Chapter Eight
“So are you now agreeing to take your sister to the movie and let her sit with you?” Mom asked, scooting her chair back. She jogged into the kitchen, returned with a roll of paper towels, and handed them to Audrey.
“I told you I have plans. Plans that don’t include Claire and Heather,” Audrey answered in that pitch right before the full-on whine as she made a really poor attempt at blotting up the spilled milk with two squares.
“That doesn’t explain why having Claire sit with you is a problem.”
“Why? Why you ask?” She growled, literally. “Because she’s just starting middle school. I’m a junior. It’s not fair.”
Amy floated into the dining room and perched herself on the buffet table in between Grandma’s tarnished silver service and the antique clock that didn’t run anymore. The salt in my pocket wasn’t keeping her away at all. Either it had to be out of the shaker or the information in the book I checked out was bogus.
From the complacent smile on the haint’s face, I could tell she was enjoying episode 3,814 of Life Is So Unfair to Audrey. And if she found the dinner drama interesting, I suspected she’d probably like to go to the movies. Movies were fun, more fun than the library for sure. If Amy got over her blue funk, she’d elaborate on how I could get her to leave. I wouldn’t have to resort to salt and reading the rest of the book I’d checked out. I just had to get Dad to agree.
Audrey’s whine shifted into high gear. “You give Claire and Heather whatever they want, whenever they want. Might I remind you that Heather wore my shirt to Michael’s without asking?”
Okay, I could see Audrey’s point; me getting to go to the movies wasn’t fair. However, I hadn’t ratted on her for not going to the library to start her own summer reading today—not that I was getting any credit for it. “I don’t know why you’re still upset about the shirt. I bought you a new one. And it’s not like you don’t always get what you want, either.”
Not a good move on my part.
Audrey bobbed her head like we were on some episode of a crummy reality TV show. “If I get everything I want, then where’s my Mustang?”
“I don’t know,” I said, leaning toward her across the table, really tempted to spit in her snide overly made-up face. Summer goal be damned. “Maybe it’s in all that furniture from Ikea Mom and Dad bought for you. You know, the stuff you whined about until they spent a wad on the entire shelving system, bed and dresser, not to mention the new comforter set from PB Teen. If there’s anyone who gets screwed on a regular basis in this family, it’s not you.”
“Oh, and who is? You?” she screamed.
With her ghostly hands poised to choke my snotty sister or perhaps to pour what was left of the chocolate milk over her, Amy advanced on Audrey.
Oh, my God. I’d seen that look on Amy’s face before . . . in the past, when I was little. I remembered.
There was this one particularly hot summer day, when Audrey, her friend Lisa, who looked like Strawberry Shortcake, and I were swinging in the backyard. Audrey and Lisa jumped off and ran away from me, saying I had to be five to play with them and not weird. They both stopped mid-yard and pretended to scratch themselves. They called me “Princess and the Pea.” Yes, I can thank my sister for that fantabulous nickname.
That’s when Amy first appeared. “I’ll play with you,” she’d said. And after all these years, here she was ready to defend me when Audrey was still being poopy. Guilt ate at me. Had I really been trying hard enough to help her?
I made eye contact with Amy and shook my head. Pissing Audrey off even further wouldn’t help anyone, least of all me.
Grandma, a big believer in that study about red wine making you healthier, took a sip of her Merlot. “Heather went to the library today like you asked, Catherine. And she helped with the craft camp yesterday.”
“Helped?” Mom repeated, nabbing an extra large slice of the garlic bread. My mother is a bread fiend. Don’t ever put a basket of rolls next to her, seriously.
“The girl can’t help being a bit of a klutz,” Grandma offered.
The corners of Dad’s eyes crinkled as he smiled. Smiling was good. “She must get her grace from the MacCormack’s.”
Thanks, Dad, for yet another reminder that I acted like Aunt Geneva.
“I guess one movie wouldn’t hurt,” Mom said, her reservations melting like the butter on her garlic bread. “What do you think, John?”
