I tap the yellow screen and think of all of the things my dad told me to tell Mr. Ockler. How excited I am about this opportunity (that my dad got for me), and why I’d be great as a financial planner (because people like me). You would think being a financial planner had more to do with being great with numbers, but the hardest part of it is actually sales. Building up a client base, going door-to-door meeting people and letting them know your services are available, getting people to give you control of their money. Dad loves to talk about how he spent the first eighteen months of his career walking door-to-door—scorching heat, pelting rain, the coldest snow in all of Michigan—building up a client base before his company would let him open a new office. How the first five years, he worked nonstop. The funny thing is that he thinks he doesn’t anymore, because he can work remotely, but he’s always on his phone or his laptop. He doesn’t let a notification go unnoticed. Same job, different office, if you ask me.
Dear Mr. Ockler,
I’m really excited to work with you. I’d be a great financial advisor because, while I have zero interest in money or numbers or the stock market, people always like me. They probably wouldn’t mind me standing on their porch and trying to sell them something. My dad says if I don’t write this letter he’s going to stop feeding me.
I laugh at my own joke, and the noise coming from the bathroom stops. I must sound like a lunatic. The thought of it makes me laugh again. Let Sidney be freaked out and think she’s sharing a bathroom with some sort of weirdo. If she’s going to treat me like one, I might as well lean into it.
Dear Mr. Ockler,
I’m beyond thrilled to work with you. I’d be a great financial advisor because I’ve had a ton of experience planning and plotting. Not with money, mostly with condiments, and sugary beverages, and things that smell funny. But still. I’ve seen movies and I know every good business has a rival. You’ll be glad you have me on the team when it’s time to fill a lobby water cooler with fish, or draw something inappropriate on an office window with shaving cream.
I imagine old Mr. Ockler dressed in black, spraying shaving cream on office windows, and laugh so hard my head finally slumps against the bed, muffling it. And I swear I hear a soft chuckle come from the bathroom. But maybe it was just my imagination.
DAY 14
Asher
There’s exactly twenty-six hours of radio silence between Sidney and me after we make our harrowing escape from Nadine’s yard. Not a word as she got into my car at The Little Store. A silent drive back to the house. Yesterday, she was gone all morning, and then painted her rocks through the afternoon. Before dinner she disappeared with what looked to be a tote bag of those same rocks, telling her mom she’d be out with Kara and not to set a spot for her at dinner. I spent my meal looking at an empty chair, and by the time I heard her bedroom door close that evening, I was debating if I should apologize. I’m not even sure why or what for, but this quiet and calm Sidney freaks me out just as much as the Sidney who swapped my cologne out for bug spray.
I was prepared for our swim this morning to be a no-go, but when I hear Sidney shower at exactly six, I figure I’ll be optimistic and at least show up, totally expecting to find a hostile Sidney on my hands. But what I actually find is a message on the bathroom mirror. It’s written in bloodred lipstick and if it weren’t for the actual words, it would look like something straight out of a horror movie, the way the red slashes almost seem to drip down the glass.
Meet me at 6:30 in the kitchen
—S
Curious doesn’t begin to describe me. I might be walking right into something horrible, but I skip everything but pulling on my suit and shorts anyway. I’m tugging a shirt over my head as I walk into the kitchen. Sidney is zipping around like an old-school pinball game, opening cabinets and closing drawers, stepping in front of the oven, and dumping something into the sink. It smells like butter and sweetness. There are two plates sitting on the breakfast bar in our normal spots. A cup of coffee and a bowl of fruit sit between the plates, and on mine, there are five tiny little pancakes.
“Um.” I’m not sure what to say. I stare at the plate like it’s the first time I’ve ever seen food. Like I’m an alien visiting from another planet. Which is pretty close to how I feel, because it’s definitely the first time Sidney has made me food. Unless it was laced with something. She must see the look on my face, because she smiles. A big, gleaming smile, like I haven’t seen on her in years. Not directed at me, at least.
