I squat so I’m eye-to-eye with Claire and straighten her glasses. “You are prettier than the prettiest doll in the store,” I tell her. Claire giggles, shoves her helmet over her fancy hair, and skates away.
“Don’t you care that their helmets crush your ‘dos?”
“Nah. It’s just to make them feel special. I’ll do something else for the skate-off. Maybe spray-on highlights. Don’t worry. Everyone will look fantastic. Don’t forget. I want to do your hair and make-up, too.”
I don’t want to be gelled, sprayed, highlighted, and made-up by Roxy, Super Stylist to the Stars, but I don’t tell her that. “Maybe,” I say. “You’re good at this, you know.”
“I know,” Roxanne says smugly. “It’s much better than trekking up to New York and reciting three lines to a TV producer. Sure wish my mom would stop scheduling those darn auditions.”
“When we’re in middle school, maybe you can make her happy by joining the drama club—”
Roxanne interrupts, “I don’t want to be an actress.”
“Let me finish! I was going to say, join the club as a make-up artist.”
“Great idea!” Roxanne says. “And maybe you should try out for a team sport. With the way you’re able to move those feet, it’d be a cinch to pick up soccer.”
I’ve never been on a team, except in gym class. I’m not team sport material. It’d be scary to learn soccer or lacrosse from scratch. I’d join the skateboarding team, if there was one.
Elizabeth is tugging on Roxanne’s arm, and Roxanne sits her down and begins putting her soft brown hair into pigtails. “Middle school will be fun,” Roxanne says just to me. “And you know what? I’ll see Kyle every day, not only on Sundays.”
Roxanne goes on about Kyle this and Kyle that, and then she pries me for info on Wyatt. It’s sweet of her to ask, but I don’t have anything to confess. Wyatt’s still a puzzle to me. And as scary as a team sport.
Before we return to Smile Academy, we give the kids a pep talk. But they don’t listen. They’re busy goofing around on their boards. Whatever. They are totally into skating, and smiling from ear-to-ear, and that’s what matters. We try to keep them under control so they don’t get hurt. It’s like trying to keep a litter of kitties in one place. I’m kind of relieved when it’s time to say good-bye.
“Why did I agree to be a camp counselor, again?” I ask Odelia, as we skate home.
“You have a big heart,” Odelia answers.
“A Baransky heart,” I say. “My mom and dad are always helping people—each other, the neighbors, people in Mom’s clubs, clueless fishermen who come into Jersey Bait and Tackle. Guess I got my heart from them. Not from B. Rose Aurora.”
Odelia leaps off her skateboard before bothering to make it come to a full stop. The board almost rolls into the street. “B. Rose Aurora?” Odelia asks.
“Yeah,” I say. “My mother. My real mother. Remember, I told you her middle name was Rose. Her full name was B. Rose Aurora and—”
Odelia cuts me off, which surprises me to no end because Odelia never forgets her manners. “And your middle name is her middle name,” she says.
“It’s kind of common, isn’t it? You have it.” Odelia’s paler than her creamy pale shirt. “What wrong?”
Odelia paces up the sidewalk and down. “B? Rose? Aurora?”
“You heard me.”
“Did you ever find out who left you on the doorstep?” Odelia asks, almost shouting. She’s irritated with me. I have no idea why.
“No. It’s in the letter they won’t let me see. Why?”
“I must go,” Odelia says in a hurry. “Serena is . . . Serena has . . . I’ve got to see Serena!”
With that, Odelia turns on the rocket boosters and boosts herself far ahead of me. This is so confusing. And extremely weird. Even for Odelia.
At dinner, Mom dishes out spaghetti and clams. It has to be one of the grossest meals on the planet. Globs of clams swim in a blood-red sauce. It’s disgusting.
“Delish dish,” Dad says.
I push the pasta around and make a gagging sound. “Please tell me this isn’t made from leftover bait.”
Dad winks. He’s kidding, right?
I weed out the chunks of gooey clams and fill my parents in on how everything is going with the skate-off.
“Be there or be square. That’s what I’m telling everybody,” Mom says. She’s told every crafter, knitter, baker, and candlestick maker in town.
“You’ve caught ’em hook, line, and sinker, hon,” Dad adds, pulling her in for a smooch on the lips. At the dinner table! “There should be a dy-no-mite crowd,” he adds. “Are you nervous, Bern?”
“I’m pretty sure I can do the tricks. It’s not like I’ll win a trophy or anything. I’m a little worried about the campers. I hope no one makes fun of them. And I’m kind of worried about Odelia. She flipped out at me today for no reason.” I shove in a mouthful of spaghetti and try not to think about the clams as they slide down my throat. “Pass the parmesan cheese, please?”
Dad slides it across to me, but the container is empty.
“I’ll get another one,” I say.
“No,” Mom says, jumping up. “Let me get it.”
“I can reach it,” I say, beating her to the highest shelf of the pantry. I inch the can toward the front. It falls into my hands. An envelope falls with it. A dingy yellow envelope.
I turn to Mom and Dad. Their look tells me what I’ve already figured out. It’s the letter. With everything that’s been going on, I almost forgot about it. Guess I wanted to believe everything’s cool, that Mom and Dad were right. It didn’t mean anything.
I stare at it. Mom doesn’t grab it out of my hands, which I appreciate. Mom looks at Dad, and Dad says, “It’s hunky-dory, hon. Let her see it.”
I barge through the back door. In one swift move, I flip my board under my feet
