by Jen Malone
“Look!” Sadie says.
I stand up with my friends and peer over Becca’s shoulder. A tiny little sea turtle comes wobbling and sliding down the smooth path of sand toward the water. It is possibly the cutest thing ever. Once it gets to the tide line, it’s bumped by the waves a few times before it disappears.
Sea turtles have it easy. Well, if you can get past the whole mother-turtle-laying-the-eggs-in-the-right-spot and not-dying-in-the-egg and then-finding-the-ocean parts. But at least they only have one goal: survive.
I wonder if I was better off when I had one goal. Maybe I have too many now, and that’s what’s wrong. The logical thing to do would be to pick the most important goal—excellent grades—and forget the rest.
But I don’t think I can do that anymore. I’m not the same Lauren I was in June. I love RSVP and spending lots of time with my friends, and even just doing stuff that doesn’t really have a point, like playing video games with Zach.
More baby turtles bump and slide down the sand. Becca practically squeals at each one she sees, Vi has a perma-smile glued to her face, and Sadie keeps trying to take pictures with no flash. There’s no way I could miss something like this.
I just have to study better, that’s all. Maybe even find more time for it. Time that doesn’t take away from my friends or RSVP or anything else I love.
A FRIENDLY REMINDER!
Rebecca Elldridge’s smile has a dental
appointment on October 14 at 3:15 p.m.
Terrific Teeth
Dr. Michael Bernstein
1215 Rosalinde Street
Sandpiper Beach, NC 28461
If unable to keep your appointment, please give 24 hours’ notice.
Becca
Daily Love Horoscope for Scorpio:
Sometimes it’s only when you’ve given up on your fate that your fate finds you.
Said No One Ever
lyrics by Becca Elldridge
That tarantula is the cutest
Said no one ever
This haggis tastes amazing
Said no one ever
I have too much money
Said no one ever
I love you
Said me never . . .
No. No, no, no. Nope. No.
I will not write a love song. I will not be the least, teensy-tiniest, microscopically bit inspired by the cute French boy who is currently invading approximately 94.2 percent of my brain space. Get out of my frontal lobe, Philippe! Shoo!
I toss my pen off the bed, where it hits a pile of dirty laundry and falls between a crumpled pair of skinny jeans and my yellow-and-gray-striped hoodie. I don’t care who says redheads shouldn’t wear yellow—I love that thing. Hey, I wonder if Philippe likes girls in yellow . . .
AHHHHHH. STOP IT, BRAIN!!!
“Rebecca! T-minus one minute until the bus! You’re not missing it again today, young lady!” Daddy’s yell has that My coffee hasn’t kicked in yet and I’m not in the mood this morning tone to it, so I swing my legs onto the floor and hop between patches of visible carpet to my dressing table. I pick out my sparkliest silver clip to match my twinkling ballet flats and hook my backpack over my shoulder. At the door I pause, then double back for the yellow hoodie. (Of course I hold it up first to make sure it passes the wrinkle/smell test. Because eww.)
What? So I’m curious what the French think of yellow. Sue me.
As soon as Daddy drops me at school (um, yes, I missed the bus; I might possibly have been so focused on my hoodie that I forgot I hadn’t printed out my English paper yet—whoops, sorry, Daddy), I hunt down Vi in the hallway.
“Did you get it?” I ask, leaning my hip into her locker door and accidentally slamming it shut. Vi gives me an exasperated look as she starts spinning her combo lock.
“Um, get what? Hey,” she says, “before I forget, can you show me that thing with the eyelash curler again? I promise not to scream this time. Or I promise to try really hard not to scream.”
Okay, so there was this day last winter when Vi discovered a nest of spiders under the front steps of the trailer she lived in before moving to her meemaw’s. A whole entire nest of eight-legged creepy-crawlies. Did she screech? Call the police? Move to the other side of the state? Nope. She did not. She scooped the whole nest full of gazillions and zillions of creepy-crawly BABY SPIDERS up in a newspaper and rode it to school on her bike handles so she could show it to our science teacher, Mrs. Fenimore. Now, I ask, how on earth could someone who has no issue with seventeen thousand twitching spider legs be freaked out by one small, innocent metal eyelash curler?
