The front door opens again, and a man in a suit comes inside the store. I glance at my parents, hoping they might let this argument go in favor of helping the customer, but they’re both still sulking. Great.
“Mom, why don’t you go check out an estate sale?” I suggest. “I heard Maggie Rosenberg’s great-aunt Midge just passed. Weren’t you just saying the other day that she has some great stuff in her attic?”
“That’s right, I was,” Mom says, her face lighting up at the prospect. “She has a midcentury buffet that’s practically begging to be updated.”
“And, Dad,” I say, “maybe you can run to the bank after all?” He frowns, and I realize my mistake. Dad’s really sensitive about people assuming his only contribution to the store has to do with the finances, so he always insists on being involved with the antique sourcing as well. “Or you could go with Mom?” I correct. “Check out what Midge has lying around?”
They eye each other, but in the end their desire to see antiques wins out, because they head toward the back room, leaving me—and the customer—alone at last. It’s only then that I remember I had something to tell them.
Thirty minutes later, the customer leaves, and I collapse into an overstuffed armchair, frustration and relief warring inside me. The truth is, I’m in no hurry to tell them. I’m in no hurry to tell anyone. But I’ve been trying for months to get up the courage, and if I don’t do it soon, they’ll wake up on Sunday morning . . . and it’ll be too late.
I pick up a collectible FAO Schwarz teddy bear and hug it to my chest. “Tonight,” I whisper to the bear. “I’ll do it tonight. No matter what.”
CHAPTER 3
APRIL
If someone looked through the living room window right now, they’d probably think I was a conspiracy theorist. I’m surrounded by three notepads covered in messy handwriting, two cardboard boxes, five photo albums, and countless stacks of loose pictures. All I’m missing is a crazed look in my eye and a wall map covered in pushpins and red string. At the very least I look like a scrapbooker with a screw loose.
I pick up the photos I finally settled on, and smile at the picture on top. Jenn and I are sitting next to each other at a picnic table. The sun is shining down on us, and I’m smiling so big you can see the gap I used to have between my teeth, may it rest in peace. Jenn isn’t smiling, but her eyes are wide. You can’t tell in the picture, but I remember what she was looking at—Dad, standing just outside the frame, holding a sheet cake big enough for twenty people. Jenn was really into the violin back then, so Mom decorated the whole thing with musical notes and instruments and sheet music. Or she tried to. She’s not particularly handy in the kitchen, so the whole thing looked a little bit like Birthday Cake by Picasso, but it didn’t matter. All I cared about was that my big sister wanted to spend her birthday with me instead of her friends.
I press the photos to my chest. When I started looking for inspiration this morning, I thought the whole pact idea was a mistake, and Nate was just being Nate—overly hopeful and incurably encouraging, like a motivational speaker, or a golden retriever. But the longer I flip through these photos, the more I’ve started to think that maybe this is a good idea. Maybe spending the day with Jenn could even be fun. We used to love hanging out—we were practically best friends, until she started high school. For the first time in a while, I think maybe we could be again.
A car pulls into the driveway. I know it’s Mom and Dad without having to look because their voices carry—up the driveway, through the front door, and into the living room.
“I don’t know why you insist on taking Sepulveda,” Dad says. “It’s always packed.”
Mom rolls her eyes. “Like the 405 is any better?”
“If you would just use the Waze app—”
“What is it with you and Waze?” Mom demands. “Are you getting a cut from them or something?” She drops her purse next to the sofa where I’m sitting and looks down at me. “Hi, April.”
“Hi. Sorry about the mess. I’m trying to—”
“And besides,” Mom says, her attention back on Dad, “we live five miles from the store. I don’t need an app to tell me how to get home.”
“It’s not about how to get home,” he says. “It’s about the best way to get there.”
Mom snorts. “And the difference between those things is . . . ?”
They walk into the kitchen, and I sink back against the base of the couch. Just being in the same room with them makes me tense.