She points the spatula at me and waves it around. “It’s fine. Truce-certified and all that. Eat yours while I finish mine.”
I sit down tentatively and grab the containers of butter and syrup next to me. I cut the first pancake into four mini bites, trying to stall until Sidney sits down and starts eating. Is it possible that she’s actually making me non-disgusting food? Maybe I’m as jaded and traumatized as she is, but I decide to risk it and stick the first bite in my mouth. She’s flipping pancakes as I let out a little moan. They’re not just pancakes, they’re chocolate-chip pancakes, and they practically dissolve on my tongue.
“These are my favorite,” I say as I spear three more bites onto one giant forkful.
Sidney nods. “I know.” She flips the last of the pancakes in the pan. “See, I’m perfectly capable of not being a paranoid, tree-up-my-ass bitch.” She’s smiling, but I can hear the hurt in her voice. I didn’t realize she’d heard me while she was swimming that morning.
“I’m—” I look down at the plate of tiny pancakes. “I’m sorry, I was an ass the other night. And before that, too, I guess.” I shove another bite into my mouth and talk around it. “Also, why are these pancakes so tiny?”
Sidney shrugs. “Hey, it’s sort of true. But, as long as you keep yourself in check, I’ll do the same.” She scoops a pancake out of the pan and drops it onto a paper plate next to the oven. “Plus, I can’t let you be the nicer one. That’s just unacceptable.” She points her spatula at my plate of tiny pancakes. “I haven’t made pancakes in a while, so if the first batch sucked I didn’t want to throw out half of the batter. Plus, tiny things are just better.”
I laugh. Leave it to Sidney to think through a plan B for her breakfast. And to turn even this—not being jerks to each other—into a competition. “Well, so far you’re kicking my butt in the niceness department. How are you even managing this?”
She flips another pancake onto her plate and smiles. “I’m taking your advice and pretending you’re Logan Hart.”
“The singer who grew up around here?”
“I’m practicing for when he randomly stops by, and I need to wow him. I heard he has a house on the lake.”
“I bet that’s a rumor. Something they tell tourists to get them to pay more for houses or something.” I stuff another bite of pancake into my mouth.
“You’re such a buzzkill.” She has the same biting tone in her voice that I’m so used to, but her face is bright, cheerful. It makes me wonder if all she was missing before was the smile. Does her voice just sound like that? No, surely not.
“You’re right.” I stuff the last bit of pancake into my mouth and mourn the loss of it. “You never know what could happen. I mean, you’re making me pancakes, so I suppose it’s official: anything is possible now.”
I won’t lie, the pancakes were delicious. But I can’t shake the feeling that maybe Sidney took the time to chop one of those chocolate laxative bars into tiny chocolate chips. That halfway through the lake I’ll buckle over in the boat and beg her to put me out of my misery. Because no matter what I said about trusting each other and the truce … we’re still us. And I’m not sure she wouldn’t grant me my wish to die—tiny, delicious pancakes or not.
DAY 19
Sidney
I was joking when I asked Asher what I was going to do with all of the time I’d spent plotting, but almost a week has passed since we met at the dock and I’m surprised by how true it actually is. Without pranks to think about and plan for, a
nd recover from, I don’t just have more time—I feel lighter. And even if it’s not going to last all summer, I’m not ready to jeopardize it. So when Asher gives me a tiny wave as he walks past the deck—where I’m lying out on one of the lounge chairs—I wave back.
There’s a towel tucked under his arm, and he’s heading down the steps, toward the dock. Despite our breakfasts together the last week, our new normal has been to hang out in our own little areas. Me on the deck, sometimes with the moms or Kara, and Asher out on the dock. I feel a little bad about it. It’s pretty out on the dock, surrounded by water, but it is not comfortable out on the uneven wood planks. Even with the two towels Asher lays down. Yesterday I considered that maybe I should buy him one of those cheap plastic floats to lie on. But now, I’m realizing there is a much easier solution.