However.
Tomboy Vi caring about curled eyelashes is majorly exciting. She’s like a tiny doe and I’m holding out my palm full of yummy deer food. (I have no actual idea what baby deer eat, so we’re gonna go with generic deer food here.) But I know I have to stand extra perfectly still so I don’t scare her away.
“Suuuuuuuure, Vi,” I drawl gently. “Anytime you want. Maybe before your soccer game this Friday?”
“Before my . . . ? Why would I curl my lashes to play soccer, exactly?”
“Maybe since you’re on the team with all those cute boys? And, well, since Lance is starting forward?” I hold my breath, since bringing up Lance around Vi these days is kind of a no-no. Her eyes burn lasers into the floor, so I change the subject super fast. “You never answered me before. Did you get it?”
Vi blinks and looks up. “Repeat: get what?” she asks.
“The invitation to my sleepover. I hand-delivered it to your meemaw’s yesterday and left it on the back deck right outside the family-room door.”
Vi’s head tilts to the side. “Was that the purple satiny thing? What was that? I thought it had blown in off the beach.”
I will not pout, I will not pout, I will not pout, I . . . “Off the beach?? It’s a sleep mask. What would a sleep mask be doing on the beach?” I whine. Under my breath I mumble, “And it was lilac, not purple.”
“Oh. Um, okay. I’m really sorry, Becs.”
Vi does look sorry. Her eyes are all droopy. Hmm. Maybe I should catch a ride home with one of the high school kids at lunch so I can grab that eyelash curler sooner versus later. Happy eyelashes help droopy eyes sooo much!
I smile at Vi to show I’m over it. “Well, I hope you brought it inside, because I wrote the details for my sleepover birthday party in marker on the back. Get it? Sleep mask for a sleepover? Not that I’m ever, ever, ever gonna allow anyone to actually go to sleep, no matter how much Daddy begs us, but . . .”
Vi shakes her head. “Becs, we’ve been talking about your sleepover for weeks now. Even Lauren rescheduled her dance-alone-in-her-room time to fit in your party. We don’t exactly need written invitations.”
“We’re party planners by profession now. We have a reputation to uphold. We can’t skimp on our very own parties just because we’re in the biz, as they say.”
“They? Who’s ‘they’?” Vi tugs on the zipper of my hoodie as she grins at me.
I’m trying extra hard to think of a witty answer when someone shouts, “Oh, gross, Hunter!”
Hunter Crestling rushes past, clutching his stomach. About three steps past us he bends in half and pukes all over the tiled hallway floor. “Oh, gross” is right. It smells worse than the fish cannery on a July day. I’m so glad I’m not a sympathetic puker, because the smell alone is enough to make someone—
Fingers curl into my forearm.
I turn and peer into Vi’s face. Uh-oh.
She’s looking so green, no mere eyelash curler could save her looks right now. I forgot: Vi is totally a sympathetic puker, and by the way her lips are clenched, I’m guessing her stomach is rolling worse than the waves at the beach.
“Let’s get you out of here,” I order, grabbing her backpack from the floor and turning her away from Hunter.
She nods weakly and allows me to pull her down the hall, but she stiffens and stops when we hear a singsong “Oh, Mr. Allllllber-haaaaaasky! Your assi
stance is required in the seventh-grade corridor.”
Linney Marks.
Vi’s face was bad before; it’s now a weird combination of green and blushing red that’s making her skin look like an art project gone bad. When I try to tug her arm again, she resists.
“Can’t. Leave. Now.” She forces out the words between deep breaths of air through her mouth. Poor Vi. She’s positively miserable. But I get what she’s doing. She doesn’t want to leave her dad alone in Linney’s clutches. Even if it means he might be stuck cleaning up Vi’s puke after he’s done with Hunter’s.
Half the seventh grade has gathered around the circle of vomit on the floor. The girls are squealing in disgust and the boys are pretending to push each other into it. It’s only a matter of seconds before someone is going slip-sliding on Hunter’s stomach juices.
Super-duper gross.