Mom and Dad’s argument picks up an octave in the kitchen. I turn on the TV to drown them out, then flip through the rest of the photos I’ve chosen. As I do, a pit opens up in the bottom of my stomach. What if I’m wrong? What if Jenn doesn’t want to do this? What if she doesn’t remember the pact, or thinks it’s stupid? Or what if she agrees to go, but then we spend the whole day in awkward silence, wishing we hadn’t left the house in the first place?
What if she thinks spending the day with me is a waste of time?
Nate’s voice sneaks its way into the back of my mind. Don’t assume the worst. This might work out if you give it a chance. I take a deep breath, and try my best to put my faith in Nate’s imaginary advice. Tomorrow is going to be good. Better than good. It’s going to be great. I’m going to get my sister back. I just have to give her—give us—a chance.
“I’m so sick of you explaining things to me,” Mom says, storming back into the living room. “I told you I wanted to buy the 1940s buffet table, and you said you didn’t like it. End of story. No explanation necessary.”
“It’s not that I didn’t like it,” Dad says, close on her heels. “If you’d stop talking for two seconds and listen to me, you’d understand that.”
I don’t know how their stupid argument about an app has turned into an argument about a buffet, but I want no part in it, so I turn up the volume on the TV. I normally go to my room as soon as they get home, but I want to be here when Jenn gets back. Otherwise, I might miss her before she goes to bed.
Mom stops next to the fireplace and begins to rearrange the family photos so that Jenn’s framed diploma is in the middle instead of my eighth-grade graduation photo. “I’m sick of this conversation,” she says. “I don’t want to talk anymore.”
“Oh, yeah? Well, I’m sick of trying to have a conversation with someone who never listens!” Dad exclaims, raising his voice to be heard over the TV.
“Say something worthwhile and then maybe I’ll listen!”
I shuffle through the photos in front of me. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve sat right here, pretending not to hear them bickering back and forth. When I was younger, I tried to help by distracting them with jokes or, when I started playing soccer in middle school, tricks with my ball. One time I even knocked over a vase on purpose, hoping they’d yell at me instead of each other. Anything was better than sitting silently, steeping in their anger. But no matter what I said or did, they’d stare right through me, like I wasn’t even there, so I stopped trying.
Their voices continue to climb, so loud I can’t even pretend to watch TV anymore. Screw it. I might not be able to convince them to play nice, but that doesn’t mean I have to sit through this.
“Excuse me?” I call, loud enough to be heard over their shouting. “Are you guys going to keep fighting? Because if so, can you go upstairs?”
“Don’t be rude,” Mom snaps.
I take a deep breath, and let it out slowly through my nose. I’m the one being rude. Right.
I dig my fingers into the carpet, and watch Lucy and Ethel’s lips move on the TV. If Jenn were here, she’d know exactly what to say to diffuse this situation. She’d probably have them sitting down, working out their differences by the time this episode of I Love Lucy is over.
“For the last time,” Mom yells, “I don’t care about the stupid buffet. Just let it go!”
“This isn’t about the buffet!” Dad shouts back.
“Then what the hell is it about, John?” Mom deman
ds.
“It’s about you never shutting the fuck up!”
They both go completely still. It’s as if Dad’s words have sucked all the air out of the room, leaving behind nothing but the sound of Lucy’s laughter.
They both turn to me at the same time, identical glares on their faces. “For god’s sake, April, will you please turn that down?” Mom asks. “Your father and I are trying to have a conversation.”
I do as she asks, but Dad shakes his head. “Just forget it,” he says. “I’m going upstairs.”
When he’s gone, Mom sinks onto the sofa behind me. This is the first time we’ve been alone in weeks, and even though she’s my mom, I’m weirdly nervous. “Um . . . are you okay?” I ask.
“I’m fine,” she says, shaking her head. “Your father is too sensitive for his own good.”
I’m not really sure what to say to that, so I just nod. It must be the right answer, because she smiles, then reaches forward and starts to comb her fingers through my hair. As she separates my curls one by one like she used to do when I was little, all the things I’ve been keeping bottled up rise to the surface.
