Odelia can yell? That’s a surprise. She coughs and composes herself. “From this day on, say fiddlesticks instead. Please don’t ever, ever say that awful word.”
I feel small, like I do when Mom hollers at me. “What in the world is a fiddlestick?” I ask.
“It is a bow to a fiddle, silly.”
“Fiddlesticks is a stupid word. I can’t say that,” I tell Odelia, jabbing her shoulder to make my point. Odelia brushes off my fingers. I can’t help but notice how her neatly manicured nails clash with my dirty ones. And that she smells way better than I do.
***
Bubble, Bubble, Toil, and Trouble
I need today to be normal. I need today to be free of pushy princesses and skateboarding boys. I call Roxanne and tell her I’m dying for an icy. An ice-cold treat will remind me of what summer is all about. Roxanne’s meeting me at Winnie’s Icy Igloo after church.
Winnie’s is owned by my aunt, Winnifred Haggerty. It’s around the corner from my house, a short skateboard ride away, and it’s on Mom’s list of places I’m allowed to go on my own.
Roxanne and I scan the flavors listed next to the window to see if anything’s new. Aunt Winnie asks me how my summer’s going, what’s been happening at home, how’s Mom, and if Dad has caught any prize-winning fish lately. I answer and we order. I always get something fruity—a cherry one this time, and Roxanne samples two new flavors before ordering her usual—vanilla. We pick up our treats, walk to the side of the building, and lean against a shady wall. I chat about what I’ve been up to, skipping the fact that I’ve gotten sucked into makeover madness by the local lunatic. Roxanne complains about her mom. As usual.
“My mom has another audition set up for me tomorrow,” she says, gritting her teeth. Roxanne’s world is coming to an end. News at eleven.
“Just go. It can’t be that bad,” I assure her.
“I don’t want to be in a dumb TV commercial. Let alone one for acne.”
“You don’t have acne. You’ve never even had a pimple.”
“Duh. My mother won’t let that stop her. She’ll probably draw some killer zits on me and pray they’ll pass for real ones.” Roxanne sticks her finger into my cup. She dots her face with chips of red ice.
“Perfect,” I say, and we laugh so hard that icy stuff almost oozes out of our noses.
I get a cup of water and Roxanne dips a napkin in it and wipes her face. “My mom’s planning a fall-in-love-with-the-Big-Apple mini vacation. She’s constantly reminding me that New York City is the place to be. After my audition, we’re staying up there for a couple days.”
“Maybe you can check out the beauty schools. You still want to be Roxy, Super Stylist to the Stars, don’t you?”
Roxanne twirls a piece of her long, black hair. “Absolutely,” she answers. “I’ve got skills. Take that girl over there, the blond-haired one with the braided ballerina bun that’s stretching her forehead into next week. I’d change her look completely. I’d add auburn highlights, give her a chin-length bob, and oh puh-lease. Please tell me that is Not. A. Tiara. What normal person wears a tiara? And don’t even get me started on her clothes.”
I find the girl that Roxanne is talking about. I knew it. It is Odelia! She doesn’t have on a princess gown, but it’s close. It’s a gold jumper tied at the waist with red-and-green plaid ribbon. Underneath she has on a bright white shirt with a lace collar. She sticks out like a marigold in a field of weeds. I gulp and send her a silent message: Don’t come over here. Don’t let anybody see that we know each other. Please, please, please.
A brown van pulls up and blocks my view of Odelia. Four boys in matching baseball uniforms pile out the sliding door. Boy number five has long legs and a lanky body. Wyatt! There’s a slight lift of a pointer finger in my direction, and I imagine he’s thinking, Yo, don’t I know you?
My cheeks burn. I’m sure they match my cherry icy. I don’t wave. Skaters don’t wave. To anyone. Instead, I look down at my cup and smash what’s left there with a straw.
“Who is that?” Roxanne asks.
I shrug. I don’t want to let on that I know his full name. That he’s never seen without a baseball hat that he wears frontward when drinking his orange energy drink and backward when he’s sweaty. And that he rocks a front nose manual, a tough trick that involves riding on the front two wheels of a board. Oh, and that he doesn’t know my name, but calls me Dude.
Roxanne nudges me. “Did he just wave to us? I wonder if he comes here every day after practice.”
More intense icy-smashing on my part.
Roxanne walks her perky self around to the front window and pretends to read the flavors again. Wyatt and his team are seated a few feet away. When she returns, she pulls me in close and whispers, “I want to meet that boy and come this fall when we’re in middle school, I want to ask him to the first dance. I’ve been praying for somebody to come into my dull life. My prayers have been answered.”
I nod and drink the rest of my half-frozen treat too fast, giving myself a brain freeze. Even a headache doesn’t take away the fact that there are things I should tell Roxanne. Like how I get to see this boy every time I’m at the park. He’s always there. I couldn’t miss him if I tried. Roxanne hates the skate park and never wants to come with me. But if I tell her Wyatt’s a skater, she’ll start showing up. And I want to keep him to myself, even if . . . well, I don’t have the guts to actually talk to him.
“The