I hear Mr. Husky (Vi’s dad and I are on a strict nickname basis) coming: his voice booms through the hallway. “Step aside, please.” He rolls a mop and bucket up to the scene of the crime, but goes right past it and over to Hunter, who’s still hunched against the wall. He puts his hand on Hunter’s shoulder and whispers to him. Hunter nods and turns in the direction of the nurse’s office. Mr. Husky grabs a bag from beside his bucket and sprinkles something on top of the vomit that smells suspiciously like kitty litter. Combined with the lingering puke smell, it means I might as well go home for the eyelash curler at lunch because it’s not like I’ll be eating anytime soon!
Once Vi’s dad gets to work, most of the kids lose interest and start returning to their lockers. Not Linney, though.
Vi starts edging closer to her father as Linney’s voice carries the whole length of the hallway.
“Wow, Mr. Alberhasky, it’s like you’ve been doing this forever! Was Violet a sickly baby?”
And then . . .
“You know, Mr. Alberhasky, I was just thinking. My mom bought extra car fresheners last year when the sixth grade did that candle-company fund raiser. I’m just guessing that between all the stinky stuff your job entails plus Violet’s soccer sweat, your car can’t smell so great on your drive home in the afternoons. I’m sure my mom would be happy to donate some to you. I’ll ask her tonight.”
I curl my fingers into fists in my palm. Then I uncurl them just in case I have to hold Vi back. Mr. Husky gives Linney nothing more than a polite smile and gets back to the important business of kitty-littering boy puke off the floor.
Vi bites her lip. I know for a fact that her uncurled eyelashes did not have mascara on them before, but they kind of look like they do now from the way the tiny tears she’s blinking back are making them glisten. I’m thisclose to finding something truly backstabby to say to Linney when I hear, “Linney, you should go by zee cafeteria on your way to class. Someone has put a cartoon bubble of you talking on zee pelican pirate, er, comment dit-on, er, ‘logo’?”
“Mascot,” Mr. Husky states, not taking his eyes off his cleanup.
Philippe nods. “Ah, oui. Same as French, zen. We say mascotte.”
Mr. Husky understands French? More importantly, Linney speaks Pirate Pelican? Her mouth opens and closes like the king mackerel I didn’t fish for on Founder’s Day, and her mini heels click-clack on the tiles as she races in the direction of the cafeteria.
“Is that true?” I ask Philippe.
He shrugs. “Not unless someone added eet in zee last five minutes since I was there. But eet got her to leave, n’est-ce pas?”
Oh. My. God.
Philippe is adorable-looking, AND has an accent, AND is nice. Not just nice. Heroic. My hero.
Well, not mine, since technically it was Vi he helped out there, but . . . ahhhhhhhhh. Dumb boys. Why do they have to be so sweet? And cute? And accented?
I will not like Philippe. I will not like Philippe. I WILL NOT like Philippe.
He smiles and winks at me, then salutes Vi as he brushes past us. Then he looks over his shoulder and catches my eye before saying, “By zee way, nice yellow jacket.”
Drat. I think I like Philippe.
• • •
Okay, so I do like Philippe.
No big whoop. I mean, it’s not like that means he likes me back or that anything has to happen from here. I can just admire him from afar and go about my merry way. Yup. Yuppers. That’s totally my plan.
Because I have sworn off guys in a grand effort to “get to know myself.” It’s only when we know ourselves inside and out that the truest song lyrics can flow. I’m pretty sure that’s rule number three in the Taylor Swift handbook.
I’m repeating this mantra over and over in my head when my mama rolls up in her (bo-ring) sedan to pick me up early from school. Don’t get me wrong, I looooooove early dismissals, but leaving school for a dentist appointment hardly counts. It’s like trading bad for worse. Well, maybe not worse, because I’m a flosser, plus I believe in all the other principles of good oral hygiene, since white teeth are a girl’s built-in beauty asset, which means dentist visits are pretty painless. But it’s nothing like leaving early for a shopping trip or to head out of town. Terrific Teeth is just over the bridge from school, back on the island. No luggage required.
When we get there I settle back in the reclining chair and open wide so Jill, my hygienist, can do her thing with the tooth-scrapey doowat.