Dad adjusted the glasses on the bridge of his nose, then met my gaze. “Heather did spend a few hours improving her mind today.”
“Does this mean you’re letting me go?” I asked because, knowing my dad, it could go either way depending on his mood, how well he liked dinner, and the phase of the moon.
“I can’t believe you people!” Audrey said, dropping her fork on her plate.
“If we’re going, we have to leave in fifteen minutes,” Claire said, adding to the suspense of the moment as we all awaited Dad’s final edict.
“Does this mean Claire’s doing the dishes tomorrow?” Audrey yelled.
“Do you want to go, Heather?” Dad asked.
A harder question to answer than you’d think. On the one hand, saying no would score points with Audrey. She wouldn’t have to take me to the movies and I’d have an extra dish day. On the other hand, a movie might make my ghost happy.
“Well, yeah.” Of course, I wasn’t sure Amy would behave. She’d been good at Old Navy, bad at Michael’s and the library. But she liked TV and, apparently, family drama, so that improved the odds in my favor, right?
“May I be excused?” Audrey asked, tone definitely snarky.
“Certainly.” Dad gestured for her to pick up her plate.
She scooted out of her chair, took her plate into the kitchen, where she slammed it on the countertop, rattling the glassware in the cabinet above. She stomped up the back stairs and down the hall to her room, most likely to touch up her make-up, and slammed the door behind her.
I hoped taking Amy to the movies was worth the setback with Audrey.
“I’m ready when you are,” I said, then smiled at my nice sister.
Claire looked at me, in a mode similar to Audrey. “You’re not going to wear that, are you?”
I trained my eyes downward and caught the red splotch on my shirt, highlighting my barely existent cleavage. I pushed away from the table without asking to be excused.
While my mother and grandmother debated the merits of stain removers they’d used over the years, Amy followed me out of the dining room, her demeanor pretty subdued. The flu thing must still be bothering her. Otherwise, she’d be asking me fifty million questions like what is a stain stick and what does it do, blah, blah, blah.
I grabbed my backpack on my way up the carpeted stairs with my faithful ghost. Wondering what clean clothes I had, I passed a fuming and freshly shellacked Audrey on the stairs.
“Hurry,” she said.
“Don’t I always?”
I ignored Claire’s faint yet perceptible “no” wafting up from the foyer and sped down to my room. Audrey was probably texting her friends about the indignity of having her sisters go to the movies at the same time she was. I don’t why she was so upset, it wasn’t like we’d be in the same theater. It wasn’t like I could embarrass her sitting in a theater.
Once in the quiet chaos of my room, I slung my backpack with heavy book inside onto my bed, then carefully extricated my sunburned self from my spaghetti-stained tee. I tossed it onto the growing dirty clothes pile by my desk and checked my baggy shorts for spots.
“You want to come to the movies?” I asked Amy. I loosened my bra straps to ease the rub against the new skin emerging, and glanced in the mirror. No question about it, peeling shoulders were just plain ugly. At least my face was turning brown.
Amy, who hovered next to the window, didn’t answer. Something outside in the terraced vines had her complete attention. Probably Roquefort spazzing out.
“It’ll be fun,” I
said.
For experimental purposes only, I took the opportunity to sprinkle salt on the floor and in my pockets, then entered the closet and contemplated the sparsely filled shelves and overflowing hamper, noting that one of my softest, most favorite tees—the one with metallic pink flowers painted on chocolate brown cotton—was wadded up next to the shoe rack. I retrieved it from the floor. Wrinkled but spotless. Then I sniffed it and nearly fell over from that sour dirty clothes smell that had infiltrated the cotton and consequently my nasal cavities.
“You know,” I said to Amy, “the movies are just like TV—only bigger.”
She walked through the wall into the closet even though the door was open. “How big?”
As I suspected, the salt was . . . salt. It contained no protective powers.
“The movie screen is bigger than the garage,” I said. “I bet you’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Will the movie be like Arthur?”
