it; he is funny. “No,” he says, “I don’t think I have.”

  “Exactly. You’re welcome.”

  He grins. There’s a small patch of darkness along his chin that must be five-o’clock shadow. And another one on his cheek. If he tried to grow a beard, it would probably come out all scattered, like some parts forgot to grow.

  “I’m Meg, by the way. When I’m Peter Parkering it, I mean.”

  He runs a hand through his floppy hair, still grinning. “Well, hi, Meg, I’m—”

  “No, don’t tell me!” I spit out. Boxer Boy, his name is Boxer Boy. If he tells me his real name, I’ll have to start calling him that instead, which is boring.

  “What? Why?” His grin is gone but his eyes are still warm—brown like chocolate.

  If I explain, he might think I’m weird, and then I’ll lose that warmth, too. I guess I can’t call him Boxer Boy forever. “I—never mind. It’s ridiculous. Go ahead.”

  Boxer Boy raises one of his dark eyebrows, which I hope means I’ve intrigued him, not spooked him.

  “Grayson,” he says. “My name is Grayson.” He glances at the phone in his hand. “Unfortunately, I have to go. I’m late for archery practice.”

  “Archery? Like with bows and arrows and stuff?” I’ve never thought of archery as an actual thing people do—maybe at those festivals with the court jesters and Robin Hoods and stuff, not in real life—but it’s suddenly on my bucket list. I’ve never written out my bucket list (does anyone in the world actually have a written bucket list?), but if I did, it would probably fill a book. Things like skydiving, yodeling, yo-yoing, climbing Mount Everest, riding a hot-air balloon, riding a camel, riding an elephant, riding a dolphin, marrying LumberLegs, of course, and now archery.

  “Yeah,” Grayson says. “I’ve only been doing it for a couple of years, so I’m not that great. There’s this ten-year-old at the range who’s always giving me tips.”

  “How do you keep your pants from falling down?” The question just pops out of me. For one long, frozen moment, the words hover in the air between us like wintry puffs of breath.

  Then, thankfully, he laughs. “Invisible suspenders. Standard issue.” He backs away down the hall, still looking at me. “Catch you around, Flash,” he says.

  “Only if you can catch up with me,” I call after him.

  He grins broadly as he waves and disappears out the side door.

  I’m still floating on his dreamy grin when I arrive home from school to find Kenzie dragging her pink suitcase down the stairs, one thud after another. My own grin falls off my face.

  I grab her suitcase from her hand and march it over to the door. “Don’t you have stuff at your dad’s place? I thought you didn’t have to pack anything.” I try to keep the bitterness out of my voice. It’s not her fault she has an entire life over there, and I’ve never even seen where Stephen-the-Leaver lives now. Not her fault he’s still her dad, but not mine.

  “I have to take my ponies!” Kenzie snaps open her plastic case to reveal a huge, jumbled pile of hair and plastic hooves.

  “Doesn’t your dad have ponies?”

  She snatches one out of the suitcase. “He doesn’t have Rainbow Dash!”

  If that’s reason enough for her to take them all, I’m not arguing with her. “Well, have fun,” I say, with as much enthusiasm as I can muster, which admittedly isn’t much.

  Kenzie looks up at me with wide eyes, like she’s worried my frustration might be her fault.

  I plaster a grin back across my face. “You’re going to have an epic time,” I say. “Now go watch your show until he gets here.”

  She scampers off, abandoning her open suitcase, as if she can’t get away from my terrible acting fast enough.

  I head toward the stairs to disappear into my room, but Mom pops her head out of the kitchen before I reach them. “Meg—” She breaks off and studies me. Her curls puff out of her ponytail like mine. She hasn’t had time to style them today either. She tries again. “Meg, maybe you should go with them tonight.” The corners of her eyes crinkle, like it physically pains her to say it. She’d rather none of us ever saw Stephen-the-Leaver again.

  “I’m not invited,” I say.

  She fiddles with the beads on her necklace. “He said you were welcome to come along anytime.”

  “I don’t need his pity invite,” I almost say, but don’t. He doesn’t want me. That much is clear. “Well, I already have plans tonight,” I say. “Kat’s coming over.”

  “Oh!” Mom says. She should get mad at me for not asking first, maybe, but she just looks relieved.

  I’ve had enough of this conversation. “I’ll be upstairs,” I say, then whirl around and bound up the stairs two at a time.

  In my room, I plop down on my stomach on my bed, pull out my phone, and text Kat.

  Come over tonight.

  While I wait for her response, I pull out my laptop and find Legs’s channel. My phone roars just as I find the new FaceCam Friday video.

  I’m not great with spontaneous.

  Right. She likes plans and schedules. I sigh, then type my response.

  Come after supper then. That gives you a couple of hours.