“Hey.” The word is out of my mouth before I can stop myself. Asher stops in his tracks. “You can chill up here. I mean, if you want to. It’s not my private area or anything. We’re sharing the house, you know. Mi deck es su deck. Or something like that…” I’m rambling. Why am I rambling?
He steps up onto the wooden deck and spreads his towel on the chair next to me without a word. We sit there, side by side, reading our books for at least an hour before we say anything. Every little sound we make seems to echo in the air, the soft brushing of the papers under our fingers, the squeak of our chairs as we shift around.
I’ve abandoned my book and am lying with my eyes closed, almost asleep, when Asher’s voice breaks the noisy silence around us.
“Do you want to ride together to that party tomorrow night?”
I forgot the party was tomorrow.
It’s hard to keep the days straight up here. There’s no school, no jobs, we hardly even watch TV. Somehow three weeks of vacation have flown past. And there’s nothing to separate the weekend from every other day. I told Kara I’d go to this party, since I survived the first one. Since it seems to be the only time I can see her this summer. The party Kara assured me Caleb isn’t going to, because he’s visiting a friend a few hours away.
“I sort of owe you one.”
I turn to look at him, startled when I open my eyes to find his too close to me. We’re in mirror positions on our chairs, our faces a foot apart. I don’t understand how a foot can feel so close, or why he thinks he’d owe me anything. It was my mom who forced us to drive together to the last party.
He raises his brows like I’m missing the obvious. “You probably barely remember, because I’m such a graceful, charming drunk.” A giant smile spreads across his face, the kind of self-amused smile I used to see as he was saying, How much do you hate me right now? “But there was that whole thing after the last party.”
I close my eyes for just a second, but it’s long enough to remember everything that happened that night. It sends a tight knot of unease into my stomach. Drunk. He was drunk, Sidney. He only did it to screw you up for your date. I have to look away from him. “Oh right, when you almost died in your own vomit.” I say it because I know how much it annoys him.
“I would never.”
I look at him and there’s that smile again.
“I’m way too pretty for that.”
“Mmhmm.”
“Did you just admit I’m pretty?”
“No.”
“You did.”
“I’m just not arguing with you anymore.” I turn to him with my own self-amused smile. “I’m the nicer one now. I plan on keeping it that way.”
“Excuse me?” He looks at me with complete confusion, and I throw my hand to my chest in mock horror.
“One word,” I say, holding up a single finger, just inches from his face. “Pancakes.” The word is almost a whisper on my lips.
“Oh, so now we’re keeping score?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Mmhmm.”
Asher closes his eyes, and I close mine, and we lie in our deck chairs in peaceful silence until Sylvie announces lunch with a yell from the kitchen window, and we spring out of our chairs like we were just caught. What’s the punishment for conspiring with enemy forces?
DAY 20
Sidney
I’m not sure how I turned into this girl, but it’s my third weekend in Riverton, and my second at a party. Asher and I drove together as planned—no matching outfits this time—but as soon as we stepped through the front door we split off in separate directions. My phone buzzes in my pocket, and it’s a text from Kara.
My stomach sinks. An hour? I’m in the middle of the living room, standing by myself, and suddenly I feel like there’s a giant spotlight shining on me. Attention partygoers, we have a lonely loner out-of-towner over here! Yes, my aloneness is on full display. Making my way to the kitchen, I scan the room for anyone I know. Anyone I’ve said even two words to in the past, or recognize from The Little Store or River Depot. But all of the faces look new tonight. They don’t look unfriendly, or unwelcoming, just new. And new looks like work—more work than I’m willing to put in tonight.
I stop in the kitchen and snag a red cup. There’s no way I’m passing an hour without one. And if I have to—even though Asher promised he wouldn’t drink tonight—I’ll call my parents to pick me up. No questions asked is their motto, and while I’ve never tested it, I believe them. Mom doesn’t want me to be featured in a viral video she’ll compulsively share on social media.