“Not exactly. It’s longer. There won’t be any cartoon animation. And there will probably be kissing.” Maybe even in the audience. One time, I went to the movies, and midway through the flick I could actually hear the couple behind me slurping on each other. I was so disgusted I had to move. And the people had the nerve to complain about me blocking their view when I got up to find a new seat.
Amy squinched her nose. “Boys kissing on girls?”
“Yup. But you can cover your eyes if it bothers you.”
Amy left the closet, and I glanced up at the stack of long-sleeved sweaters and fleece. I settled on my super soft, extra-large UGA hooded sweatshirt. I could easily go no bra in that. Off it went.
As I slid the sweatshirt over my head, I heard the distinctive bing of a text message coming in on my phone. I pushed up my sleeves and headed to my desk. After moving some papers and books, I found it, then read the text. Tina. I looked at the time on the bottom right of my screen. This would be short.
Hey, what’s up? Tina wrote.
Not much. Typical boring summer, I typed back. With the exception of my ghost. She was over by the window again, staring out the panes at Dad’s vineyard, like I had after our first dog died. That dog was a fluffy, white West Highland Terrier named Katie Bellafester. Even though I knew Katie was gone, I’d still find myself at the window looking for her in the backyard. I couldn’t shake the feeling Amy was watching for something that was lost, too. Or maybe it was someone.
I looked down at the small screen and picked up the words boy and Jet Ski. Tina was one of those lucky girls who attracted cute males no matter where she went. I’d say it wasn’t fair, but I don’t want to sound like Audrey. That’s great, I typed back.
Audrey yelled, “Heather, it’s time to go! If you don’t come down right now, I’m leaving you!”
I typed, Hate to cut this short, but I have to go. TTFN.
“Amy, are you coming?” I asked as I got out of my chair and ran over to the dresser to search for something in the jumble that would keep my hair off my neck.
She shrugged and continued to stare out the window.
“It’s now or never,” I said, bending over to coax my hair into a big banana clip.
Amy turned to face me, and her deep sadness permeated the room and me.
As much as I hated having to live life with the weird label, I realized I’d already lived four years longer than Amy. I’d probably experienced four times as much.
“Come on. It’ll be fun,” I said, forcing a light tone to my words as I slipped my feet into some worn but comfortable athletic shoes. I wasn’t sure if I was doing it for me or for her, but I had to shake Amy from her mournful mood.
Before Mom allowed the three of us to leave the garage, she gave us the standard speech about talking to strangers and being at the appointed spot after the movie on time so Audrey wouldn’t worry. There may have been more, but I zoned out thinking about how, if Mom could, she’d tag and track us like wildebeests on the African savannah.
Audrey’s angry silence weighed down the air in the van as she drove off, then dropped us at the curb in front of the centroplex ticket booth all without saying a word.
Only a couple of people were ahead of us at the window, so we didn’t have to wait long to purchase our tickets.
“Two for The Believer,” Claire said, then squealed as she pushed two twenties into the till.
With a snort of derision, the guy with long sideburns manning the booth pressed the appropriate buttons. Amy watched in fascination as our tickets spit out of the stainless slot. The attendant gave us the tickets and our change, which might stretch to cover a large bucket of overpriced popcorn.
Somehow, I thought Amy was right behind me, but when we showed our tickets to the perky girl at the entrance, my ghost wasn’t visible. I glanced back at the booth. Small slips of tickets spewed up inside the glass, turning it into a life-sized snow globe. Amy had to be feeling better.
Grinning from her latest whammy, she floated inside the theater, and found me perusing the long line for snackage with great displeasure. Sure, the popcorn smelled great, as did that sweet sugary scent of candy, but I really didn’t think any of it was worth the time we’d spend waiting to get waited upon.
I turned to Claire. “Please tell me you don’t want anything.”
Claire pouted. “It won’t take that long. I can’t go to the movies without popcorn. Besides I’m hungry.”
“Fine,” I said, determined not to boss her around even though she’d had the opportunity to eat dinner a half an hour ago and she was wasting her money.