  I want her to come now. I want something fun and epic and amazing to do now. But later is better than never. I roll over onto my back, not bothering to push my hair away from my head or neck. Some days, it gets so big it could be its own
pillow. You know, if I wanted it to end up totally squashed and lopsided.

  My phone is silent. What the heck is taking her so long? She needs to come over. I need her to come over. I refuse to let tonight be blah.

  I grab my phone and start typing again.

  We can work on our project proposal.

  Okay, so maybe tonight will be a little blah. But at least I won’t be blah and by myself. It’s not long before Kat’s answer arrives.

  OK. I can be there at 7.

  Perfect. Well, mostly perfect. Perfect enough. I text back to confirm, then sit up and grab my laptop.

  Even on the highest volume, Legs’s FaceCam Friday video isn’t loud enough to drown out the sound of Stephen-the-Leaver’s car in the driveway. Or the sound of Kenzie’s giggled greeting and Nolan’s serious one. Or the sound of the front door closing and the car pulling away. Nothing is ever loud enough to drown out the sound of Stephen-the-Leaver leaving.

  KAT

  THIS IS NOT ME. I DON’T GO OVER TO CLASSMATES’ HOUSES ON JUST A COUPLE of hours’ notice. I don’t go over to classmates’ houses, period. Except Meg’s, apparently, because here I am standing on her front step. Again. Ringing her doorbell. Again. But she said we could work on the proposal. Which we really need to get done. How could I say no to that?

  One control factors . . . two spontaneity . . .

  Meg’s mother greets me at the door instead of the miniature butler, who is nowhere to be seen. “Meg’s upstairs. You remember where her room is?” she asks as she hangs up my coat. I nod.

  I ascend the long staircase, trudge down the long hall.

  Seven schedules . . . eight hermit . . .

  Meg’s room is empty—maybe she’s in the bathroom?—so I wander over to the terrarium. The turtle is motionless again but sitting on a different rock this time.

  “Hi, Snappy,” I say.

  “It’s Mr. Sparkles, actually.” The voice comes from behind me. I whirl around. Meg’s disembodied head sticks in through her window.

  A tiny part of me tenses to scream, but the rest of me must be acclimatizing to Meg’s . . . uniqueness, because all I say is, “I thought it was Snappy.”

  “Well, yeah, it was Snappy. But now it’s Mr. Sparkles.” The rest of her body, I have figured out, is on the small bit of roof just under her window.

  “You changed his name?”

  “What’s wrong with that? He’s a turtle. It’s not like he knows what his name is. Now come on out. Weather’s nice. The interweb says it’s supposed to snow this weekend, but screw that.” It’s only September 29. In Ottawa, the leaves are probably still rich oranges and reds, the monochrome of winter still weeks if not months away.

  Meg ducks her head back outside. I inch over to the window, keeping my own head inside the house as I glance past the roof to the ground. A hard cement sidewalk winds its way across the lawn, much too far below Meg’s striped-socked feet.

  If I fell the right way, feetfirst, I’d probably only break a limb. But if I was caught off guard—and, let’s face it, if I’m falling, I was probably caught off guard—I could fall headfirst and crack my head open on the sidewalk, tendrils of brain scattered about like the seeds from the cantaloupes Meg wanted to spatter across the walk.

  Meg peeks back around the window frame. “Hurry up and—” She breaks off and stares at me. “Are you scared?”

  Scared? No, I just get completely uncontrollable panic attacks. Which I’m not admitting to Meg the Fearless. Well, fearless except when it comes to LotS. “No, of course not.” My hands tremble involuntarily, stupid things. I hide them behind my back. One spaghetti . . . two submarine . . . three scrambled eggs . . . four scrambled brains . . .

  Meg clambers back through the window and pushes past me. “Hang on. I’ll be right back.” She disappears into the hall, and when she bursts back into the room a minute or two later, she’s carrying two long cloth jump ropes, the double-dutch kind, which she ties together. “Thread this through your belt loops,” she commands, handing one end to me.

  “Through my—what? Why?”

  “Here, just—” She grabs my waist and starts to shove the end of the rope through one of the loops of my jeans.

  “I’ve got it. I’ve got it!” I say, swatting her hand away. “No need to molest me.” When I’ve threaded it through the last of the loops, she grabs it again and twists the ends together into some weird knot. I give it a tug, expecting it to unravel at the slightest hint of tension, but instead it tightens. “How’d you learn to do that?”

  “What? Oh, the knot? From a book. I used to—” She breaks off and her face sags, as if her mind has disappeared to some dark corner that requires all her concentration and she has none left to control the muscles in her face. Then they tighten into a smile. “I’ve got lots of weird books on all sorts of topics. Ventriloquism, sign language, astronomy—or is it astrology? I forget which is which.”