Like how I’m worried about how often she and Dad are at each other’s throats, but also frustrated because it’s not like there’s anything I can do about it.
Or that there’s this boy, and I might really like him, and I think he likes me, but every time those feelings come up in conversation he changes the subject.
But more than anything, I want to tell her about the USC rep that’s coming to watch me play when school starts in a few weeks. I know she and Dad don’t take my soccer that seriously, but this? This they’ll have to take seriously. They might even be proud of me. That is, if I ever get up the nerve to tell them.
Mom’s hands stop moving suddenly, and my curls fall back into place. “It’s a mess in here,” she says, looking around the living room. “I don’t know what you’re doing with these photos, but make sure you clean all this up before you go to bed.”
As she stands and walks away, I give myself two long, deep breaths to feel disappointed. In. Out. In. Out. Then I swallow the rest of my feelings and do as she says. I can tell her about soccer later. Or maybe . . . maybe it’s better to wait until after the USC rep comes. That way, if it doesn’t go well, no one will ever know.
I’m putting the last box away in the hall closet when Jenn finally pulls into the driveway. I race to the front door just as it opens.
“Hi,” I say.
“Whoa.” She takes a step back. “How long have you been standing here?”
“At least three hours.”
“Seriously?”
“Of course not.” I pull her inside, and close the door. “I’ve been waiting for you, though. Follow me.”
I hurry up the stairs. When I reach the top, I turn to find her still standing at the bottom. “Come on,” I say.
Without waiting to see if she follows me, I walk across the landing to her bedroom. I sit cross-legged on her bed, but I don’t bother getting comfortable. No way she’s going to let me spend more than a few minutes in her room alone, anyway. What if I break something, or un-alphabetize her books?
As predicted, Jenn comes into her room seconds later. She sees me sitting on her bed, the ratty quilt grandma gave her beneath me, and looks down at my feet.
“I’m not wearing shoes,” I reassure her. “Are you ready?”
Jenn hangs her purse on the back of her door, checks her hair in the mirror, then lowers herself into the ergonomic desk chair Mom and Dad got her for her birthday last year. “Ready for what?”
“This.” I reach into my pocket and pull out my cell phone. The Notes app is already open, my glorious plan on display—ten destinations, each one corresponding to the stack of photos I left downstairs on the couch. I hand my phone to her and mentally pat myself on the back for putting this all together without Nate’s help. Truly, I am the best sister in the entire universe. I am grace and giving and all things good.
But instead of being excited or, I don’t know, touched by my generosity and creativity, Jenn just looks confused. “I don’t understand what this is.”
“What do you mean you ‘don’t understand’? It’s a schedule! See the times along the side?”
“Yes,” she says slowly, like I’m an idiot. “I can see that. But I don’t know what it’s for.”
Jenn yawns and hands the phone back to me. “April, I’ve had a long day. I’m tired. Either explain it to me or get out of my room.”
“Okay,” I say, forcing myself to stay calm even though I want to tell her to stop being such a freaking adult. “I noticed you seemed a little sad this morning, and I heard you talking to Thomas—”
“I knew you were listening!”
“Not the point,” I say, holding up my hand to silence her. “You seemed upset, and I realized that this whole thing is probably hard on you.”
“What ‘whole thing’?” she asks.
“This whole staying-in-LA-for-college thing! You’re gonna be here, and everyone else is leaving, and that’s gotta suck. I mean, it’s kinda your fault it’s happening. You could have just gone to Stanford. . . .”
Jenn narrows her eyes.
“Anyway, that’s why I made this list. I know it just looks like a list of locations around LA, but each one corresponds to something that’ll remind you of how great it can be to live here.” I think of the endless albums I sorted through before settling on the perfect ten photos—the perfect ten memories—and my heart swells. “And, you know, how close we used to be. And maybe . . . how close we can be again.”
A funny expression comes over Jenn’s face. “You did all this for me? Today?”