The manager came over to help and served customers at about forty times the speed of the girl with humongous hoop earrings. It was like he’d gotten some of that liquid high-speed from the cable commercials. He was one big black and white blur as he filled two drinks at one time, scooped popcorn, grabbed boxes of candy, and made change.
Just watching him made me dizzy, so I had to redirect my focus. That’s when I noticed the tall guy with a buzz cut in the front of the line. I knew from the way he held his broad shoulders it was Drew. I’d gotten a really good look at him from behind at Michael’s; it was forever etched in my brain. My hands grew sweaty; I wiped them on my baggy shorts.
He leaned down to say something to a slender girl with gorgeous auburn hair who was smiling up at him, his date. I now had confirmation that Drew Blanton liked redheads, but I could never be one, thanks to Aunt Geneva. Acting like her was bad enough; I didn’t want to look like her, too.
With a cardboard holder, popcorn for two, a big drink, and a box of Hot Tamales firmly between his hands, he turned around. I like cinnamon, too, I wanted to say. Somehow, I assumed the Hot Tamales were his. Candy probably never passed the girlfriend’s lips.
Faint freckles dusted the tops of the girlfriend’s cheekbones and the bridge of her nose. She had that creamy white skin with pores so small you can’t even see them. Her pretty green eyes and pert nose made me want to kill her.
I’d been “blessed” with the MacCormack nose, which Claire tried to make me feel better about by saying my face would look weird with a small one. Claire meant well.
I should have worn my good jeans, the ones that make my butt look nice, but the back of my legs were still burnt and I’d stupidly chosen comfort over style. With my baggy shorts and big collegiate sweatshirt, I could easily make an episode of What Not to Wear. I hadn’t washed my hair either. Thank God, I’d put on some lip balm on the way over, so at least my mouth wasn’t all peely.
All I wanted was for Drew to walk on by.
Please. Please.
“Hey, there’s Drew!” Claire pointed.
By the time my tongue formed the “n” in no, Amy’d noticed, too. She jostled his arm. He juggled his snacks and popcorn right next to me, then looked to see who’d hit his elbow, unaware of the ghostly hand reaching into his tub, grabbing popcorn, and showering me with the kernels, which in a matter of seconds landed on my head, shoulders, and feet.
I stared down at th
e popcorn covering the laces of my Nikes. Maybe he wouldn’t recognize me if I kept my gaze fixed on the floor.
“Sorry,” he said as Claire brushed the kernels from my shoulders and picked it out of my hair. I wouldn’t look up. I just kept staring at the popcorn at my feet.
“No problem,” I replied, not wanting him to feel bad for something my ghost had done and realizing too late that my raspy voice would give me away.
His tanned toes lined up perfectly in his pool slides. They hadn’t moved. Not good. Not good at all.
“Heather, right?”
I had no choice now but to look into his gorgeous face. “Hi.”
“Sorry. I don’t know what happened. I think someone pushed me from behind.”
“It’s okay; it’s not like I thought you’d done it on purpose.” I looked around for Amy. She was right above us, reclining on the giant, blow-up Juju Fruit display hanging from the ceiling.
Drew nodded to his girlfriend. “This is Rachel.”
She smiled so sweetly, so fake. “Hi. Love your hair.”
And people thought I was delusional.
I shrugged. “Well, thanks. Lesson one for this up-do—forget about washing your hair.”
She laughed like she was sitting in the audience of some cheesy sitcom. “You’re right, Drew. This kid is funny.”
Kid? All right, now that little jab was below the belt.
“I’m glad I finally get to meet you. Drew told me all about the pool and Michael’s.”
“He went to Mom’s class?” Claire asked, hazel eyes wide with shock.
“No, he saw me after, when he came to pick up Morgan, his little sister.” And, thanks to Audrey, he knew I thought he was hot. Correction: he knew that Claire and I thought he was hot.
“Glad to see you got the dye off your face,” he said with a teasing sort of twinkle in his eyes.
“Yeah, well, you scrub something a million times, and oddly enough it comes off.”
Haint Misbehavin' Page 10