  “Ventriloquism? Really?”

  “Well, I didn’t get far with that one. Lizard balls, that crap is hard! I made it to about page five before giving up.”

  “You learned to sign, though? That’s cool.”

  “Well, like two words. Sea turtle and dog.”

  “I guess I should feel real confident about this knot then,” I say, tugging it again. She has tied the other end of the rope to the bottom post of her heavy wood bed.

  “It’s fine. See?” She gives the rope a good yank. The rope goes taut. The knot holds firm. The bed barely even trembles.

  “Come on,” she says, only a little bossily. She clambers out the window, then reaches back in and grabs my sweaty hand. She waits for a minute while I breathe—one iguana . . . two name-changing turtle—then steadies me as I crouch and inch slowly over the smooth white sill and onto the coarse black surface. She doesn’t let go until I am seated firmly on the roof, legs stretched out ahead of me.

  The tree above our heads is bare, but it still whispers as the last warm winds of autumn weave through it. I have to admit: as long as I don’t look at the ground, it’s actually pretty nice up here.

  Meg hands me a plum. For some reason, she has a whole bowl of them sitting up here on the roof. I bite into it and have to hurriedly cup my other hand under it to keep the sugary juices from dripping onto my jeans.

  “This is really good,” I mumble, mouth full of plum.

  “Just don’t eat too many. They’ll give you the runs.”

  I laugh—one spastic puff of air—and almost choke. “Shut up.”

  “It’s true. I know from experience.”

  “TMI, Meg,” I think about saying, but don’t because I can’t decide if it would come across as übercool or übernerdy.

  “Where are your siblings today? Nolan didn’t take my coat.”

  “Half siblings. It’s their weekend with their dad.” She bites savagely into a plum, juice spurting everywhere. A slow trickle of it drips onto her pant leg, painting a small, dark circle.

  “Right.” I have no idea what to do. Ask more questions? Stop prying and shut up? Offer her a Kleenex? I don’t even have a Kleenex.

  Thankfully, Meg is not the kind of person who needs questions in order to provide answers. “Stephen-the-Leaver.” She bites the pit out of her plum and spits it toward the ground. It bounces once off the roof, then plummets below. “He lived with us for seven years. I called him Dad and everything. Those books I mentioned—ventriloquism, sign language, oh, and this one about how to make your own lightsaber—they were all from him. Instead of making me read the boring books they assigned at school, he’d take me to the bookstore and let me pick out any book on any topic I wanted. I can read for hours if it’s something I actually care about, which I hadn’t realized before. Of course, then he got tired of us and left.”

  “I’m sure he didn’t get tired of you.”

  “He applied for custody of the halflings, but not of me. ’Cause I’m not his real daughter.” Her grip tightens on the plum, and more juice drips onto her pants, though sh
e doesn’t seem to notice.

  “Oh,” I say.

  Meg ignores my profound contribution and rambles on. “It’s ironic because people used to always think I was his real daughter, since we look so alike, and he never ever corrected them. But I guess he was always correcting them in his head.” She wipes her hands on her pants. “The one upside is that Mom feels sorry for me. On weekends when he has the halflings, I can get Mom to agree to pretty much anything. Watch.” She sticks her head back through the window. “Mom! Hey, Mom!” she yells. The window’s wide enough for me to join her, so I do—though not in the yelling.

  After a moment, there’s an echoing thumping on the stairs, and then the door opens and Meg’s mother pokes her head inside. “Meg, dear, you don’t have to yell,” she says, showing no surprise at our bodiless twin heads.

  “Sorry, Mom, I just—can Kat stay over?”

  My heart races, and I sit up, pulling out of the window. Stay over? I didn’t bring my toothbrush, or my earplugs, or my face mask. Where would I sleep? What if I can’t sleep? What if Meg snores? What if I snore? One toothbrush . . . two conditioner . . . three sleeping bag . . .

  “Of course,” Meg’s mom says, her voice loud enough to reach out here on the roof. “If Kat’s parents say it’s okay. Anything else?”

  “Brownies!” Meg declares.

  Her mom must nod her agreement, because when Meg reclaims her head, she’s grinning. “See?” she says.

  Eleven vampires . . . twelve darkness . . . thirteen insomnia . . .

  Meg jumps to her feet, right there on the roof. She stretches fearlessly, then crouches down and heads back toward the window.

  “Come on,” she says. “I want to play more LotS. Lots of LotS. We can both play. Mom’ll let you use her computer and I’ll use my laptop.”

  We’re supposed to work on our project proposal. That’s the whole reason I came over. But at just the thought of LotS, my breathing slows a little. Sixteen archery . . . seventeen computer . . . In LotS, I feel at home. In LotS, I’m in control.

  “Can I go on your server?” Meg continues. “I want to see your underwater thing.”