I pull one of her three matching throw pillows onto my lap. “I was trying to figure out how to cheer you up, and then I remembered the pact we made, and it all sort of came together.” I search her face for signs she knows what I’m talking about, but her face is blank. “Do you remember the pact? You were about to start freshman year, and you said—”
“Yes,” she says. “I remember.”
I sit back, relieved. “Then you get it? The schedule, I mean.”
“I do.” Jenn looks down at her perfectly manicured fingernails and takes a long, deep breath. “April, this is so nice. And I truly appreciate it. But . . . it’s not a good idea.”
My shoulders slump. “Why not?”
“It’s . . . complicated. I have to wrap a few things up before school starts, and I need to talk to Mom and Dad—”
I stand up so fast the pillow in my lap falls to the floor. I don’t bother picking it up. “I get it. You’re too busy to hang out with me. It’s fine.”
I shove my phone into my back pocket and head for the door, but Jenn blocks my way. “You don’t have to go,” she says. “We could talk—”
“No need,” I say, and push past her.
My room is dark when I enter, but I don’t bother turning on the lights before flopping onto my bed. I spent hours planning this stupid day for Jenn, but I should have known it was a waste of time. That she wouldn’t see how hard I worked on it. It’s been years since we made that pact. Years since she was the kind of person who would enjoy something like this. The kind of person who made goofy faces when I was too scared to sleep, or spent two hours teaching me to play Crazy Eights so I wouldn’t be the only one at Monica Bleaver’s sleepover who didn’t know how. That Jenn doesn’t exist anymore, and I was an idiot for thinking otherwise.
I need to talk to someone who will understand. Someone who won’t judge me if my voice gets squeaky when I inevitably cry. I grab my phone and start to dial Nate, but stop. If Eric and I are getting serious, we need to start doing more than just hooking up and talking about soccer. Maybe if I’m the one who opens up first, it’ll make him feel more comfortable.
I dial Eric and listen as the phone rings. And rings. And rings. I sigh and put my phone aside. I should have known better than to think he’d be free on one of the last nights before sch
ool starts.
My phone buzzes next to me. I flip it over, expecting it to be Nate asking how the big reveal went, but instead I find a text from Eric.
You called?
I sit up in bed, my heart pounding in my chest. I don’t know why he didn’t call me back, but it might be easier to talk about stuff over text anyway.
Yeah, I type back. I had a fight w/ my sister.
Three little dots appear, signaling that he’s typing back. I wait, my leg bouncing with anticipation. Is he going to ask what happened? Or maybe tell me about his own sister? I’ve never met her, but I remember seeing her around the halls when I was a freshman and she was a senior. They couldn’t have gotten along all the time.
The three little dots disappear, then start again. His message arrives seconds later.
That sucks.
I wait for him to say more, but the chat stays blank. Shit. Maybe I should say something. Explain more. Or maybe saying something in the first place was a mistake. Things are still pretty new between us. I’m probably getting ahead of myself by expecting him to talk to me about my family. I bet he thinks I’m high maintenance now, and is wondering if Jenn and I have some kind of horrible, bloodthirsty relationship—
Another message arrives, interrupting my anxiety spiral.
Can I come over?
I bite my lip. My parents are downstairs, but if Jenn hears him sneaking in, she’ll tell them for sure. Not that they’d care one way or the other what I’m doing. But Jenn would probably still interrupt us in some misguided attempt at “protecting me,” like she tried to do a few weeks ago when Eric ran into her in the hallway on his way to the bathroom at two in the morning. Apparently, she did not appreciate him wandering around in his boxers.
Can I come to you instead? I ask.
I stare at the screen, waiting for his reply. I’ve never been to Eric’s house, but I know where it is. I may or may not have driven by it three times in the last week.
My phone buzzes again.
Sorry, parents home.
I tap my phone against my leg. Maybe this is an opportunity. He usually comes over here, but that always ends in us hooking up. What we need is a public place where we can talk for real—maybe about Jenn, maybe not—and get to know each other.
She's the Worst Page 3