“Everything looks great, Becca,” she says. “Keep up the flossing. I’m just gonna send Dr. Bernstein in for his check. Hang tight.”
Dr. Bernstein installed these cool pictures in place of the clear covers on the fluorescent lights on the ceiling, and the one over me is of a hot-air balloon taking off. I’m busy imagining myself with Philippe in the basket of it when the dentist comes into the exam room.
“Rebecca. Long time no see. Last time I spotted you in town, you were rocking an oversize pirate costume. You should tell your dad your doctor said pleather is bad for the skin.”
“No offense, Dr. Bernstein, but you’re a tooth doctor.” He’s so cheesy, but I like him anyway.
“Worth a try, Becca. Worth a try. Okay, now let’s take a peek in here. Open wide.”
He pokes and prods for a few seconds and there’s kind of a ridiculous lot of hmmm-ing going on. What does hmmm-ing mean? When he finishes, he says, “Great job, Becca. Let’s call your mother in, shall we?”
Say what now? This is the point in the appointment when I’m supposed to get a new toothbrush and a construction-paper cutout of a tooth that I get to write my name on and stick on the “No Cavities Wall of Fame.” If Jill’s in a good mood, she’ll even forget the ten-and-under rule on the prize bucket and let me pick out a My Pretty Pony sticker I can (ironically, of course) slap on my binder. Every one of those activities is “no parents required.”
My mother appears in the doorway, and Dr. Bernstein grins at her. “We knew this day was coming.”
Mama grins back and makes a show of reaching in her purse. “Should I just hand over my entire wallet now?”
What exactly is going on here?
“What exactly is going on here?” I ask. Both turn to me like they forgot I was even present and accounted for.
Dr. Bernstein exchanges a look with Mama, and she nods. He takes a breath. “Now, I know this isn’t the news every lovely young girl likes to hear, but, Becca? I’m afraid you’re going to need braces.”
Here’s all I have to say: It is really a most excellent thing I’m already reclined. In fact, I believe I might as well stay this way and they can just build the coffin around me.
Because my life?
Is O-V-E-R.
Oh, Philippe! We could have been something!
SWEET DREAMS!
Becca’s turning THIRTEEN and you’re invited
to witness the occasion at an EPIC SLEEPOVER!
Where: Becca’s House
When: Saturday, October 24, 5:00 p.m.
Junk food mandatory.
Pack a pillow, but don’t think you’ll be
resting your head on it!
Vi
CARAMEL APPLES
Ingredients:
6 apples
6 wooden craft sticks
1 14-oz bag of caramel candies
2 tbsp milk
1 small bag of chopped peanuts or colored sprinkles
Wash and dry the apples. Remove their stems and carefully insert a craft stick into the top of each apple. Coat a baking sheet with butter. Unwrap all the caramels and place them into a microwave-safe bowl with the milk. Microwave for one minute; then stir; then microwave for one more minute. Allow the caramel mixture to cool for a short while, and then roll each apple in the mixture. Once the apple is coated with caramel, dip it into the chopped peanuts or sprinkles. Place the apple on the baking sheet until the caramel coating cools completely.
**This is a really great snack to make with little kids.
**Or with friends who are getting braces and won’t be able to have these for a while!
Blinding sun streams through the kitchen windows as I pull the breakfast scramble from the oven. As much as I never minded living with just Dad in our trailer at Sandpiper Pines Mobile Home Park, I will seriously miss this amazing kitchen and the view of the beach when Meemaw comes back home. She was only supposed to be in Maine for the summer, but she said she was having so much fun with the friends she was visiting that she decided to keep the cottage she was renting up there for a few more months. When Dad heard, he frowned. He thinks she’s only staying there so that we can keep living in her house. And there’s nothing Dad hates more than charity.
While the casserole dish cools on the counter, I drop the exact number of scoops of ground beans into the coffeemaker’s basket and press the start button. Sure enough, as soon as the coffee finishes gurgling into the pot, Dad appears in the doorway.
“Vi?” he asks as he rubs his eyes with the heel of his hand. He’s thrown on an old Tar Heels T-shirt and jeans, and his hair is sticking up every which way. He looks So Very Dad that I almost chicken out on my plan.