There’s a big blue cooler on the counter, and I put my glass under the spigot, letting a reddish brown juice fill it close to the brim. I take a sip—wow, it’s strong—and walk toward the sliding glass door that leads into the backyard. There’s a fire burning in one corner of the yard, but no one is sitting on the benches around it yet. Freedom.
The fire is glowing bright, and all that’s separating me from its flickering solitude is a small set of wooden stairs. I’m about to step down when the sound of my name stops me.
“Sid?” It’s Asher. Correction: it’s drunk Asher. I think. Only drunk Asher calls me Sid. Except we haven’t been here long enough for Asher to be drunk.
I turn slowly to find him standing a few feet behind me. He closes the small gap between us in just a few long steps, and I take a sip from my cup, trying to look natural.
“Where are you going?” He looks around me, like he’s looking for something. “Where’s Kara?” Not something … someone.
I let out a disgruntled sigh, blowing any chance I had of pulling off the relaxed-and-mingling look. “She’s late.” I glance back toward the yard. “I was going to sit by the fire.”
Asher’s face pinches up as his eyes dart from the fire to me. “By yourself?”
“No, with my invisible friend Roger, here.” I swing my arms out to my side, like I’m presenting someone to Asher. Though they’re down by my hips, so apparently my imaginary friend is tiny. Which is fine. Tiny things are awesome.
Asher smiles and rolls his eyes. “You’re such a little hermit.” He grabs my hand and pulls me along with him toward the house.
“What are you doing? Where are we going?”
“You’re coming with me.” His voice is firm, like he’s letting me know I don’t have a choice. We’re crossing through the sliding door into the house. Into the throngs of people, the little clusters of friends. All of the strangers I was trying to avoid. Asher isn’t like me, though. He gravitates toward people and they flock to him. He’s the kind of person who can talk to anyone, without knowing a single thing about them.
I try to pull my hand away, but he holds it tight. “I don’t want to talk to people.” It sounds sort of pathetic when I hear it out loud, but it’s also true.
“Then just talk to me,” Asher says, not looking back at me. I stop pulling against him, and his hand loosens around mine as we enter the kitchen. He stops at the counter where bottles and cups are sitting in a jumbled mess, and looks down at my cup. “You gonna keep drinking that?”
I take a sip. “Sure. It’s actually pretty good.”
Asher eyes
the cup and smiles. “I bet it is.” He pulls a red cup from a stack of them and sets it on the counter.
I eye the cup warily. “Should I stop drinking? I mean, I can call my parents, I guess, if I need to.”
“Relax.” Asher rolls his eyes. “I said I wasn’t drinking. And despite what you saw last time, I’m not a raging alcoholic.”
“You’re a midlevel alcoholic?” I try to school my smile but the punch is pushing it to the surface.
“I’m entry-level at best.” He picks up a bottle of Coke and fills his cup. “But I’m thirsty.” With his cup in his left hand, he grabs my hand with his right, and we’re back into the mess of people.
“You’re very pushy, you know,” I say, tugging on his hand.
He laughs. “I know, but if I don’t drag you somewhere better, you’ll just sit in the backyard like a mosquito buffet.” We’re pushing through the living room and Asher is smiling and nodding at people as we pass. “I’d have to help Kara identify your remains by the time she got here.”
It’s true, mosquitoes love me. “It’s because I’m so sweet,” I say mockingly. That’s what my mother always said, anyway, while I was slathering myself with cortisone cream, trying to soothe the welts after a hike or a particularly rough bonfire.
“You’re mocking yourself? How much of that punch have you had?”
“Just trying to pick up the slack.”
Asher stops and looks at me. “I don’t mock you.”
I put my one free hand on my hip, my other still trapped in his.
“When?” His voice is incredulous. “When have I mocked you?”
Meet Me at Midnight Page 12
