After dinner, Odelia slips into the living room to make more notes in that notebook of hers. I can only imagine what I did, or didn’t do, that served as inspiration for four pages of intense scribbling. Odelia doesn’t fill me in or start a new lesson. When we say our good-byes, I make her promise to give the new clothes a try.
I slip into a crocheted afghan and curl up on the couch to digest the oysters swimming in my gut. I want to catch up on a book that’s on my summer reading list. It’s Stargirl by Jerry Spinelli, and I can totally relate to the main character. When my eyes get tired, I spend an hour obsessing over middle school and whether or not I’ll fit in. Stargirl didn’t fit in at first, then she did, and then she didn’t. I’m at the part where her cheerleaders have given up on her. To them, different turned out to be not cool. Has Wyatt decided I’m too different? Maybe that’s why he was laughing at me.
Thinking about Wyatt forces me to remember that the skate-off is less than a month away. If I can’t get kick flips and a half-pipe trick down, I’ll have to bail.
I fall asleep to the sound of Mom and Dad murmuring in the kitchen. In my dream, they’ve changed into talking doggies . . .
“We love her,” Dad says. “Nothing will change that. However, we owe her the truth.”
“Remember how she came to us on a sweltering hot day like today?” Mom asks. “We opened the door after hearing that helpless cry, and there she was cuddled in a pink blanket in a basket. I fell in love with her that very moment.”
“Righteous, hon.”
“No one will take her away, will they?”
“No, that’s not possible.”
I shake myself out of my sleep, get up, and stumble into the kitchen. I pour a glass of milk, put two chocolate chip cookies on a plate, and plop down on a kitchen chair.
“There’s our sleepy sweetie,” Mom says.
“I had the weirdest dream about you guys,” I say. I fill them in on what I heard in my sleep.
Mom looks at Dad. Dad looks at Mom. I wrap the afghan around me tighter. “What’s the matter?”
“How about that?” Dad says. “You had a dream we were—”
Mom interrupts. “Cute little puppies!” Mom smoothes out a damp curl that got plastered to my cheek while I was napping. “Ruff!”
Dad takes in the whole mother-daughter moment. He adds, “And the way you’re snuggled in that afghan, you look—”
“You look well rested,” Mom say. “What’s happening at the skate park these days? Can you tell us more about that competition?”
My parents never linger on a single subject, which I appreciate. I don’t appreciate a lot of their quirks, especially how they finish each other’s sentences, but I’m used to it. I answer Mom, “It’s the Lawrence County Skate-Off. I can do almost all of the required tricks, but I still need practice.”
“Right on,” Dad says.
Mom nods. “Perhaps Odelia can help?”
“I doubt that. Odelia’s new to skating.”
“She’s a unique gal, isn’t she? Maybe a bit odd?”
These are questions I don’t really have to answer, right?
“Anywho,” Mom continues, “I’m glad you’ve found a new friend, Bernice. But I have been curious about one thing.”
Fiddlesticks. Here comes the part where Mom asks why Odelia dresses the way she does, and why we had to make an emergency trip to the mall.
***
A Classic Failure Tale
Three days have gone by and Mom hasn’t bugged me anymore about Odelia. That night after dinner, she only asked me to collect twigs from the yard so she could add them to her latest craft project—stick figure angels. I’m grateful that Mom’s deepest thoughts involve inanimate objects.
My cell rings, and I pick it up. Roxanne’s on the other end. “We should hang out at Winnie’s. I want to see that boy you know. You were supposed to tell me when he shows up at the park so I could go there, and you never did.”
“I got busy,” I tell her.
“Maybe he’ll show up at Winnie’s today. Let’s go. Pick you up in five.”
“I have to work at Smile Academy till noon,” I tell Roxanne. “It’s volunteer work, so I’m out of extra icy money. And my mom just spent a ton on me at the mall, so I can’t ask her for more.”
“Let’s go anyway. My treat,” Roxanne says. “Meet me there after lunch.” She hangs up.
It bugs me that Roxanne hasn’t even given me a choice. I want a choice! I call her back and say, “I don’t want to go to Winnie’s. I need to practice tricks for the Lawrence County Skate-Off. I was planning to skate until dinner, and Wyatt and I are—”
“Excuse me,” Roxanne interrupts with a nasty tone. “I didn’t realize that you two had plans.”
“Give it a rest,” I tell her. “I told you. Nothing’s going on between us.” Roxanne has no idea how much nothing, nothing is.
“All right already,” Roxanne says, calming down. “Listen, my mom will find time to drill me on those lines for the commercial if I stick around my house. Can I come over before you leave for the park? I want you to watch me do a reverse French braid on my hair, and tell me if it turns out like in the picture. It won’t take long. It’ll be great!”
“Sure,” I say, without enthusiasm.
“And then maybe I can follow you to the park?”
“Whatever.”
We hang up. I get dressed for camp by tossing on my polka dot tank. I add the navy flats. They’re the cleanest shoes I’ve owned in forever, complete with clean starchy bows and shiny bronze stars. I peek at myself in my bedroom mirror, and the girl staring back at me is . . . well, she practically looks like a middle-schooler. I’m reminded of the fun time I had at the mall
